I don't know when I fell in love with stories, but it had to be early. Real early. Maybe in the womb as my incredible mother, one of the few people I have ever met who both read and processed faster than I could, devoured books while waiting for me to exit and make her life miserable in new and inventive ways.
In any event, it had to be early. I can remember preschool, sitting in the corner reading while the other kids played. I can remember curling into a couch, looking up from books to steal homework questions from my brilliant older sister before I was even old enough to go to preschool. My childhood memories involving books outnumber my memories involving friends about 8,302 to 7.
So like I said, I have no idea when it happened, but I fell in love with stories early. Having somewhat recently reached my third decade, and diving into the requisite self-examiniation that benchmark demands, thinking about my relationship with stories. I think that it would not be unfair to characterize my first fifteen years as being devoted to reading stories, while the second fifteen were dedicated to trying to live stories. I wouldn't be upset about spending the third fifteen writing stories, but I don't want to get ahead of myself.