![]() ![]() I even let my bias against series make me several years late to the Elena Ferrante party. ![]() I mercilessly mocked my husband’s love of Brandon Sanderson and my mom’s predilection for Jodi Picoult. I began buying books based on Staff Picks and Obama’s reading lists. I practically built my freshman dorm décor aesthetic around Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic books.Īnd then I grew up and got snobby. I queued for Harry Potter releases and borrowed my Gram’s dogeared Sue Grafton, Tom Clancy, and Mary Higgins Clark paperbacks. The Scholastic Book Fair was my Super Bowl – an annual opportunity to bolster my collection of not only stickers and posters, but also my beloved Goosebumps and Sweet Valley High ‘chapter books.’ In Grade Two, I remember cheering when I got chicken pox because it meant my Mom would buy me a Babysitter’s Club boxed set and I could curl up in her big Queen-sized bed all week, inhaling one book after another.Įven as a teenager, I read series without reservation. ![]() I devoured Franklin and Berenstain Bears, then later Ramona, Little House on the Prairie, and The Boxcar Children. ![]()
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