Catch Me If You Can, by Chris Tebbetts

This image is a slide from a presentation I gave a few years ago, where I was asked to speak  about the influences that made me a writer. And, predictably enough, one of the first things that came to mind on that topic was the kind of reader I was as a kid. Which is to say, a voracious one. On any given day, I was known to have been found in any number locations around the house with my nose stuck in one book or another. 
Besides the predictable spots (in my room, on the couch, etc.) I also had something called The Chris Club when I was maybe ten years old. I was its sole member—president, vice president, secretary and treasurer—and the entire agenda of the “club” was to hang out in our little clubhouse-sized walk-in storage closet and read as much as possible.  
Another favorite reading spot was under the dining room table. I’m not even sure why, except that with the chairs all pushed in, it gave me a sense of hiding out in plain sight that somehow appealed to me. I’ve always been comfortable with solitude, which is another part of what makes writing a good gig for me, and I didn’t become a social creature until middle school. So, during those early middle grade years, I was just fine on my own, as long as I had something to read.
I even had my own version of a treehouse—well, something short of a “house,” but my dad did nail a board to a sturdy branch in the largest tree in our backyard for me, and that was enough. During the warmer months when my mom was more likely to shoo me outside, I’d frequently climb up into that tree with a book and lounge there on that piece of plywood like some kind of outdoor couch for long stretches of time.
I only wish I read as much and as enthusiastically today as I did back then. I mean, don’t get me a wrong. I love a good book. But those middle grade years were like book magic for me, and if anyone wanted to go back in time to catch me reading, that’s exactly where I’d send them.