Viva La Chimichanga

Sherman Aspacio
Professor Boland
Eng. 329 Auto #2
28 January 2009
The first time a book affected me in an overwhelmingly influential way was when I exhausted all of the options of my first ‘choose your own adventure’ book, Silver Wings. I would explore (cheat) all of the different options in the book and never remove my finger from the last section of the book I read, in fear that I would prematurely end my story. I got the book from R.I.F., or, reading is fundamental, a free book give-away that my elementary school sponsored. I was utterly engaged into this book for three days, systematically hunting down the next progression and never feeling satisfied until the webs of choices lined up into the best possible outcome for my vicarious main character.
I remember that I died a lot, my plane would smash into mountains or I would get eaten by a crocodile, and each such instance brought an unprecedented pull of emotion I had henceforth never experienced from reading a book.
In my childhood home, The Phelan Orphanage of St. Dolores, the nuns kept two large bookcases, six by six by two feet deep, stocked with around one hundred books. These books ranged, as I grew up with three siblings . . . Uh . . . I mean orphans, . . . And it was always pleasurable (as orphanage life can get a tad morass) to sprawl onto a cozy couch, be warmed by the rays of sunlight wandering through the blinds, and simply disengage reality and submerge my consciousness into an alternate reality. I read many books that upon recollection simply offer me only the warm fuzzy feeling that pronounces itself so well with the cool nostalgia of those orphanage days. I brought all of the books with me to my adopted family (Which, ironically, was my biological family . . . ). The books in my house, growing up, were regarded as a distraction from too much television. I would love to convey the mass importance my parents placed on reading towards me, though, as I feel that giving your child a book to read to distract them from television is a poor motivation indeed. Truly, my parents asked me what types of books I enjoyed and supplied me with them, understanding the relevance of my early reading prowess as directly connected to my academic achievements.
The last book I read with true enjoyment was . . . Salem’s Lot by Stephen King. I enjoy books that allow for emotional involvement between the folds. I loved the grim fantasy of the piece, and imagined myself hovering over someone’s window beckoning to let me inside to feast on their innards. Truth be told, I was scared, but only a little bit. While I respect Stephen King for the literature he produces I never feel totally satisfied with his endings. But I appreciate and respect such horror books the way I appreciate and respect a well crafted machine, that is, I find machines functional and wondrous, but upon analysis of how it works one can create one’s own machine, and following this logic, I feel that, as a writer, I am searching out literary stimuli that will invoke certain emotional responses from a reader to add to my dazzling repertoire of literary devices.