The need for a read*
I used to think my reading habits were odd. They result in having several books near my bed in various states of readness (no, it's not a spelling mistake – yes, I did just make it up) with bookmarks and sticky notes poking out. How this looks is messy, of course.
I have a small bookshelf that I built myself to fit neatly into the corner next to my bed. And on that shelf are up to 30 books. Many of them have bookmarks in and I've been reading them for years. Some of the books are so serious, such as miserable histories (most history seems to involve one powerful group exploiting or destroying a weaker one in some horrible way, which to me makes for a miserable, but worthy read), books on poor health and how to avoid it, sad poems, and more of that ilk that I can't handle reading straight through. Others are books of short stories, or essays, some are foreign language books to help my studies and others are novels. The novels are usually unread and waiting in line for my full attention. If I can't get into a novel, it doesn't stay on the shelf for long, so only unread and my latest read remain close to me.
In fact, the shelf is regularly updated. One evening I might be in the mood for reading something I've spotted on one of my larger bookshelves, which mostly, but not exclusively, house the already read books, and so I pick it up and stick it on the bedside shelf. Shamefully, it may just sit there for months before I finally read it, or simply put it back on the original shelf unread, or un-reread.
Although I read during the day, when I have a chance, most of my substantial book-reading takes place at night. So, when I go to bed at night, I pick up a book from my bedside shelf that suits my mood, and energy, and read. I might read a chapter, or I might just get so absorbed that I keep reading until I'm too sleepy to continue. Or, I might just read a few pages and then decide to read something else. In this way, I have several books on the go at once and gradually finish them, while constantly replenishing the pack. There are always books on the go.
Until recently I thought all this was very scrappy: the slapdash style of a weak mind. When I was an early-teen, I was a non-reader. My sister and my dad were prolific readers but I was more of a film buff. I definitely wasn't one of those genius kids who's read the whole English literary 'canon' by the age of 12. No, I had to discipline myself to become a reader because I thought it was good for me, like exercise and green veggies. I made lists of books I read and set myself a reading challenge: 'How many books can I read in a month?' (Answer: about one, in my first year).
In time, reading became habitual and I felt l'd let myself down if I hadn't read at least a few pages on any given day. However, in those early reading days, I would read one book at a time, from beginning to end and making sure every word was given the respect it deserved and was fully absorbed. Inevitably this is one of the reasons I was so slow.
Now I have reading strategies. I read in different ways for different texts, in different contexts and with different aims. I still give novels my full attention, but if after a chapter or so I find I'm really not enjoying it, or I can't see any personal cultural, intellectual or spiritual enrichment, it gets relegated back to the outer shelves and eventually ends up in the donation pile.
Academic books get read the academic way – introductions and conclusions first then the meat in between if I need to know more. My longer books on subjects such as history, art, or maps (I have a thing for maps) get read a chapter at a time, and then I might take a break for a few weeks, or months and read other things in between. I go back when I'm in the mood and do, eventually, finish these books too.
I also read magazines – anything that piques my interest when browsing the shelves of a good bookshop. And I love a well-edited literary journal or book of poetry to show me what possibilities the English language has when at the fingertips of the truly talented writer (and publisher).
I even have a number of science and philosophy books mid-reading that I delude myself into believing may one day provide me with understanding about the mysteries of life and of being a human. They may provide a greater brain with such enlightenment, but mine regrettably remains stubbornly shuttered to such wisdom.
So, my reading is erratic and unfocused, perhaps. More positively spun, it could be called eclectic and broadening. However, I now realise I am not alone in this scatty way of enjoying the written language. A recent chat before classes with my fellow teachers at the college where I work part-time, threw up two fellow travellers in this simultaneous reading universe. Each of them had several books on the go at any one time, both read according to their particular mood that day, or night, and one of them even had a pile next to his bed.
We all agreed that reading was important. Ignorance is nothing to be proud of, after all, and reading is one of the best ways to lift yourself out of the foggy world of hearsay internet nonsense and 'bloke down pub told me' kind of generalisations. Reading improves your knowledge; it elevates your language skills; it provides valuable private time for reflection; and it's just plain escapist fun when you pick up a great work of fiction.
My colleagues and I do not all read the same things. In fact, one of them does not even read fiction, which seems a shame to me, while the other mostly reads fiction, which feels a bit too narrow to me. We have our individual ways, and we are in charge of our own reading habits. We decide what we read, when we read it and where we read it. But, most significantly, we never let a day go by without actually doing it.
And right now, it has become that time when I really need to go and do it – to get lost in a book. It's late, and if I don't stop writing now, there won't be enough time to finish off that Ursula K. Le Guin short story I'm in the middle of. So, night night and go and enjoy your own reading.
I have a small bookshelf that I built myself to fit neatly into the corner next to my bed. And on that shelf are up to 30 books. Many of them have bookmarks in and I've been reading them for years. Some of the books are so serious, such as miserable histories (most history seems to involve one powerful group exploiting or destroying a weaker one in some horrible way, which to me makes for a miserable, but worthy read), books on poor health and how to avoid it, sad poems, and more of that ilk that I can't handle reading straight through. Others are books of short stories, or essays, some are foreign language books to help my studies and others are novels. The novels are usually unread and waiting in line for my full attention. If I can't get into a novel, it doesn't stay on the shelf for long, so only unread and my latest read remain close to me.
In fact, the shelf is regularly updated. One evening I might be in the mood for reading something I've spotted on one of my larger bookshelves, which mostly, but not exclusively, house the already read books, and so I pick it up and stick it on the bedside shelf. Shamefully, it may just sit there for months before I finally read it, or simply put it back on the original shelf unread, or un-reread.
Although I read during the day, when I have a chance, most of my substantial book-reading takes place at night. So, when I go to bed at night, I pick up a book from my bedside shelf that suits my mood, and energy, and read. I might read a chapter, or I might just get so absorbed that I keep reading until I'm too sleepy to continue. Or, I might just read a few pages and then decide to read something else. In this way, I have several books on the go at once and gradually finish them, while constantly replenishing the pack. There are always books on the go.
Until recently I thought all this was very scrappy: the slapdash style of a weak mind. When I was an early-teen, I was a non-reader. My sister and my dad were prolific readers but I was more of a film buff. I definitely wasn't one of those genius kids who's read the whole English literary 'canon' by the age of 12. No, I had to discipline myself to become a reader because I thought it was good for me, like exercise and green veggies. I made lists of books I read and set myself a reading challenge: 'How many books can I read in a month?' (Answer: about one, in my first year).
In time, reading became habitual and I felt l'd let myself down if I hadn't read at least a few pages on any given day. However, in those early reading days, I would read one book at a time, from beginning to end and making sure every word was given the respect it deserved and was fully absorbed. Inevitably this is one of the reasons I was so slow.
Now I have reading strategies. I read in different ways for different texts, in different contexts and with different aims. I still give novels my full attention, but if after a chapter or so I find I'm really not enjoying it, or I can't see any personal cultural, intellectual or spiritual enrichment, it gets relegated back to the outer shelves and eventually ends up in the donation pile.
Academic books get read the academic way – introductions and conclusions first then the meat in between if I need to know more. My longer books on subjects such as history, art, or maps (I have a thing for maps) get read a chapter at a time, and then I might take a break for a few weeks, or months and read other things in between. I go back when I'm in the mood and do, eventually, finish these books too.
I also read magazines – anything that piques my interest when browsing the shelves of a good bookshop. And I love a well-edited literary journal or book of poetry to show me what possibilities the English language has when at the fingertips of the truly talented writer (and publisher).
I even have a number of science and philosophy books mid-reading that I delude myself into believing may one day provide me with understanding about the mysteries of life and of being a human. They may provide a greater brain with such enlightenment, but mine regrettably remains stubbornly shuttered to such wisdom.
So, my reading is erratic and unfocused, perhaps. More positively spun, it could be called eclectic and broadening. However, I now realise I am not alone in this scatty way of enjoying the written language. A recent chat before classes with my fellow teachers at the college where I work part-time, threw up two fellow travellers in this simultaneous reading universe. Each of them had several books on the go at any one time, both read according to their particular mood that day, or night, and one of them even had a pile next to his bed.
We all agreed that reading was important. Ignorance is nothing to be proud of, after all, and reading is one of the best ways to lift yourself out of the foggy world of hearsay internet nonsense and 'bloke down pub told me' kind of generalisations. Reading improves your knowledge; it elevates your language skills; it provides valuable private time for reflection; and it's just plain escapist fun when you pick up a great work of fiction.
My colleagues and I do not all read the same things. In fact, one of them does not even read fiction, which seems a shame to me, while the other mostly reads fiction, which feels a bit too narrow to me. We have our individual ways, and we are in charge of our own reading habits. We decide what we read, when we read it and where we read it. But, most significantly, we never let a day go by without actually doing it.
And right now, it has become that time when I really need to go and do it – to get lost in a book. It's late, and if I don't stop writing now, there won't be enough time to finish off that Ursula K. Le Guin short story I'm in the middle of. So, night night and go and enjoy your own reading.
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