I’ve heard many people talking about the deep joy they felt when reading as children. Slow summer afternoons stretching into blue twilight, finding a warm spot to delve into worlds in ink and paper. But, as they grew up and life got in the way – as it inevitably does for most of us – they found themselves too preoccupied with the trappings of a packed schedule to find any joy in reading. With the recent emergence of bookstagram and the adult fantasy genre, many are finding their way back to reading for pleasure without the shamefulness of reading something that might not be considered ‘high art’.
I was one such avid reader as a child, picking up tome after tome on anything and everything I found exciting. I’ve read the Silver Brumby more times than I can count, and this was the book that truly started my obsession with storytelling. I wonder if the reason that books, stories and the art of the narrative word gripped me so tightly because of the things I was reading, or if it was in some way tied to the way in which life felt at the time as though it was one long summer’s day, lazing by at a loping pace, with endless possibilities stretching out before me.
When I was in my pre-teens, my parents bought me an old typewriter, upon which I forged many an hour of boredom-defying short stories, sometimes just copying words and sentences from books that I liked to read until they were battered, dog-eared and stained, sometimes coming up with worlds inside worlds, all on standard printer paper.
I felt a lack of inhibitions, and liberally read out what I’d come up with to my parents.
Life was, as it always is in youth, simple.
A part of my tentative resolutions for this new year, I vowed to myself that I would read more. I don’t doubt that it’s a resolution which features somewhere on the lists of many, but I have no real goals with it. If I read two books this year, then so much the better, because in a way I feel as though I am spending time with the little girl typing away at her secondhand typewriter, and dreaming of words and words and words. It’s an exercise in reconnecting with a deep and lifelong love, and I have imposed on myself only a few golden rules to guide me on my way back to reading for pleasure.
One; trusting my instincts when it comes to what I want to read. As an adult, I sometimes feel as though I should really be picking up some lofty classic to immerse myself in. Something intelligent and thought-provoking, something with a deeper meaning beyond the words in ink. But the joy of childhood reading was about finding something that I knew on instinct would make me happy; stories about horses, fairies, girls my age stepping into the world and exploring new-found freedoms. I am doing my best to consume art that makes me unapologetically happy.
Two; it’s okay to say ‘it’s not for me’. Perhaps this leads on from the idea of instinctive reading, but veers off into the marriage of childlike intuition, and the ability to assess what is worth my time. If a book isn’t appealing to me for whatever reason, I will give myself permission to set it aside. I’ve always thought that some books are the right book, but I’ve picked them up at the wrong time. Similarly to how some people have ‘holiday reads’, I think we all have pieces of literature that find us at a time where we’re not ready to relax and enjoy them for what they are. When I was ten, my mum noticed my growing love of reading, and gave me ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’. It’s quite a heavy read for someone at that age, the complexities most likely missed by a mind too caught up in the here and now, and not the struggles of others. I read it, but I didn’t take it in. Upon revisiting it years later, I got more from it than I had imagined I would the first time, and possibly upon a third reread, I will gather more of the subtleties of the writing as my mind, situation, and personality changes with time.
Three; there is no such thing as age appropriate reading (as an adult). I recently repurchased a series of three visual novels which I loved as a little girl, but gave away when I felt they were no longer grown-up enough for me. Rediscovering the imagery, the story, and the characters in all their silly simplicity is so joyful. I could be reading Salinger of course, and I do, but there are some days where only a comfort read will do.
Four; rereading is essential. I believe that picking up and putting down old favourites is an instrumental palette cleanser on my reading journey. Like putting on your favourite, ratty old jumper, it’s a comfort to lazily reread the things that make me happy.
Reading for pleasure, no matter the material, time or place, feels like a small rebellion against the constraints of adulthood. Whether it’s reading the classics, visual novels, listening to audiobooks of a series I feel I might not have time for beyond the spoken word, slipping into the worlds between the pages is a triumphant return to my childhood love of exploring, learning, and growing.