![]() It wasn’t like anything I’d ever tried reading before. The painting was so beautiful, so realistic yet imaginative, that I snatched it up, actually a little eager to look through the pages. ![]() It had this vivid painting of a dragon standing in the mists, a woman held limply in its hand. I resigned myself to another dead dog story, but then one of the books actually caught my eye. Sullen and annoyed, I began to sift through the books. I was told I had to read one of these and had to do a book report on them-and she’d read them all, so she’d know if I tried to fake it. You probably know the type-ripped, stained by spaghetti sauce from cafeteria lunches, pages folded and worn. In fact, it failed so solidly that the teacher-unwilling to let me choose my own book to read, for fear I’d choose something not up my reading level-steered me to the back of the room, where she kept a group of ratty paperbacks to loan out to students. So, when my eighth-grade teacher assigned me to do a book report, I did everything I could to get out of it. (Which would die by the end of the book.) I disliked reading with a passion. I’d been handed a succession of novels about young boys living in the wilderness and taking care of their pet dogs. ![]() ![]() I was fourteen when it happened, and I was not a reader. It’s been almost twenty years now since I first discovered Michael’s work. ![]() Because my experience in life has been very different. I’ve always wondered who “They” are, and if-by chance-they’ve never heard of Michael Whelan. They say you can’t judge a book by its cover. ![]()
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