I remember my creative writing teacher in tenth grade lamenting the fact that she had such a difficult time convincing her colleagues in the English department to read. The school district was working to integrate some newer titles into its approved reading list, and she felt it was, ironically, the English teachers holding it up.
As a high school student who enjoyed reading, it struck me as strange and sad that the teachers who brought me book after book to read, most of which were literary classics that they helped me to enjoy, were not even enjoying books on their own, outside of class. By the next year, I had decided to become an English teacher, and I knew that would never be me.
Except it was.
Eight years into teaching, I had a two-year-old and a newborn. I was living on little sleep. I read to maintain my spiritual…
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