My mother made sure that my brother and I always had books.
She took us to the library. She read to us. She bought us books.
My bedroom was lined with shelves, and the shelves were filled with books (and stuffed animals).
But sometimes when I couldn’t find anything to read, I went down the hall and perused my brother’s bookshelves.
He had a copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island with illustrations by Norman Price.
I would pick this book up and take it my room, but I never made it past the first chapter.
Sometimes, I never made it past the first illustration.
It scared me—all of it—illustrations, prose, premise.
I always ended up returning the book to my brother’s room—unread.
And then a few months ago, I read two interviews with two very different writers and they both cited Stevenson as an influence.
I went to a used bookstore and bought Treasure Island (with illustrations by Norman Price!).
And wow, am I ever having fun.
Talk about rip-roaring.
Talk about suspense.
It’s a delight.
But I have to admit—I’m still a little bit scared.

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