Putting Away The Books

If, like me, you love to read; if you have stacks of books and lists of books you want to own and more books than you will probably ever manage to read in your life resting on shelves that are bowing inward from the weight - or even if you just have a small stack and you reread the same books over and over until their creased and worn but you can quote them word for word - then you understand that the most frustrating thing as a reader is being told you'll love a book and then discovering the book is absolute garbage and you've wasted good reading time on it. Only slightly less frustrating is the tediousness of reading a book that absolutely bores you to tears.

For the first twenty years of my life I felt it was my duty to struggle through those tedious tomes, straining my eyes and patience to read each classic novel, each dusty and forsaken novel that had long been abandoned by civilization. I went through each one methodically, sometimes spending months on a book that would make me cry with frustration, rubbing at my eyes to ease the strain. My friends would look at me like I was crazy and my family would gently suggest I stop reading it. But 'momma didn't raise no quitters' so I would keep at it despite the headaches I got, the boredom and restlessness I felt.

I carried them with me, from home to school - reading in the few minutes before class, on the bus, in the halls before school, at lunch, anywhere I had a few spare moments was dedicated to reading. When my parents started going to church and dragging me along with them I would spend that long hour long car ride reading as much as I could. Some days I would smuggle the book in with me and read during service, claiming it was homework (sometimes it actually was). I don't remember when reading stopped being fun but I do remember the moment I realized it.

After twenty years of struggling through these classics it finally hit me - would these authors really want me to read these books, going in with dread in my heart and a chip on my shoulder? As a writer, would I want that? How would I feel if I knew someone was reading my stories and hating every moment of it? I used to read for fun, because I adored the written word. Somewhere along the way all that changed; I started devouring pretentious novels, sometimes with little to no understanding of what I was actually reading, and put aside reading things I actually enjoyed. Guiltily I set down Dracula, never going back to it despite how much it hurt my pride to do it, and picked up something more to my liking. The next day I tore apart my bookcase and the local goodwill got a large bag of gently used to almost new books.

It's been a long and difficult road this last few months but I'm working on putting aside the pretense and going back to the books I enjoy. Maybe I'm too old now to completely set aside the classics, Charles Dickens will always have a soft spot in my heart and Jane Austen will always be a go to for when I'm down and need some cheering up, but it's time to put the dusty dead back up on the shelves where I should have left them to their peaceful slumber and time to start reading for my enjoyment again.