I hadn’t read a book in three years. For pleasure, that is. See, I’m an English writing major, so all I do is read. Don’t get me wrong, the readings are wonderful. I’ve had the chance to read Chekhov and Dostoevsky, Kincaid and Baldwin, Oats and Kafka; so many incredible works I’m glad I’ve read so early in my life. However, I hadn’t used any of my free time to engage with what I now considered, school work. When reading creative, ingenious pieces began to take over almost all of my waking moments, I lost my hobby.
That loss sat on my mind like deadweight. There was this shame and discomfort that had been brought upon me. At the age of sixteen, I formed an entire identity around my love for books. I would show up early to sports practices and plop myself down on the sidelines with an 800 page fantasy novel. I was in multiple English classes my senior year of high school because my high school English department made an exception for me. I won awards because of how much I read. I worked in the local bookstore in my hometown. Every spare moment of time I had, my nose was buried in a book. Being a reader is who I am. It is a fundamental part of my very existence.
Coming to college, my love shifted slightly. My eyes shifted away from reading and began to focus more so on writing. I want to put into words the stories trapped in my head like so many other authors I admire. The books I had once engaged with for pleasure became my study material. I dissected the literature and picked apart the aspects I deemed good, and trained my attention even more so on the parts I thought weren’t. It got to a point where I couldn’t turn off this lens. I have tried to sit down and read a book over the past three years, in fact I have a stack of about fifty books I have only read the first thirty pages of. Starting was the easy part; I’d pick up a book, read the first few chapters, determine what I liked and disliked about the writing style, and close the book, never to be opened again. Now, this isn’t an effective way to glean the insights and true styles of the authors, but it was the best I could bring myself to do. I had lost my enthusiasm to consume.
That was until the first week of January this year. My New Year's resolution was set– to read one book a month– the same as every other year, despite my telling myself I had already failed before the clock struck midnight. Then, it was like I had stumbled into a dream.
Most of my weekends at college are spent visiting a thrift store with my friends. I usually dart through the aisles, quickly glancing at the pieces laid out before me, only stopping my walking pace if I see something that truly catches my eye. But I always end my exploration in the book section. This is something I have been doing since I first got to college. I do not think I have ever bought a book from the thrift store – the majority of books on the shelves are not really my style, more so novels I think my father would enjoy.
But, for the first time, the book aisle had me frozen in my tracks. The thick orange spine of the complete The Chronicles of Narnia stared back at me. A series of books I had once loved as a child that I had not thought about in well over a decade. It was as if the Universe heard my resolution and planted the seeds to succeed right in front of me. I reached for the intimidating 700 page book – not as intimidating on closer examination, “The Chronicles of Narnia” is composed of seven individual books – and instantly felt my mind find equilibrium. When I got home, I started reading immediately and this time when I closed the book, I was excited to pick it back up again. As I write, I have already finished the first book in the collection, The Magician’s Nephew, and am half way through the second, The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. I have been sucking the words straight off the paper and I have enjoyed every second of it. My mind has found no critiques for Mr. Lewis, instead I
have found only bliss in my reading endeavour. While on this kick, I also picked up a copy of The Secret Garden, another beloved book from my past.
That’s when it hit me. This was my solution. The thing that had finally worked to get me out of my slump: Childhood literature. Books I had read in a different life, ones that revitalised a child-like wonder I had been lacking since “growing-up” and starting college. These books I cherished for so long now took on new shapes as I dived back into them. The fantasy and mysticism I loved in Narnia now makes me giggle as I find the clear metaphors to Christianity in Aslan. The Secret Garden brings tears to my eyes as I find a new sense of empathy for the young narrator I had once deemed annoying. And, as I fall down this rabbit hole, soon I will be joining Alice (who is next on my developing “To Read” list), I have realised how important it is to maintain my love. For a second there, I almost forgot why I chose to be an English major. I am pursuing this passion because of how incredible it is to be forcefully pulled into the author’s world. Because of the magic and wonder one can create with the written sequence of words. It is something I hope I never lose sight of again. All thanks to the first New Year’s resolution I actually stuck to.
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