Every Sunday, when I was growing up, we’d go to church. When we got home, we’d change our clothes and frequently, my mom would put dinner on to simmer and bubble away throughout the afternoon.

My twin sisters would go their way, playing with each other in their room, which left me, “the singleton,” to my own devices. I’d putz around for a bit, picking up Barbie dolls and putting them down, practicing my flute, rearranging my New Kids on the Block posters or pretending to clean.

Inevitably, I’d find a book.

Book finding was completely coincidental. It’s not like I browsed our family library and settled on some classic tome. I would truly find books—under the bed, in a pile of stuffed animals, being propped up by my unicorn collection. And it didn’t matter if I read it before. The thrill of setting my imagination on a familiar course was comforting.

I’d begin reading exactly where I found my book. Sometimes I was in the closet. Sometimes I was by the heat register warming my feet. Wherever I was, that’s where I would be for hours—and I mean hours. We’d be home from church by 11 a.m., so the rest of the day was mine. And because I grew up in Michigan where the weather is frequently colder rather than warm, in my room with a book was the perfect way to spend the day.

By 6 p.m., my mom would call us for dinner, and I’d open my bedroom door for the first time since I closed it that afternoon. The smell of beef stew (my mom uses cloves in her recipe, so it’s very distinctive), soup or roasted turkey combined with the warmth of the stove welcomed me back from wherever I was in my book. It was like being wrapped in a fluffy towel right out of the dryer.

Sadly, as I met my teenage years full force, reading went by the wayside. I forgot my adventures in Narnia, with The Babysitters Club or at Sweet Valley High. But reading already left its mark by way of my writing career.

Thankfully, after college, I found my love of reading again and now, the piles of books waiting to be read on my nightstand and dresser tempt me away from the laundry or cleaning house. I tell myself I’m setting a good example for my kids by reading, but I’m not fooling anyone. Reading is a joy for me.