I first read by listening. As a toddler, I would ask my parents to read to me constantly. They obliged, until I had all of my books memorized and could correct them for trivial mistakes like saying “an” instead of “the.” Though I did not yet know my letters, and could not piece together words or phrases, I could pretend. I knew what each of my books was supposed to say, and when. By listening, I could read my favorite books before I knew how to read on my own.
Reading maintained the aspect of listening for me, even once I was able to interpret the words on a page. Instead of listening to someone else reading to me, I was listening to the author speaking to me. Authors told me that I should be brave, and a loyal friend. They taught me facts about space and the ocean and my favorite animals. They whispered to me about mysterious caves, and sang jubilantly about magic.
As I listened to authors and narrators, I was sucked into their worlds. All my senses devoted themselves just to hearing what the author had to say. In my third grade class, I was known for regularly not hearing the teacher announce the end of free reading time. I sat curled up between two bookshelves, out of view from the teacher’s desk, and immersed myself in stories. Some days, 15 or 20 minutes of math class would go by before someone turned around and noticed that I was still between the shelves intensely listening to the narrator of the Animorphs series. In a quiet room, I got into the groove of reading. The scenes appeared vividly before my eyes, and I could hear the action and the narrator in my head. I no longer saw the words on the page, and I no longer heard anything going on around me. I was experiencing the story, and I grew to love the worlds of novels just as much as my own.
I could never run out of authors to listen to. When my mom took my brothers and I to the 
library, she had to impose upon me a limit of 5 books per visit. Still, I would sit between the shelves reading pieces of every book to find the most interesting options until I was forced to go home. The biweekly library visits turned into a visit every week, then into visiting twice a week during summer and winter breaks. I was intrigued by the wide variety of book styles I found in the library. I loved the way the author’s voice sounded more deliberate and emotional when the story was written in verse, I enjoyed the lighthearted playfulness of comics, and I was delighted by the sassy narrators in the Young Adult section. My favorite aspect was, and still is, the way that I could never grow out of the library. The children’s section merged into young adult, then into the teen section downstairs, then into the vast adult section. I knew just looking at row after row of shelves, that I could truly never run out of stories to hear.
My issues with literacy emerged when it came to writing. Although I loved listening to authors, I found myself having nothing to say. I could never think of an idea that I hadn’t heard before, and my perfectionism blocked me from attempting if I wasn’t going to do a better job than the authors I had read. I was intimidated by the great writing that I had witnessed in novels, and my lack of original ideas created anxiety around writing.
Truthfully, this is something I still struggle with. Sometimes I feel like I don’t have a story to tell, at least not one that nobody else has told before. The fount of ideas runs dry, and I stare at a blank Google Doc for 30 minutes before writing and immediately deleting an intro paragraph.
I can distinctly remember abandoning those apprehensions once in third grade. My teacher began to give us free writing time, similar in concept to free reading time but we were encouraged to write whatever we wanted for a few minutes every day. Over the course of a week or two, I wrote an eight page story about a kid who got turned into an ant. Every time I sat down to write this story, the words seemed to flow naturally. I did not consider whether a story like this had already been written, or whether the quality of my writing was even good. Free writing time allowed me to disregard the stress I had associated with writing, because I knew no one would ever read my story. This story ended up being my best piece of writing that year because I had denied my inhibitions.
When I reflect on all those novels I fascinatedly consumed as a child, I realize that not all of them were totally unique. Many of them contained similar premises or shared morals. No one book stands out as totally and completely different from all the rest. Writing does not need to be completely unique to have value. Good writers make common experiences relatable, not overdone. It is okay if you’ve heard a story similar to mine. The important part is that you haven’t heard me tell my story yet.