I was voracious. Until I wasn’t.
When I was a kid, I read. I brought books to parties, I read on the floor of the library at our school, I read all the time. I read every moment of the day, and yet. I can’t bring myself to read anymore.
Maybe it was college that did me in, the first go-around when I was reading over 1000 pages a week trying to keep up with my myriad of liberal arts classes. Maybe it was the year after, when I tried and failed to make a book themed youtube channel, the first time in 2014. Maybe it was the year after, when I took on review project after review project to earn a little money. Maybe it was when I took on a job that sucked up every moment of my time.
Maybe it was social media, and the endless scrolling that made me at least feel like I was numbing out every feeling.
Over the 2020 election cycle, in the 4 long days until the results were truly called, I read 4 books. I hadn’t read 4 books in the previous year, but I read 4 books in 4 days. I will plow through a re-read once in a while, but honestly, I can’t bring myself to read.
And maybe it is the pressure, the desire to turn reading into a productivity source, that is souring it. Or maybe, I need to acknowledge that it’s okay. It’s okay not to read as much as when you were a child and had no obligations or friends. Maybe it’s okay to read 5-6 books a year, and that the only person juding you is yourself. Maybe it’s okay.
So if you haven’t read in a while, don’t feel guilty, feel free with me. Feel free to just try, to let things go, to stop reading if a book doesn’t serve you, and to try your best.
I think that’s all I can do at this point too.