An interest in horses spurred my interest in reading.

When I was six a drive-in movie theater about an hour from my house started a weekly event where they would show children’s movies from a few years prior for only a dollar per person. The first film they planned to show was an adaptation of Anna Sewell’s novel Black Beauty. Having the common girl-hood obsession with horses, I was adamant about seeing it. My parents were adamant about not driving an hour from home for a picture show.

In order to encourage the trip, I struck a deal. That school year I was behind in my reading classes, and I proposed that if I could read Black Beauty, by myself, before the movie’s premiere a month away, they would take me to see it. Each night my parents would give me a half hour to read to one of them; it was slow going at first, but eventually I did finish the book. It was past the month mark, but my parents appreciated the effort I put into the project and took me to the movie.

As I remember, I was underwhelmed with the feature.

Wanting to relive the story the way I liked it, I read through Black Beauty again over the next few weeks. Being able to have my own version of that story, one I liked better than other people’s tellings, inspired me to find new stories and create personal versions of those as well.

It wasn’t the most noble entry into the LitLife, but bargaining for a movie ticket forced me to recognize my own insight and explore the personal relationships I have to that stories I read.