In the middle of summer this year, I decided to severely cut back on content and re-introduce, as one would walking to someone with a broken leg, the pleasure of long hours of focussed reading into my life. Perhaps re-introduce is not fully accurate. I’ve never been too far from a good book in any of my adult, working years. But as time as passed, in a turn of events that my eight-year old self, freshly bespectacled — part genetics and part voracious reading — would find utterly shocking, reading began to feel like a chore. Much like exercise, whose joys and benefits remained universally known, but which remained severely under-practised in days that were too long, too harried, too otherwise demanding. It became a tired strain, a yearning, a constant moaning; almost nostalgic in its nature — as if the slipping away of the reading habit was a natural consequence of the times I inhabited.
And well, maybe it was. Or not, I don’t know. I have, to my chagrin and relentless self-reproach, tended to believe that another person in my place would juggle the competing demands on their time better; and there always seemed to be examples at hand: colleagues single-mindedly pursuing a hobby or rising early for the gym; or friends who inhaled books to clock over 20 a year. While not appearing to sacrifice the more mundane enjoyments of nights out, vacations or content.
But to me, it always seemed like a zero-sum game which I was constantly losing. Again, I never gave it up, and to anyone who asked, I still read enough to make a good recommendation. But the internal wiring, it seemed, was on an ineluctable path to change. The tired eyes and wandering brain demanded forgiveness as a matter of right, and I could not help but sympathize.
This all sounds very dramatic — which, I assure you, these feelings were at various points as I felt that something so basic to my sense of self was fading without me even putting up much of a fight — a simple summary would be that I felt I was always in a reading slump even as I read fairly often.
And so we are back to the beginning of this summer, when I was determined to break out of the reading slump for good. Since I was never in want of good books — in my possession, or as recommendations — I reasoned that momentum was the key. And so I cast aside another nagging set of worries about my adult reading habit (here they are, for completeness: Am I reading too fast? How much do I absorb when I read? Why do I no longer feel I can hold forth on a subject I’ve just finished a book about? Why is my vocabulary not expanding that much any longer? Do I just not think enough about a book during and after a read?) and decided that the only way to do this was a Blitz.
And even if I do say so myself, what a Blitz it’s been — roughly a book a week for five weeks beginning mid-June. They are, in order (each row L-R):
I hope to, in due course, write independent pieces on some of these (for Heart Lamp, a great place to start is my friend Ranjini’s lovely piece, A Critical Insider on her tryst with the author and translator themselves). But here are some things I have to say about the Blitz itself, in case anyone’s curious:
Momentum is indeed the key. Tear through the volumes without a second thought. Marvel in the moment and move on. Sav(ed/ing) the more difficult reads for later.
Long hours of pleasure reading are a thing of the past, and of a future which is not in the offing by any measure. So yes, elbow that nosy uncle out of the way on the metro without regret. Make the space and time even in unsavoury surroundings.
Coax yourself, if you can, into reading even at the end of a long day. The reward is simply too high.
Though there is endless romance in the scent and flutter and feel of a physical book, the Kindle has helped immensely with observation #1 above, i.e., momentum.
The end goal, as I remarked to my partner one day, is for reading to revert to something so habitual and ordinary, that I risk reading even books that don’t come highly recommended — books that ultimately weren’t worth the effort. Because, didn’t we just read bad books all the time growing up? And don’t we constantly do it with content (perhaps you don’t, in which case I congratulate you, but I certainly have over the years)?
I’m also pleased to report that as for vocabulary, apart from fiddling around with a few NYT games (jury’s still out on its effects other than low-key exasperation at my own idiocy), I’ve found that constantly updating a Google Keep list for every pesky new word encountered while reading — it would be lovely, of course, if the phone was out of reach with a book at hand, but since that is not possible, may as well put it to good use — works rather well. I was even able to work one of them into this very piece.
If you read this and want to get out of a slump, my recommendations are above; start with The Appeal. And please, in our common interest, if you can, fire away yours in the comments (pacy reads only for the moment)!
P.S. — it was ineluctable.
There are many a writers, Abhinav your expression is exceptional. Keep working harder to provide delectable reads to us!