A love for reading was the original impetus for my writing. As a child, probably around five or six years old, I distinctly remember having a moment of clarity when I realized that people wrote all of the wonderful stories I enjoyed reading, and thus, this meant that I would also be able to write them. I was hooked!

This past year, I’ve become cognizant of  how much I miss this, reading for pleasure, just sitting myself down in a chair or on a couch and reading (a book or story of my choice) for an entire day. Instead, with the exception of an occasional short story from a literary journal here and there, I was reading students’ essays and research papers, dozens upon dozens, which meant reading a lot of writing by authors who don’t want to write, who are being forced to squeeze out words and splatter them on a page to earn some kind of reward in the form of a grade. There are some writing students who shine when they are writing, but there are many more who find it drudgery, and this is very evident. It wasn’t a pleasure for them to write it, and thus, it’s not a pleasure for me to read it.

To help redirect myself back to my love of reading, I’m going to treat reading for pleasure similar to my daily yoga routine: it maybe hard to find the time, but I’m going to do it. And, once I’ve done it, I always feel so much better afterwards.

I’m not going to be overly ambitious and have created a short stack of “to be read” books and short stories (from One Story). I have no particular order I plan to read them in. So far, I’ve started with On Writing: 10th Anniversary Edition: A Memoir of the Craft. While Stephen King doesn’t normally write work that I enjoy reading (I’m too much of a chicken), I’ve heard good reviews from writers about this book where he discusses his personal approach to writing, and there’s no denying the man can write.

So far, I’ve enjoyed the little bits of time I’ve carved out to get a page read here and there and look forward to my year of learning to love reading again.