Life, with its rules, its obligations, and its freedoms, is like a sonnet: You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. I have a tendency to be somewhat contrary about my reading choices. If it seems that EVERYONE in the entire world really loves a thing, I take that as a sign that I shouldn’t bother reading it. It’s one of very few rebellions that I engage in and there’s so much in the world to read that I’ve never actively pushed back against this completely misguided tendency. However, it was this spark of defiance that resulted in me never picking up A Wrinkle in Time when I was precisely the age and the type of child that would have really loved and connected with it. But, you see, EVERYONE loved A Wrinkle in Time, even the popular girls who (in my mind) probably never ever read anything else because they were too busy doing their hair. And I was a NERD. I read comic books, played D&D, loved video games, had read the Hobbit when I was 8 and Lord of the Rings when I was 12, so if the popular girls liked the book then there was NO WAY that I would ever demean myself by picking it up. Look, I had issues, OK? However, that means that I am now reading A Wrinkle in Time for the first time and I’m really angry at myself for having stuck my nose up at it when I needed it.