I don't know if you know this about me, but I read for a living. Reading words is how I pay my rent, put gas in my car, keep food in my belly, and clothes on my back. Unfortunately, it no longer pays for beautiful haircuts.
So I worry that people are going to expect some crazy amazing and profound book that I thought was the best book of 2009. Now, it's not for want of opportunity that I can't think of anything. I belong to book clubs, surround myself by English major or degree holding friends who are constantly recommending great books like The Life of Pi by Jan Martel, My Name is Asher Lev, by Chaim Potok, or A Mercy by Toni Morrison, all of which I have in my possession and am determined to read as soon as the thought of reading doesn't make me carsick.
Still, the book I thought of first was this. (Don't worry: it wasn't written by Stephenie Meyer, but I think it may have had at least one reference to a vampire.)
I don't deserve to know how to read.