Sunday was always our book buying day, my father’s and I. He would take me over to the Carousel Mall every Sunday and let me walk through all the bookshelves while he read his newspaper and drank coffee and then we would sit side by side and read in silence. Then after awhile he would ask me which one out of my large pile of books I liked best, if any at all and I would choose. Sometimes if I couldn’t decide between two and he could tell I really would love to read both he would give in and buy me both books, but back then the books I wanted were no more than seven dollars. In this way, my father encouraged me to read, he never discouraged me by saying what my mom often did, which was, “Why are you reading constantly? Get outside, stop living in fantasy.”

It was on one of these Sundays that I came across a Harry Potter book when I was about eleven years old, and the series is still my favorite book today. My father himself was never an avid book reader, but he did appreciate them, and when I grew older and discovered the library, a place where I could take out as many books as I wanted, for free, and read endless amounts of books, he encouraged me to go there as well.

It was quite some time before I even knew what a writer was, I had been thinking up stories in my head forever, but I never knew there was a name for such a person. It never occurred to me that there was an actual person who wrote all those wonderful books I read constantly. But when I finally realized what I was, it was like a revelation. I thought, “I am a writer, and I write stories just like these people.” When I told my dad this he seemed to already know and understand. He read what I wrote and always joked about how when I became a famous writer one day I should dedicate it to him and send him some of the royalties. Even if I don’t become famous or make lots of money on my books, I at least know what I am and what my dad helped me to become because of all those childhood trips to books stores, and because of all his heartfelt comments that made me really believe in myself. Before he even read a single thing I wrote, he said he knew it would be great, because I had written it.

I’m going to major in English at college because I am going to make a career writing and maybe even become an editor. No matter what I do though, I know my dad is and will be proud of me and has helped me instead of hinder me. He encouraged me to be who I am. The first book I publish I’m going to dedicate to him, there is no doubt in my mind, and not because he told me to either, even before he made that joke I knew who I would dedicate my first published work to: My father, who is my hero and my inspiration.