As much as I love writing, I have hated reading for as long as I can remember. Ever since elementary school, my parents and teachers have always told me to find a book to read in my spare time. I would browse the school library shelves, scanning for anything to call out to me. I’ll admit I judged many books by their covers, but I doubt the inside would have changed my mind. Reading was a chore. I only grabbed a book because I had to, and let it sit in my room until it was time to return it. I remember seeing my classmates obsess over Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, Divergent, and all the other popular books in that era. I’d watch them happily tote around those massive books and read them every chance they got. I couldn’t relate nor understand it. What do you mean you read for fun?
As I reached middle school, I faced my worst enemy. Reading logs. Not only did I have to read, but I had to sit and do it 30 minutes a day??? Absolute torture for 12-year-old me. I could have lied, but my mom would most definitely have asked me to discuss what I had “read”. I considered logging the stories I read on online forums, but I was unsure if my teacher would even accept it. I had no choice but to get actual reading time in. In the midst of the torturous reading, I decided to give writing my own story a try. I found myself easily filling several pages in a notebook with my wondrous ideas. At least as wondrous as they could be for a 12-year-old. If I had to write for at least 30 minutes a day, I would have been in Heaven. I shared the stories with my friends, then my parents, then my teachers. I was so proud of my work that I was willing to show it to anyone who had eyes. I was met with praise and encouragement, lighting an eternal flame in me. I developed my protagonist and molded a world that was more suitable for the story I wanted to tell. Storytelling not only became a favorite pastime but a passion.
My passion surprisingly led me to enjoy a book for the first time. Kerstin Gier’s Ruby Red. A book cover and title that piqued my interest, a description that sold me on what the inside had to offer. For once, reading didn’t feel so much like a boring requirement. I was immersed in the world and the characters, and was truly interested in what happened next. I finally understood my classmates who read in their free time, though I’ll never understand carrying around dictionary-sized books. I burned through the first two books as I always found time to continue the story. Imagine my disappointment when I learned my school did not carry the final book of the trilogy. That disappointment solidified my drive to write. If I couldn’t find any more interesting stories to read, I’d make them myself.
As an adult, reading is no longer a chore. It has become a relaxing leisure activity when I am given the chance. Immersing myself in worlds other than my own gives me a glimpse into the minds of fellow writers. I get a chance to explore their mind for a while and appreciate their creative visions that inspire me to develop mine. Though most times it’s just easier to say I don’t read, I write.