For the first time in I can’t remember how long, I managed to read a pleasure book cover to cover on consecutive weekends. The first was a recent gift from a dear friend, made all the more special because she wrote it. The second was one I rediscovered earlier this week in my desk at work, made doubly special not only because it was written by a longtime family friend but also because its inside front cover harbored a hidden PostIt note from my mom, hands down the best writer in the family.

Thanks in large part to Mom’s steadfast encouragement of my childhood bookworm tendencies, I’m a firm believer that being an avid reader goes hand in hand with being a good writer. Interestingly enough, the New York Times recently detailed a German study on the science of creativity using writing as the medium. Reactions to the results are mixed, with most agreeing it’s an intriguing topic if not a start.

Me, I’m thrilled beyond words creative or otherwise that my oldest son appears to be well on his way to following in his grandmother’s dog-eared, ink-stained footsteps. Just this past week, he devoured the 487-page Divergent, plus 72 pages of bonus material.

I’m not sure if his grandmother would be proud, amused or slightly alarmed by last weekend’s topic of discussion: the comparative literary merits of Edgar Allan Poe and Stephen King, courtesy of Epic Rap Battles of History. (Who says this Internet thing is all bad?!) Although my son is intimately familiar with the works of neither author, he is absolutely curious and eagerly anticipating the big moment when his dad and I pronounce him old enough to read such suspenseful classics without the 100 percent guarantee of nightmares.

All the talk of Poe instantly transported me back to high school and the many great short stories we read as parts of some amazing anthologies that, although assigned reading, imparted what for me were lifelong lessons in the exploration of creative voice and artistic expression. I mean, who could forget The Cask of Amontillado or The Telltale Heart?

But beyond them, there could be no better introduction to the fine art of foreshadowing than The Monkey’s Paw or Lamb to the Slaughter. I decided he was old enough for the latter, so I sent him the link.

Now, as for remembering to check his email? That jury’s still out.

This was us growing up (minus the pets), but all with our magazines! So glad Mom and Daddy allowed reading at the table during meals. Goodness knows we all got our fair share of bonding in over farm, ranch and dairy chores.