Issue No. 9: Rediscovering The Joy Of Reading

How I found my way back to books

Ok first, before I start, I wanted to say that next month it’s going to be one full year of me having started A Slow Afternoon. If you’re someone who has enjoyed reading the issues and understands the mindset behind them, I’d love to hear from you why you like them. So, if you’re up for it, please send me a message, either through email or Instagram, I’ll ask you a few short questions. I promise not too long but I’ll be so grateful.

Ok that’s it. Let’s get into this month’s issue. 

The past couple of months, after wrapping up all our nightly rituals, I’ve found myself snuggling into bed and reaching for a book to read. With winter coming in, and the nights getting chillier and longer, the thought of being snug under the covers with some hot qahwa (herbal tea) in hand and pages to slowly flip through, has been slowly becoming one of the highlights of my day. Some nights I read for a few minutes before my eyes get heavy, sometimes I go deep into the pages for an hour or so. On a few slower weekends, I’ve even ended up spending a whole afternoon on my couch, book in hand, quietly reading.

Last year, I had made a promise to myself to somehow find my way back to books. I’d been a devoted reader in my childhood, so when I lost that connect with it, it genuinely felt like I’d abandoned a part of my identity. And so, for years I’ve been wanting to find that attachment in my heart again.

Back when we’d moved into this house, and I was doing up the bedroom, I set up a small stack of books on my nightstand in the hopes to encourage myself to build back the habit; these were books out of which some I’d picked up myself, some gifts from friends at different times. Now, I’d love to say, that with last year’s promise, I reached into that stack and was able to restore this little habit for myself right away, but it wasn’t that straightforward. I hadn’t been a reader for many years now, not even during the ones I tried, and I didn’t feel like a reader then.

But the past few months, I was able to untie the knots on some things that helped reintroduce myself to that part of me and as a beautiful by-product, I rediscovered the joy of reading. I felt like this month, I could share some of my journey on this with you and so here we are.  

Let’s take a walk back in time.

So, my father used to take us to this old, used books store when we were younger. It was a tiny, dark shop in the basement of a shopping plaza, packed full of books. Floor to ceiling, with no clear separation, shelves upon shelves of books would welcome you as you came down the stairs into this other world. There’s something about old books, or maybe something about faded memory, but I remember the entire shop colored in this warm, hazy, golden hue, much like those cinematic filters you find these days in your photo apps. Abbu loved books and he made sure to bring us at least once a month to get a selection for us. Even though everything was all crammed in, in no particular order, we all knew our corners and I would spend the most indulgent hour, exploring titles, moving my hands over those beautiful, musty books, pouring over all the comics, storybooks, novels.

Trips back from that store were what created my own little collection at home. I remember slow, lazy afternoons after school, when I’d finish up my homework, and pull out one of those books to spend my time with. Adventure stories, mystery stories, these were the bright lights of my childhood. And these were the years when I met the reader in me.

Fast forward to later and our world started to change. Movies on demand, 24/7 news channels, the internet with all the lists of things to do, read, watch. Reviews, stars, rankings for everything. And I think together it all created an idea of a personality resume for all of us; who knows the most, who consumes the best. 

And there was something that started becoming true for a lot of things not just reading: we started to appreciate and prioritize function over everything else. Space for pure art or leisure or hobbies started to sink because everything had to pass the tangible profit test. How will this make me smarter? How will I learn more from this? How does it add to my credits? And today, it’s not entirely untrue that there is a societal value of sorts that we measure everything against. Which is why I think a lot of us have lost the art of reading because we got stuck within things like bestseller lists and books that singularly promise self-growth and knowledge. Fiction, for example, doesn’t seem like the absolute best use of our time. The aspiration to read the “important” books regardless of your interest, the desire for constant learning – these are things that perhaps convert even your leisure into a burden.