I’m reading a book for fun.
Now, that sentence should be a given, or at the very least expected. But here at Kenyon it’s often met with shock or disbelief.
This is a school that prides itself on its English program, on nurturing writers and encouraging all students to read. But in practicality it’s the exact opposite. Being a “reading” school simply means I’m assigned to read 130 pages for the next meeting of my intro-level history class. I would guess that some of my friends in more reading intensive classes read upwards of 700 pages in a given week. In fact, when I asked my friends how much they are assigned to read a week, the only response I got was, “a ****ton, that’s how much.”
Ask anyone you know at Kenyon, and they’ll tell you they’re too busy to read for fun. And when there is a spare moment between homework, class, and clubs, reading for fun is often the last thing they want to do. When you feel like you’re constantly behind with all the assigned reading, you’re going to spend your precious breaks watching Netflix, or spending time with friends, or, heck, staring at your walls because those aren’t covered in mind-numbing black squiggles (or maybe they are—I don’t know how you decorate your room).
All this is to say, I feel like being at college has killed my love of reading.
That is still something that’s hard for me to come to terms with. For so much of my life, I’ve identified as a reader. I loved reading. I read a book a day for the entirety of the eighth grade. I read the entire Harry Potter series (and watched all the movies) in less than a week. The employees at my public library knew my name, and had my stack of books waiting when I showed up, without fail, after school every Tuesday.
I was a reader. And that was such a big part of how I saw myself. But I lost that part of me when I came to college, when I entered what was supposed to be this intellectual environment, when I thought I was finally going to be surrounded by people who love books as much as I do.
But then, we all stopped reading anything that wasn’t spelled out on our syllabi.
Here’s a picture of my bookshelf at home. Like I said, I love reading.
I still brought my books with me to college every year. Not many—ten my first year, five my second, and fourteen my third. Compared to the hundreds of books that line my shelves at home, this seemed like it would be nothing. But for the first two years, my books sat untouched. I don’t think I so much as picked one up except for when I was packing to go home.
Home was a bit better. I went to the library, said hi to the people who still knew my name and where I was going to college. I checked a book or two out—nothing like my high school battles with the twenty-five-book limit—and returned them half-read, if that.
My brain was tired. The thought of reading made it just want to take a nap. I had trouble focusing on novels and couldn’t find any that struck my fancy. I forgot what it felt like to love reading, and I felt like I’d lost a part of myself in the process.
I had a rough summer this last year, and for a lot more reasons than an inability to find a good book. When I came back to school, I had issues with restlessness, as well as difficulty focusing and making myself care about my schoolwork. Basically, I was—I am—having an existential crisis.
One night, when I’d already watched ten episodes of Friends and stared at the wall for an hour or two, I grabbed a book. I finally picked up one of those books I’d so optimistically brought along with me during these years, and I remembered that I really do love reading.
Now, this moment was about a week ago and I’m only on page 85—an accomplishment that would have taken me under an hour in my reading heyday. But I’m reading again. And I feel good.
Now don’t get me wrong, the existential crisis still looms around me like the smell of rotten eggs, but reading lets me forget about it for a while in a way that TV just couldn’t. I’m not sure where the difference is, exactly. If it’s that I’m holding something physical in my hands, if it’s that I feel more engaged reading a book, as opposed to letting my eyes glaze over as characters on a screen go about their lives.
Whatever the reason, I’m starting to remember how much I love reading and wonder at how much of myself I lost during those years I barely picked up a book.
I’ve decided that I’m simply going to have to make time for reading. Even if that means that I have to watch four episodes of Friends a day instead of my usual six. Even if it means I have to pick up my book right before bed and on lazy Sunday mornings instead of re-checking Facebook and playing mindless phone games.
I need to make sure I keep books a part of my life, and not just my assigned pages in The Digest of Roman Law.
Oh, and in case you were wondering: I’m currently reading The Light Between Oceans.
Image credits: Paige Ballard, Buzzfeed.com