ABOUT ME

I was born into a family that loved to learn. A family that budgeted books as necessities like food and clothing, as if knowledge was needed to live. I was born into a house with messy bookshelves in every room, piles of books alongside every bed, highlighted passages, and dog-eared pages. My parent loved to learn, whether that be from books, documentaries, or debates. My dad famously would strike up a debate and take the opposite side just to keep it going despite his disagreement with it altogether.

It was a loud house, a curious house, a lovely and warm house. I know that it is not a common thing to grow up in a happy home, to never go without a warm smile and a hug, and I will always be eternally thankful that this is where I spent my early years. There are only the happiest memories of that house and of my family.

As I grew up I was always flooded with knowledge and taught not just to memorize but to form my own opinions about the subject, even if they were different and contrary to others (I will confess that most of the time this was the exact reason I formed my opinions). My mom was constantly talking about the latest scientific journals and would explain them to me as if I was one of her peers. I am sure I was the only four-year-old to tell her mom that she was dehydrated, not thirsty. My dad read every book he could get his hands on, almost always on unique and different subjects, and went to school for multiple different degrees. One field of study was never enough for him, new topics were always fascinating.

When I was young it was discovered by my teachers, despite my efforts to hide it, that I was dyslexic. In my effort to blend in I had made it difficult to spot by memorizing the words when the books were read aloud and then reciting it perfectly to my teachers and parents which resulted in catching it much later than normal.

This diagnosis explained why school had become something for me to dread. The fact that it was difficult for me to read had made school frustrating. It made me feel so different from the rest of my family who to me seemed to go through life and school so easily. I wondered often why I couldn’t be as smart as them.

But fate had blessed me with a mother and father who had no use for labels or diagnosis. Instead, they taught me that I did not have to hide and I certainly didn’t need to let this hold me down. They both taught me to use this as a strength instead of a weakness

My mother bought me every book she could find, hoping one would spark my interest. Every day after school she helped me study my spelling and reading. It was my mother who, on those awful afternoons when I wanted nothing more than to go out and play, had given me my drive. She had shown me that nothing was given to me. That I had to work to get the things I wanted in life, and what pride felt like once I had given it my all. That success was all the more sweeter once it had been earned. It is not lost on me that this book is about a mother and daughter who hate one another. I am blessed to be able to say that I have a mother who has never resembled Demeter (besides her green thumb).

My dad stayed up every night to lay in bed with me, long after I was meant to be asleep, to ask me about what I was reading. I would tell him every detail I could remember, and he would ask questions and laugh along with me to every joke. Then once I was done telling him about my book he would tell of his. We formed our own little book club together. After a long day’s work, and even more to do after he was home, it was probably the last thing he wanted to do. But it had quickly begun to mean everything to me. He was the one who taught me to love reading. In the beginning, I might have only loved it for the chance to talk to my dad about it, but soon I learned to love it for myself.

My reading was always a chore. Always something I had to check off my to-do list every day. It was practice. It was homework. It wasn’t until I picked up ‘Percent Jackson and the Lightning Thief’ did I ever read for pleasure. I had picked the book because I knew my dad liked Greek Mythology and I jumped at the chance to know more than him, always competitive in anything I do. I couldn’t tell you what it was about the book that had drawn me in. I just remember reading my allotted page count for the day and not being able to stop. I think it was the first time I had ever stayed up late reading. I devoured that book then the next and then the whole series.

From there my options were endless. My shelves were quickly filled with worlds I had explored and people I had met all while sitting in my room. Ever since then my life has been nothing but crowded bookshelves and paper cuts. It was the greatest form of magic I have yet to witness.

It seems fitting that it was a book based on a world of Greek gods that had been the first to save me, and now years later I’m publishing a book based on a Greek myth.

Fate is funny that way.