Reading has always been something that I love, and I truly believe that the stories I have consumed throughout my life have helped to shape who I am. My room is cluttered with books; I have hardcovers and paperbacks spilling from shelves and stacks upon stacks of novels strewn across my floor. I have journals dedicated to handwritten book reviews dating all the way back to middle school. For as long as I can remember, I have been labeled a ‘bookworm’ or a ‘reader,’ and frankly, I don’t mind. With every new story I consumed, I fell in love with the words, the characters and the plot. Reading was a way for me to escape anything that may have been preoccupying my thoughts at the time and relax. Whether I had five minutes of free time or three hours, I would have a book at the ready, trying to soak up as much as I could in the time I had allotted.
In fifth grade, I read the “Red Queen” series by Victoria Aveyard. The books were thick and somewhat hefty to lug around, but nevertheless, everywhere I went, I brought one with me. My mom brought me to brunch with one of her work friends one Saturday morning, and before sitting down, I dropped my novel onto the table. At the time, I was reading “War Storm,” the fourth book in the series. The jacket of the book was a silvery blue color that gleamed in the sun, and the cover art featured a textured crown right in the center of the page. The book was almost 700 pages long and made a subtle thud as it hit the table. I can recall the shocked look on my mom’s friend’s face as she praised me for being such a “studious girl” and began to pepper me with questions about other books I had read. At the young age of 11, this praise felt monumental. I knew that this was how I wanted people to see me throughout my life. I liked feeling like I was doing something incredible by simply partaking in my favorite hobby. Since that moment, I adopted reading into my personality. In any ice breaker, my fun fact was always that “I read 51 books in 2020.” As strange as it sounds, regardless of what happened in my life, I always felt somewhat accomplished as long as I had a book to read.
Throughout middle school, I was consistently reading 40 plus books per year, but as soon as freshman year began, that number dropped to 33. Then to 26 sophomore year. Now, I am in the thick of my junior year, and with 2024 coming to a close, I have only read a measly nine books. My Goodreads likes to tell me that I am “19 books behind schedule” each time I open the app, diminishing any feelings of success I previously possessed. It was not until a few days ago that I realized that with the amount of work I have been exerting into my studies in high school, I have unknowingly sacrificed something that I love so dearly.
Without one of the things that I was known for by friends and family, I have begun to feel a bit lost as to what identifies me now. I wonder if I can ever claim to enjoy literature if I dont excel like I used to. I struggle with the idea that something which defined me for so long is now something that I am grasping at blindly. This realization has prompted me to wonder: does reading fewer books make me any less of a reader? Does the quantity of novels I consume truly represent the quality of my enjoyment? Does spending less time doing something you love diminish its value in your life or in the eyes of others
Unfortunately, I do not have solid answers to these questions—if I did, I would be writing self-help books, not a column in Lake Views—but I do have some insight to share. My example of reading was a generalization of many things one could slowly lose connection with in their lifetime. This could apply to old friendships, relationships, grades or even other hobbies or interests that have simply faded with time. While it might be difficult to conceptualize this, the rate at which you enjoy something does not detract from the amount of joy that it brings you. Reading less does not make me a fraud the same way that listening to music that you don’t know all of the words to doesn’t make you a fake fan. We all need to realize that life is complicated and busy and occasionally, we will lose touch with things that bring us joy. This does not mean that we cannot consider these things to be a defining factor in our lives. I think it is really important to understand that as we grow and mature, so do our interests. It is unfair to judge yourself, or others for that matter, based on the level of passions or talents they possess because people are constantly changing. It is up to us to choose what defines us as our lives go on, and to create our own identities and realize that change in this aspect is not a bad thing, but rather an opportunity to grow and learn more about yourself.
As I type this, I can see the slightly warped pages of my tenth book peeking out from my backpack from the corner of my eye. The pages are peering at me intently. It takes everything in me not to pluck it straight from the pocket in which it resides and lose myself in a world of fiction. But I simply cannot. My to-do list is growing with each word I type and I fear that I will not have time to read before bed tonight. I know I am not going to reach my Goodreads goal of 25 books this year. And despite all of this, I am feeling okay. I love to read and I have decided that regardless of whether I read ten or 100 books this year, I am still just as much of a bookworm as I was in fifth grade.
