When I was a child, I was rooting around a box of second-hand and discarded books that had been given to our family, and I found this weathered old hardbound book. It was a sort of worn brown color, and had this Jules Feiffer illustration of Tock (the watch-dog) on the cover. I didn’t know it was Feiffer at the time, of course. I was ten. I didn’t care.
I took the book down the hall and flopped down onto my bed. I can distinctly remember opening to the first page of chapter one and being sucked right in. I can still recite the first line of the novel from memory: There was once a boy named Milo who didn’t know what to do with himself – not just sometimes, but always.
It’s not fair to say that I read this book. I devoured it. I inhaled it. I consumed it in the most complete way possible. My mind reeled in the glory of Norton Juster’s playful creation, and my life has never been the same. As I turned the last page, and read about how Milo was now awakened to the glorious possibilities of the world around him, I knew that I wanted to bring that kind of magic to others.
At that moment, I became a writer. I became enraptured with the English language and the power it has. It can reach into our souls and show us things in ways no movie or televison show can.
I still go back to this book on occasion, largely because I have kids now, and my daughter just read it for the first time. I think I’ll read it for the tenth or eleventh time. I just love it that much.
