The end of the month is wrap-up season in the bookish world, when bookworms take stock of their progress over the past few weeks. January perhaps encourages this more than other months, with new year zeal powering readers through more than their usual number of titles.
It's fun to see what people have been drawn to read in any given month, and to see their reviews and proud book stacks, or even lists - some seriously ravenous folks regularly devour more books in one month than I can realistically read in six. It's impressive, but my usual monthly target is more modest, perhaps around four or five books.
This January, however, was unusual. How many books did I read?
One.
Just one single, solitary book in an entire month.
There are some on #bookstagram who would gasp to learn this, no doubt, not least of all because I'm a bookseller. My access to books is unparalleled. Not only that, but I have been on sabbatical for three months, able to organise my own time without work getting in the way. So why wasn't I able to read more?
Since I paused working in November, I've often found myself thinking I ought to be reading more frequently. I've certainly been busy, but in charge of my own schedule, and I felt a rising sense of guilt at not factoring in more reading time.
Eventually, I realised that this feeling of guilt was the very reason I couldn't bring myself to sit down and read.
Through four years of university, I read the set texts and literary criticism. As a bookseller, I've read the books of the month and exciting new releases. As a bookstagrammer, I'm constantly surrounded with recommendations ranging from tantalising advance reading copies to classics I feel stupid for leaving unread. And most recently, applying for PhD courses, I've been back at the literary criticism with a vengeance.
Of course I felt pressured to spend my precious, free, unstructured time with my head in a book! And that pressure was turning my favourite hobby into an obligation, one with a never-ending list of required reading.
This is why I decided not to make any concrete reading goals for 2020. In fact, I haven't made any resolutions at all, but that's another story.
I'm always to keep track of the diversity of my reading material, but other than that I haven't made targets or lists, because my only goal is to rediscover the joy of reading for pleasure. To reach for the book I'm most drawn to on the shelf, regardless of whether it's a new release, a classic, or something I feel I should enjoy.
And perhaps even more importantly, to read at my own pace. I won't force myself to read every day if I'm not in the mood, or keep myself awake to finish a chapter if I need to get some sleep (controversial, I know). I'll only pick up my book when the moment feels right, when I can't wait to dive back into its story.
This month, the only book I read start-to-finish was The Mercies by Karen Millwood-Hargrave, and it was utterly wonderful. Reading it deliberately, slowly, actually worked really well with the novel's slow build of a community towards hysteria and disaster. And instead of immediately plucking a replacement from the shelves for my next read, I'm letting that one percolate, until something else springs to mind.
Maybe one day I'll be able to read stacks of books with this level of intention and mindfulness, but until then I'm very happy with my single-title list.
Kommentare