Wrapped in Words: A Childhood That Led to Writing

 

Reading has always been a quiet kind of magic in my life. Long before I understood its importance, books were already part of my childhood. My parents had a simple but thoughtful tradition — birthdays and special occasions often came wrapped not just in ribbons and paper, but in words and pictures. While some children unwrapped toys or gadgets, we often unwrapped books. Looking back, I realise just how deliberate and precious that was.

The earliest gifts I remember were comics — Beano and Dandy. Their cheeky characters, mischief, and slapstick humour filled our days with laughter. Each week’s issue was something to look forward to, and I would pore over the pages again and again until the corners curled and the colours faded. At Christmas and year’s end, the excitement was always doubled because of the annuals. Thick, colourful, and sturdy, they felt like treasure chests brimming with puzzles, stories, and illustrations. To me, those annuals were more than presents; they were traditions, markers of time, and reminders that stories were part of life’s celebrations.

As I grew older, my appetite for stories shifted from the playful world of comics into adventures and mysteries. I discovered Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven and Famous Five, and with them, an entirely new way of experiencing childhood. I tagged along with Julian, Dick, Anne, George, and Timmy the dog as they solved mysteries by the sea or in the countryside. I was right there, riding bicycles through winding lanes, uncovering secrets in old castles, or sharing sandwiches and ginger beer on sunlit picnics. Those stories gave me a sense of freedom and courage I didn’t yet have in real life, but wished I did.

Soon, my adventures grew more mysterious and thrilling with Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. These books had a different rhythm — faster, sharper, and tinged with danger. I can still remember reading late into the night, hiding under the covers with a torch, heart racing as Nancy uncovered clues or Frank and Joe faced down villains. It was intoxicating to be drawn into puzzles that demanded clever thinking and brave choices, even if I was just a silent observer from my bed.

Each book was a doorway, each story a journey. And the best part was that it all began at home, with parents who believed that giving books was as important as giving toys, if not more so. At the time, I didn’t always understand the thought behind those gifts. But now, I see it clearly: my parents were planting seeds — of curiosity, of imagination, of discipline to sit with a story until the very end.

The comics made me laugh. The annuals made me feel special. Enid Blyton gave me a taste of adventure. Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys stirred in me a love for mysteries. And somewhere along the way, all that reading did more than fill my head with stories — it planted in me a desire to create stories of my own. 

My love for writing grew directly out of my love for reading. What began as borrowed worlds on the page slowly became the urge to shape worlds of my own, to give life to characters, and to put thoughts into words.

It is only with hindsight that I realise the most valuable gift I ever received as a child wasn’t tucked in wrapping paper — it was the love of reading, quietly passed from my parents’ hands into mine. That gift has outlasted every toy, and it gave me not just joy as a reader, but also the voice of a writer.