Because, of course, when do we stop thinking about stories? We’re familiar with the beginning of Apple, just like we know the origin story of Superman (and Batman, and Wonder Woman, etc.). We know the tragedy of the Indonesian tsunami and Hurricane Katrina. Some of the stories of Jesus and Mohammad, of the Buddha. We’ve read about Oliver Twist and Scheherazade. The French Revolution. Arab Spring. John Henry. Sappho. Little Orphan Annie. Is anyone watching the final season of Mad Men in April? “Is Little Nell dead?” Once upon a time. And then what happened? One thing led to another.
Sometime after you stopped saying Where the Wild Things Are was your favorite book, your next favorite book wasn’t a work of “serious” literature. Literary criticism is neither a dominant nor recessive genetic trait, meaning your ability to recognize differences between “genre fiction” and “regular fiction” is an unnatural contrivance hoisted upon you by society! So, if you claim your first favorite book was something you had to read in school or a novel from “the canon,” you’re a big fat liar. Fish didn’t sprout legs overnight and you didn’t become a serious reader that quickly, either. Because when you started reading books with more chapters and less pictures, chances are your first favorite book was a work of genre fiction.