Thank you, God, for giving me back my love of reading.
I learned how to read at the age of 4 through a combination of my parents' instruction and teaching myself, and my world changed drastically as a result. From then on, it was a rare occasion to see me without either book in hand or nose in book.
I absolutely adore literature of any sort. Reading it, writing it, appreciating it. From the broad themes of novels right down to the very sentence structure, down to each individual word... I savor it all. Books have always held a special place in my heart. They're a passion of mine.
I used to go through books like oxygen. Give me a stack of decent-sized novels and I'd have devoured them after a week. My ability to read so quickly, while still enjoying what I read, was something I cherished. Naturally. I lived for books; why wouldn't I appreciate a trait that allowed me to experience them as quickly as possible?
Somewhere over the past couple of years, however, I seem to have lost my ability to truly get sucked into a book. I didn't stop reading; I still read about two novels a month, but my "fun reading" time was limited- ten minutes here, fifteen minutes before bed, a couple pages while waiting for a class to start.
College has kept me busier than ever. It's as if there's been a constant buzzing in the back of my mind, taking the shape of a tedious homework assignment or an upcoming exam or a financial worry, that interfered with my ability to completely lose myself in a novel.
I lost touch what it means to genuinely dive into a book and read with vigor and energy and fervor.
All of those feelings came back to me this weekend... I don't know what got into me, but it resulted in me banishing my backpack into the dark shadows of my closet for an entire two and a half days. After a long week full of studying and assignments and an ungodly amount of exams, I refused to thing about anything school-related.
For the first time in WAY too long, I yearned to read. Just read. Not to read to pass the time until the professor arrived; not to read as a way of lulling myself to sleep at 2am; not to read on commercial breaks between Glee or Pretty Little Liars. I just wanted to curl up with my pink Snuggie and a glass of ice water and think about nothing but the clever, heartfelt words dancing across those pages. That's it.
This weekend, I was finally able to finish two books I had started over the past month or two- Water for Elephants and More than a Carpenter. I also started a third book yesterday, Ape House, and was not able to even THINK about sleeping last night until I had read every last page. All of the books I read this weekend were wonderful, but Ape House especially captured my heart. (Translation: Go read it. Now.)
Getting the opportunity to spend such a large portion of my weekend lost in a book was so refreshing. So comforting. To me, reading is home. I was totally in my element. I had been starting to think that all hope was lost when it came to my ability to revert back to my bookworm ways, but God chose this weekend to prove me wrong.
Writing this made me think of a #hashtag that was floating around Twitter early last December- #whyIread. I feel like my response to that particular prompt serves as the perfect conclusion for this post-
I used to go through books like oxygen. Give me a stack of decent-sized novels and I'd have devoured them after a week. My ability to read so quickly, while still enjoying what I read, was something I cherished. Naturally. I lived for books; why wouldn't I appreciate a trait that allowed me to experience them as quickly as possible?
Somewhere over the past couple of years, however, I seem to have lost my ability to truly get sucked into a book. I didn't stop reading; I still read about two novels a month, but my "fun reading" time was limited- ten minutes here, fifteen minutes before bed, a couple pages while waiting for a class to start.
College has kept me busier than ever. It's as if there's been a constant buzzing in the back of my mind, taking the shape of a tedious homework assignment or an upcoming exam or a financial worry, that interfered with my ability to completely lose myself in a novel.
I lost touch what it means to genuinely dive into a book and read with vigor and energy and fervor.
All of those feelings came back to me this weekend... I don't know what got into me, but it resulted in me banishing my backpack into the dark shadows of my closet for an entire two and a half days. After a long week full of studying and assignments and an ungodly amount of exams, I refused to thing about anything school-related.
For the first time in WAY too long, I yearned to read. Just read. Not to read to pass the time until the professor arrived; not to read as a way of lulling myself to sleep at 2am; not to read on commercial breaks between Glee or Pretty Little Liars. I just wanted to curl up with my pink Snuggie and a glass of ice water and think about nothing but the clever, heartfelt words dancing across those pages. That's it.
This weekend, I was finally able to finish two books I had started over the past month or two- Water for Elephants and More than a Carpenter. I also started a third book yesterday, Ape House, and was not able to even THINK about sleeping last night until I had read every last page. All of the books I read this weekend were wonderful, but Ape House especially captured my heart. (Translation: Go read it. Now.)
Getting the opportunity to spend such a large portion of my weekend lost in a book was so refreshing. So comforting. To me, reading is home. I was totally in my element. I had been starting to think that all hope was lost when it came to my ability to revert back to my bookworm ways, but God chose this weekend to prove me wrong.
Writing this made me think of a #hashtag that was floating around Twitter early last December- #whyIread. I feel like my response to that particular prompt serves as the perfect conclusion for this post-
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