My affinity with literature hasn’t always been the perfect, idealistic running-through-a-field-of-flowers level of affection. It should be pretty straight-forward: either you enjoy reading or you don’t, right? Whilst this is true, my experience has shown me that relationships with books aren’t always black and white.
Despite this, I thought about my own reading journey. It is full of peaks and troughs that I presume most readers encounter. It can be a strange relationship with the written word.
I'm from a fairly literary friendly family. I was always aware of my Mum reading, even when I was a child. Now that she's become all technology friendly, she reads more than ever with her Kindle. My Grandma and Grandad are the same, so I've grown up with them reading books constantly. They'd take me away on holiday in their caravan, and there would always be books to read in the bedroom cupboard.
My sister is constantly reading and has numerous bookcases filled to the brim with the written word. I suspect that she made quite a difference when I was a child. She is seven years older than me, and from being very young I knew that she liked to read. A lot. As I began to become more and more interested in books, I think she saw her opportunity. She encouraged me, and would suggest stories for me to read. We could bounce off each other, debating and examining what we'd both read. We still do this now.
As I got older, I was required to read for school and my academic career. I loved that. My favourite lesson was English, and I would have stayed in there all day if I could. I was always the first to finish a set text, and sometimes the only person to complete the book. You could even say I was annoyingly nerdy.
I left University and didn't pick up a book for approximately two years. Two years sounds like such a long time, especially for an avid reader since childhood. I couldn't physically bring myself to open up a book and start reading. I'd lost the enjoyment and the sense of satisfaction. It felt like a chore.
Now, I think it's safe to say that I have my reading mojo back. I started off pretty tentatively, setting myself small and easily attainable targets. I’m back into a routine and I want to read, explore and envisage. Within the confines of a book, imagination has no boundaries. I'm back on the crest of a reading wave.
There are so many books that I want to experience. I feel a sense of...excitement. Anticipation. The good thing about my long break is that it made me realise just what literature does for me. During my divorce from the written word, I'd allowed the analytical aspect of my brain to lie dormant. I'd forgotten how to give opinions on anything. I had not suitably taxed my imagination or allowed my creativity to thrive. I had lost the desire to inhabit an author's world, and develop relationships with their characters. Essentially, I had forgotten just how much reading can provide. It may sound a little cheesy and over-dramatic, but I guess you don't realise it until it's gone.
Despite my obvious affection and re-energized outlook on literature, I'm not expecting this to last. I know that life will intervene and there will be periods of time where I just don’t feel the need to read. I have gone two weeks or more without reading, and that’s OK. Not as bad as my two year hiatus, but there have been definite breaks. I guess I've realised that it won’t always be a straight-forward relationship.
That’s the great thing about books. They’ll always be there when you get out of a slump.
What's yours been like and how has it affected you? Comment below or come let us know on our Facebook page or on Twitter!