Confessions of a Former Bookworm

A Tale of Literary Laziness (A.K.A. How I went from being a literary aficionado to someone who uses classic novels as decor.)

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I.

When I was younger, reading was something I always thought about. It was at the forefront of my mind, eating away at my concentration as I counted down the minutes to when I could open up a book again. My leg bounced in my seat and with each rebound, my mind wondered what secrets I’d learn or what worlds I’d visit once I did.

Reading was like breathing, a subconscious act that would just happen. The world continued to move around me—dogs barking to be let inside, people chattering on phones, cars zooming past on their way home—but I was somewhere else entirely. My mind was embarking on treacherous journeys in fantasy worlds or slaying monsters with powerful weapons, yet my body remained tucked under the covers of my bed.

I remember frequent trips to the library, practically skipping down the alphabetized aisles in search of that one book and getting distracted by all the other covers along the way. (Whoever said to never judge a book by its cover is a complete and total liar.) I was a force to be reckoned with, my pigtails probably whipping behind me as I marched on, and if it weren’t for my short attention span, I could have traversed the entire library in five minutes flat.

Reading became my new love, and the library was the sacred place that allowed me to delve deeper into this love. It was a safe haven, a place that held the answers to the universe, and all I had to do was pluck a book from the shelf to gain just a peek into what that could mean.

The first time I truly recognized this was when I emerged from the guest room of my grandma’s house hours after another trip to the library. (This particular quest involved retrieving the final installment of The Hunger Games trilogy, and I was desperate to know the epic conclusion of Katniss’s battle against The Capitol.) My grandma was positioned on the couch, a toss-up of either The Young and the Restless or CNN playing on the television. “How far did you get?” She asked, looking up from behind her reading glasses. She was focusing on something in her lap, but time has since erased it from my memory.

“I finished it,” I answered. I then proceeded to collapse on the couch beside her, feeling a sense of fatigue that better reflected a post-workout exhaustion rather than that of someone who isolated themselves in a room for hours to read. My grandma asked me how it was, and I told her, the ending of Katniss’s story fresh in my mind.

And so, life carried on, and my obsession grew. I was constantly trying to squeeze in a few more chapters before the rumbles in my stomach became too loud to ignore, or desperately finishing lines of text while hollering back to my mom—Just gimme a sec!—when her first call was met with silence. My visits to the library continued, and I fell deeper and deeper in love.

I also experienced my first heartbreak in that same library, listening to the kind woman behind the counter explaining how the next edition of my current obsession was already checked out. “You’re next on the list, though!” She attempted to cheer me up, her smiley demeanor working overtime, but it was to no avail.

For the first time, I was denied the instant gratification of continuing the story about so-and-so and that one guy, and I was absolutely devastated. I sulked the entire drive home (I was probably ten, gimme a break), and proceeded to act like a personified rain cloud for the remainder of the day.

Those following days were just as bleak, constantly refreshing my school email in hopes of the book’s safe return as my mind continued to conjure up what I thought might happen next in the series. I’d curse at the sky—Why me!?—followed by a prayer of forgiveness, begging that whoever currently possessed the book was a quick reader.

As one would expect, the book eventually found its way home, and I dragged whatever available adult I could think of to take me to my lost love. It was a most joyous occasion, and when I finally got my hands on that book, you best believe I immediately hurried off to my room to dig in.

My days were scheduled around chunks of time where I knew I could read, and if there wasn’t any available, I made time. I’d bring my books on car rides, following along with the protagonist’s inner monologues before the nausea crept in. I tucked books under my pillow, sneaking out a flashlight so I could get in a few more pages between half-lidded eyes. My mom liked to say, “you know it’s bad when you’re telling your kid to put down the book,” but that’s just how it was.

Then, I started owning books. Not just the illustrated pages of my childhood filled with monkeys jumping on beds and bears in corduroy overalls, but real books with real stories. I felt as if I had peaked, advancing in some society of readers that existed solely in my mind. This legion initiated me the moment I placed that first book on my shelf, and I haven’t looked back since.

I was no longer reading old hand-me-downs or library issued editions that hundreds of others spread their DNA all over. These books were mine, and I cherished them with the reverence of a mother to her newborn child.

The pages of my books, though dogeared, were kept in mint condition—or, at least, a preteen’s version of that. These books came with me everywhere, organized into backpack compartments or inefficiently tucked underneath my arm, and I felt like (pardon my French) Hot Shit. These books didn’t possess the mark of a library barcode or show the age of editions passed from parent to child. They were shiny, brand-spanking new books, and I flaunted them around like an accessory to be oohed and ahhed at.

My love for these faraway lands grew tenfold. By this point, I wasn’t even reading the books anymore, I was consuming them. I was hungry for information, devouring these books at rapid speeds only to begin anew with another, and I couldn’t be satiated. I wouldn’t be satiated. I developed an almost Pavlovian response to the sound of book spines cracking open or the smell of crisp paper. I was addicted to reading, hoarding details like a dragon with gold, and nothing could stop me. It would always be me and my books, and I knew this feeling would never go away.

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II.

But then it did.

I don’t remember exactly when it happened—probably sometime between those elaborate summer reading projects or the fourth time a professor told me to read Jane Eyre—but reading has started to feel like a chore. I look at reading with the same impassiveness as I do washing dishes or mopping the floor. I know it’s something I should do, but do I actually want to? More times than not, the answer’s no, and without the impending doom of school deadlines, I’m afraid it’ll always be no.

I mourn the loss of that childlike wonder, itching to know what stories lie inside the pages and not being able to sleep if I don’t find out. Instead, these books feel heavy, almost as if the sheer mass of the words or the knowledge stored inside are weighing them down, and I don’t have the strength to carry them. I spent so much of the last few years reading with the expectation of having to create something from it—whether that be an essay or some convoluted project—and this something had to hold worth by way of a numerical grade. Sometimes, I think my brain is still in that mode, and it’s hard to simply enjoy reading.

This isn’t to say I never read. There are a few books that I’ve been able to swallow down in the past year, but instead of tearing through seven-book series in a month, I barely checked off six in the entire year.

I’ll get these random bursts of inspiration, almost resembling that same excitement I used to always feel, and I’ll speed through a hundred or so pages in one sitting. I won’t focus on overanalyzing the characters or pointing out common themes that could be further discussed in an essay… I just read. These critical thoughts aren’t constantly gnawing at me, and instead of feeling exhausted after putting down the book, I feel rejuvenated. I feel like myself.

This feeling never lasts, though, and it’ll be weeks or even months before I return to those characters.

My books have become an accessory again, but now they’re the type to collect dust on shelves. I’m still buying them—picking up paperbacks at tiny bookstores or thrifting them online—and I always tell myself: One day I’ll read it. When everything slows down and I have the time, I’ll be able to check this book off my list. You’ll see. Who I’m trying to prove this to, I’m not entirely sure, but most days, this mantra seems to be repeated exclusively within the confines of my mind.

Maybe one day these feelings will come back. I’ll be able to look at reading from the same perspective as a young child eager to inhale information, and everything will be right in the world. Or maybe I won’t be able to chase that feeling again, and my mind will forever be stuck in that period of time when reading was something I had to do in order to ensure the trajectory of my future. Or maybe the simple answer is that reading’s just not my “thing” anymore and I need to search for other creative outlets.

Here’s to hoping that the first is true.

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