As as child, the first gift I ever received was a book. My grandmother nicked a doctor's coat when I was still in the hospital and shuffled cribs around so that my family could see me better from the visitors' window. She left a sort of stuffed storybook pillow in my crib with me before sneaking back out, and it's been all downhill from there.
After getting into poetry, I'm only just returning to prose. Mostly short pieces about failed magic and lost socks: all the nonsense one would expect from a college student.
My greatest problem seems to be that I can't read and write at the same time. That and math, but I'm only working on one of them.