I have always considered myself to be a reader. In my dad’s journal of our childhood (memories he kept in a growing Word document, printed for us the year before he passed), I was not surprised to read many entries about my budding relationship with reading. There were dinner time exclamations in which I presented newfound abilities to read and spell, tender suspicions that the reason I was waking up with dark circles under my eyes was because I’d been up late with a flashlight under the covers, a whole chronicle of my foray into the Potterverse which sealed the deal for me. In elementary school, I remember finding comfort in the fact that while I would likely not live out medieval quests or boarding school (lol), I could probably experience whatever I wanted to escape into through fiction, or write my own if what was out there didn’t scratch that specific desire.
Like any relationship though, it’s had its ebbs and flows, evolved alongside the prescribed reading that school introduces. Some classes nurtured the hobby while others dampened it. The self-imposed (and premature) expectation of retiring YA books in favour of Grown Up Literature caused another slump before I decided that reading what I wanted was more important than reading what had been deemed good by round-ups and reviewers I didn’t necessarily share taste with.
A few years ago, out of grad school and reading exclusively for pleasure for the first time in years, I found myself picking up books I thought I would like but struggled to commit to. In the evenings, I would often choose re-watching old TV shows over reading books I’d spent good money on, and mindlessly scrolling over getting lost in a few chapters while on transit or in waiting rooms. I was desperate to find that deep, immersive pleasure that at its best, reading can provide for hours at a time, but I didn’t know how. That is, until I heard about a rule that drastically changed both how I read and why. (Also, I won’t deny that technology plays a part in my lack of attention, but even that beast is kept at bay with this change, and a social media cleanse doesn’t hurt either.)
Though we are now well into the year, I recently spoke to a friend about how February feels more like the start of the new year (January being mostly about recovering and hibernating, doing the prep work before being able to take action on any goals) and as I know many people who have resolved to read more this year, I thought it might be valuable to write about how I have nurtured my love, over the volume, of reading. (Ed note: clearly I meant to send this out last week—my bad).
As far as rules go, my one reading rule is both simple and generous, and it is this: if I am not pulled in by the story and want to see where it goes by page 100, I stop reading. That’s it, but it has changed everything.
For a long time, abandoning books did not sit well with me. I went slow but trudged through, often with little satisfaction that I’d done it. But still for me, the difficulty was two-fold:
1) I like to finish what I start, and there is some pressure baked into me that extends to reading. It’s not an inherently bad desire (it has after all helped me complete multiple manuscripts when I may have preferred to spend time doing something easier, and on a more day-to-day level helps me complete necessary tasks) but it doesn’t need to be applied to everything.
2) I often can’t help but wonder: What if the book starts picking up right after I give up? What if I’d just kept going a little bit longer and reaped the rewards of a book others have gotten? Ultimately a valid point but the rule does account for this.
Reading 100 pages gives me peace of mind that I have given the book a fair shot, and that nothing incredibly world-shifting is right around the corner (I’m not talking about plot twists or developments, but general responsiveness to the writing itself, the stakes of the story, my interest in the characters, etc.). I’m sure there are exceptions to this, but there are also countless books that do and will suck me in from the very first page and make me want to cancel my plans and makes me forget my phone and take hold of me for hours on end. Those are the ones I want to make time for.
It’s not about optimizing reading or hitting a certain book count, but rather about protecting the love I have for reading by nurturing it with material that makes me want to read even more. For the love of it and the sense of calm it gives me. I don’t meditate but I do try to start my mornings with a book, which to me feels like an equivalent.
While I’m at it, it’s worth sharing this piece by Pandora Sykes where she writes about all the things she doesn’t do (that you might find more pleasure in!) so that she can read a lot. Reading is great! So are other things.
Find what works for you.
One Book/One Look
The other day Marcus wore a pair of chocolate brown Levis with a washed-out blue sweater and a butter-yellow tee poking out from underneath it, and now it’s the only colour combination I’ve been thinking of. I didn’t take a photo, but later saw this one on Reese Blutstein’s IG and saved it. I also want to swap out the blue for bright red or forest green because those seem equally delicious.
On the book front, I’m finally reading My Brilliant Friend and it is as evocative as I’d hoped it would be, even after watching the series. I never really mind watching the adaptation before (to my surprise, even with Gone Girl, plot twist and all, the reading was just as riveting an experience) and in this case, it may actually have helped to go in with a visual aid of all the families in the neighbourhood.