I never understood how people could claim to not like reading. I understood not being interested in certain topics, but having no interest in reading or even disliking the idea of reading had always puzzled me.
I did (and still do) understand that being forced to read certain things in school can put a damper on a person’s desire to pick up a book, though. However, I always believed that all people need to do is just open the right books. The books that suck them in, that cause them to lose track of time, to get them lost in alternate realities.
For the longest time, I lived to breathe in the scent of freshly printed pages and even pages neglected, sitting shoved on dusty school library bookshelves. From elementary school to years after I graduated from college, reading was a source of pleasure and a sort of escape for me.
This year, however, something changed.
The first half of the year continued to bring that joy of escaping reality through pages put together by amazingly talented writers. However, the second half became particularly difficult for me to handle and then suddenly all interest in opening any book was lost. My mind wanted to make itself want to read, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Part of me felt guilty because I had other priorities, and another part of me didn’t even want to look at a book. It was an incredibly new and painful struggle.
I’ve been trying to push through The Silkworm by Robert Galbraith since July. It’s not that the book is bad, because it’s not. I will admit I’ve read better ones, but my mind has been struggling with the ability to focus on anything for an extended period of time over the last six months.
Though the desire to read is slowly seeping back into my veins, I feel as if the excitement I should have for reading will never again be as strong as it once was. Here’s to hoping I’m wrong.
Has this or something similar ever happened to you? How did you get back into the swing of things?