How hard is it to read a book?

Where do I start...

When do you read? Do you get up first thing and spend time feeding your mind through words (and I’m not thinking news or social media)? Do you sit down of an afternoon with a tidy stack of novels, zines and non-fiction reads and lose yourself for a few hours? Do you hit the sack at night, read the same five words as the previous night, and fall asleep as your book slips from your hands?

Maybe you do all or none of the above. I’m in the fall-asleep-while-reading category. Which means it can take me an age to get through a book - and it can be a disjointed experience.

I say that. HOWEVER.

If I’m preparing for an interview, or an event, I always find time for the background reading and research. Always. I’ve said before, going into an interview or an event without doing your prep is like going on stage to do a play without learning your lines (forgetting them whilst on stage is a different thing!).

So, what is it about reading for pleasure or leisure that means I push it to the bottom of my priority list?

Reading is escape to other dimensions. Reading is engagement of all the senses. Reading is hearing different voices, seeing different perspectives, feeling long-dormant emotions, tasting and smelling food, locations, people beyond your habitual palette of perceptions. Reading is comfort. Reading is nostalgia. Reading is sitting with an old friend and being wrapped in a blanket of familiarity, reading is reconnecting with thoughts, concerns, characters, sights, sounds and places that, although perhaps never visited in real-life, reside in a corner of your soul.

Why do I feel as if I’m skiving if I take time out to read for the pure joy of it? Do others feel the same?

My last post was about the Berwick Literary Festival and exampled all the creative, cognitive and contemplative benefits listed above. In fact, as ever, I bought books at most of the events I attended - sometimes two of one book: Christmas presents, you know.

If I’m totally honest, I still have books I bought at last year’s festival that I’ve not yet read. So, what am I doing buying more? I guess I loved what these writers had to say and that makes me want to read their words. It just doesn’t always translate into actually reading them.

I am currently reading a novel. One that I’ve been meaning to pick up for ages. I was finally compelled to do so by the youngest daughter who could not put it down and declared it ‘may be the best novel I’ve ever read.’ Wow. That’s praise indeed. The novel? Demon Copperhead. I found Barbara Kingsolver’s Poisonwood Diary completely compelling. Such lyrical syntax that delivers meaning and context way beyond the words used.

When I started reading Demon Copperhead, I was tired and maybe a bit nonplussed. I’d just finished Pat Barker’s wonderful Trojan trilogy (I actually listened to The Voyage Home on Audible). Maybe I didn’t leave enough time for Troy to embed before such a categoric change of style and pace? Whatever, I’ve passed the blip and now I’m itching to get to my Demon even as I write.

And maybe that’s one thing that stops me from picking up a novel. Once I’m hooked, I am happy to read until I have calcified, like a faun who’s encountered the white witch in Narnia. Everything else suffers, while I indulge my addiction. What I’m not good at, is reading two books simultaneously. I like to finish one novel before I start another. The thought of having multiple books on the go is like being involved in multiple relationships. Although, I did allow myself a quick fling with a Nora Ephron essay, even though I’m nowhere near the end of Demon Copperhead.

I suppose what really interests me here is what and why we see as indulgence and what (and why) we see as essential. And whilst reading is essential to me, there’s something in me that has classified reading for pleasure as not a worthy primary activity. And I don’t know when that happened or why, really. When did ‘work’ and busyness become priorities and relaxation and feeding the brain for joy, guilt?

What I do know is that, despite my pile of books and all of the above hand-wringing over reading time, I bought still more gorgeous books last week on a visit to Edinburgh. And I’ll tell you why. The bookshop.

I have been meaning to visit this store. And, finally, as we strolled through Stockbridge after a hearty brunch, I took The Husband’s arm and in we went. I’m often slightly overwhelmed by bookshops. All those piles of books! Where should I even start…I don’t know what’s current, what I should be reading… I should have read some reviews. Is that a name I recognise? But wait, do I recognise it because it’s a writer I’ll like or because…

The fact that Rare Birds Books promotes and celebrates women’s writing was a plus. But the true triumph of the place is the atmosphere, the understated warmth and universality of welcome. The uncluttered displays (despite the boxes they’re unpacking in the window in the pic above!). And, see those books on the right of my snap in their single colour psychedelic wraps? They’re lucky dip titles. Each has a handwritten blurb of the book on the front of the wrapping. At 10 quid a pop, I couldn’t resist. And I’m sure there are plenty out there like me. My mystery book was The Change by Kirsten Miller. I’ll let you know when (if) I read it.

Even if Edinburgh is too far for you to visit, you should take a look at the website of Rare Bird Books (click on the link in the paragraph above) - it pretty much tells you eveything you need to know.

And so, my downstairs pile of books now looks like this ↑. I’m not even going to let you into the secret of my upstairs pile of books. I just need to give myself permission to sit for a while and enjoy my treasure.

What are you reading and why? Is picking up a novel a guilt-free experience for yu? I’d love to know. Apart from anything, your recommendations might help my confidence next time I venture into a bookshop that isn’t Rare Birds.

Till next time