Growing up, my parents always made sure my life was full of books. Even before I was born they started collecting children’s books for me. From Beverly Cleary to Chris Van Allsburg, Shel Silverstein to Bill Watterson, my bookshelves had it all… with the exception of one 80s staple that my Mum was convinced would give me nightmares: Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark.
Oh, you don’t think I should read this? Yeah, I’m going to have to read this now. <– solid kid logic right there.
I was SO dead set on reading this book that I’d sneak away while we in the book store, casually back up to the shelf (because CLEARLY no one knew what I was up to), and when I had determined the coast was clear of all parental units, snatch it from the shelf and bury my little nose in it. Mum was right, it gave me nightmares.