Forgot to Read
I’m ashamed. What kind of sorry excuse of a writer am I? I’ve let my busy life interfere with my reading. I read, of course, but not for pleasure. I used to read all the time. When I was in elementary school, I would read biographies on the presidents and other notable people—Helen Keller was my favorite. For some reason I liked learning about other people. In middle school and high school, I would read thrillers (mostly the Alex Cross series).
Then I got to college and just, stopped. I read the books I was assigned, but I stopped reading for me. I didn’t pick up a book of my choosing until way after graduating. I had nothing else to do while waiting for my train home each night, so I would spend an hour in Borders and read for free. It was a nice and cozy feeling, being able to spend time in someone else’s life. Holding a book and turning the pages just felt right.
On my Goodreads account (leave me book suggestions in the comments!), I have a list of books I want to read, but I haven’t used it in a year. So, I’ve decided to finally use my account and get a book from my list. I will dedicate an hour a day to reading. Everyone—whether you’re a writer, a mechanic, an architect, or a prostitute—should read. Maybe reading is what I have been missing in all of these years. This may be the reason for my lack of inspiration, words, and imagination.