When I was younger, you could find me with my nose in a book more often than not. I was an avid library goer, series collector, and all round lover of books. The idea of being able to transport myself to a world more exciting than mine, filled with me with adventure. Not only was I enthusiastic about reading books, I also had a stab at writing. Of course I was terrible at it, but I didn’t care. I loved creating alternative worlds with the power of my words.
Unfortunately, as I got older and technology advanced, my reading pile dwindled. When it came to choosing how to spend my spare time, reading began to appeal less and less. I’d sit for countless hours on the internet, feeling nostalgic for the days I’d spent curled up with a book, yet regarding the act of picking a book and reading it as “effort”. As a teenager, I rarely read for reasons other than revision. On the odd occasion, I’d dust a book off my shelf, and vow to read more.
Over the years, my preferred genre of books has altered. Whilst I’d thoroughly enjoy delving into the world of the Twilight Saga as a young child; at twenty years old, I’d much rather read a self-help book. I feel like that’s an interesting finding in itself, and I personally view it as a reflection on the direction my life has taken. When I was younger, the hardest decision I would ever have to make was whether to play with my dolls house, or my bratz dolls. As I’ve gotten older, decision making has become more complex, with added responsibilities and expectations. So of course I thrive on the idea of knowing that at least some of my stress/anxiety can be reduced with the words of a self-help book.
The past couple of weeks, I’ve made a conscious effort to actively read more. To force myself out of the habit to reach for my laptop when I get bored. So far, it’s been a success, and I’d like to think it continues!
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