All I know is, I'm sure it started with stories.
The ones my mom told about her childhood.
The first one I "read" over and over, Dr. Seuss' ABC's.
The ones I told my little sister (when I wasn't threatening her).
The ones I read after those glorious trips to the public library when I came home staggering under a load of books.
The ones that loved me for me by Camille Yarbrough, Julius Lester, and Eloise Greenfield.
The ones I read before I understood them, but "got" anyway (I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, The Autobiography of Malcolm X.)
The ones I read on days when I was home sick -- especially that bout of scarletina when I went through the Andrew Lang Fairy books and The Chronicles of Narnia.
The one my mom read to me at bedtime under the mosquito netting in Lagos (A Wrinkle In Time.)
The ones I wrote and illustrated for my little sister (when I wasn't threatening her.)
The hours I spent poring over the "story of everything" in the volumes of my Encyclopaedia Britannica set.
The ones my dad told about his childhood.
The ones that shone through tedious "units" at school (Macbeth, Moll Flanders).
The epic love story (Their Eyes Were Watching God).
Definitely starts with the stories.