Reading for Pleasure

Excerpts:

From a very young age, “stories” was a big part of my life. I refer to “stories” as a singular noun because it refers to a specific time of day and a specific act that occurred at that time. Every night before going to bed, I would read with my parents. I can't remember the exact order of what happened when, but there were times when my parents would read picture books aloud to me, and there were times when they would read novels aloud to me, and there were times when I would read picture books aloud to them. And then gradually I moved away from this and began to read novels on my own. My mom especially was very conscientious about finding “quality” literature for us to read. I received Newbery and Caldecott award-winning books for birthdays and Christmas. My picture book phase thus consisted not only of “high quality” content but also beautiful illustrations...

When I was very young, getting “stories” taken away was the ultimate loss of privileges. It wasn't so much that it was held over our heads often, but more that it was an incentive to get in and out of our baths quickly. Not even so much reading but a certain culture of the enjoyment of books permeated my childhood. It used to be one of my favorite activities. As I've grown older, I've found that I am slightly fixated on activities that existed in a much more limited way in my childhood world, such as watching movies. Movies were maybe a once-a-week occurrence. I've also fallen away from reading for pleasure. I still do it occasionally, but academic readings, other pursuits (including the new fixations I describe above), and an unexplained drop in my ability to read as efficiently as I used to severely limit my leisurely literary time. I think this development in combination with the values that were instilled in me as a child have created some personal feelings of guilt...