When I was in third grade, my school had a reading challenge. Each student was meant to read somewhere around fifty books throughout the school year.
Seems pretty straightforward, right?
Well, third-grade me decided this was her chance to rebel, and she decided she was not going to read the fifty books. There were more important things to attend to, anyway, like creating a leaf-based economy and deciding if I wanted cheese or pepperoni pizza for lunch. At the time, I didn’t think the reading goal would be a big deal.
Then came the awards assembly. I was, quite literally, the only kid who didn’t achieve the goal of fifty books. I have no idea what happened, but I was the only one left in the third grade seating section while other students got certificates. Props to the bookworms that year–I wasn’t angry at the ones who completed the challenge so much as I was upset at myself for not trying!
Needless to say, maybe reading and I got off on the wrong foot, but that changed pretty quickly. With the emphasis my elementary school put on language arts, I didn’t have much of a chance to dislike English! I’d credit that awards assembly with stoking the reading fire in me, really. Not to mention the promise I made to myself that I would always (always!) read school-assigned books (which I kept up until we had to read Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness in twelfth grade–Sorry, Mr. Z!)
Heck, English became such a core part of my interests that I decided to pursue an English Literature degree at university! There’s just something about literature, about language, that excites me. Maybe because I have a bad mind’s eye, and reading helps me imagine scenarios. Maybe because the ‘why’ something was written can say so much about a person, society, and belief system. Maybe because we call a “chair” a “chair” and because I typed “chair,” you know the object that I’m talking about (which would be a chair).
I’ll be the first to admit that I love reading for the escape it gives me. It isn’t always an escape into a fictional world, though. Sometimes it’s an escape into a different mindset. When the world just feels so big and loud and complicated and chaotic and unending and terrifying and unchangeable and trying and perplexing and imposing and sad… focusing on the analytical side of a book can be a rest. The opinions you form about a work can be your own. The author’s message can give you some hope. The emotions you feel are plenty real, but they come from a source that, to some extent, you can control. You can research and write about what you find. That different mindset is the escape that I love most.
Of course, taking a break and diving into another world is a phenomenal bonus! :3
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