To You,

Thank you so much. From the bottom of my heart.

For that first book in a third grade classroom shelf. It was about math I believe, the usual silly story of children who try to make a special sell-out purple lemonade.

I've read about a circus, I've read some nice nifty mysteries.

I've read from A to about L of the A to Z mystery series. Thank you Ron Roy. And thank you again for one of the shortest books I've read, yet your longest by far, that is still my favorite and a scintillating read of Washington white out snow one Christmas, a frightening nightmare to any child, or the adult, and the kind stranger. Thank you, for the December Calendar mystery that crossed over the A to Z kids and Marshall the President's daughter.

I'm sure you know, as any author does, as any reader who sees this will relate I was alone once. I held others at maximum disdain. I was better, a bit smarter. I had to tell myself that, else why was I so despondent? What had I done wrong when I'd only tried to be kind and express my happiness? What was so unbearable about that? I did not have to contemplate such questions at the pages of books. I could read of other freaks and friendless children. I liked how they spoke, I loved how they did and the ways they thought and likened the world to the grossest and weirdest simile and metaphor.

By now my page counts were going up to some notable level.

I much preferred books to the so-called "real" world. That of adults and cynicism, where youths have only each other and I suppose sometimes the parents to affirm they aren't dumb. Aren't meant to serve and to bow down, be quiet and be grateful even as teachers turn a blind eye to when we're bullied.

Thank you, for being among the masses of the world I could trust. Thank you for doing your absolute best to see things the way your readers do. For understanding why we're frustrated, why we're defiant. Why we aren't too fussed in listening to being talked down to.

I tasted fantasy through the smartest person there ever was. A wonderful woman, funny and severe, I followed her, I emulated her wishing so, so bad to be as grand... as my big sister. She had the money then to give me what I wanted. She worked with our Father-- they-- we'd all been confused back then but she did get money, being allowed by virtue of boy-ness to work with the bricks and the mailboxes.

With her money she ordered me the first Harry Potter book. I couldn't have been older than eight. The Internet was becoming a beast, fanfiction was perhaps starting out. No, probably some years back in my yester-youth. Is anyone else tired of these flowery, flourishing words?

I cracked open a purple spine, a one hundred and eighty pages(save preview) amidst winter cold and sunny day blackout. It wasn't snow, but ice. I was ten.

I read through within the day. Half a day and I wanted more! But I only had the one.

Now, you are certainly a terrible person Row, you disappointed me so thoroughly. But Harry did not, neither did Ron and not even the adults--except Snape-- Hogwarts and all it's beauty and intrigue did nothing wrong.

So terrible person as you are I do thank you.

I will never associate you with my fine sister, you would hate her I'm sure, I thank her and love her for what she did that day with all my heart. I'm afraid there's nothing left in my heart for you.

Thank you to Brandon Mull next, wholly original, suspiciously dark, a niche Fablehaven. Though perhaps that was the point. No one who comes to Fablehaven leaves unchanged.

Thank you to Un-Enchanted, to Jack Sprout to whomever subverted the fairytales. to Nerd Camp and Nerd 2.0, Class Dismissed, a littany of movies too since they are authors under different guise. A pen-name if you will.

Thank you too, to that middle school teacher which had all seven books that I devoured until that year was over. Just a few years later I'm sure he'd be happy to know I'd found my own collectible set online.

I'd surely been the luckiest girl in the world.

I continue to remember, how lucky I have been to peruse so many stories.

Consider this, Prosers in the future and Prosers who follow my rambling, of the book you've come to hold dear and preserve so fitfully and with such jealous love.

If I come back to this letter, it'll be in my adulthood thanked by a little boy, whose now inherited my well loved, spine folded copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone