My love of reading began rather early. A prized subscription of The Reader’s Digest was joyful.
My first encounter with Pride and Prejudice was assigned. Which meant, naturally, I approached it with suspicion. The sentences were long. The action was… conversational. No dramatic entrances, no cliffhangers — just people talking about society and feelings. Pre-teen me was unconvinced.
Yet, somewhere between the irony and the slow-burn misunderstandings, I forgot I was meant to be analysing it. I started enjoying it. That was the plot twist I didn’t see coming — not in the book, but in myself.
From there, the floodgates opened. Dozens of books. Then hundreds. I never counted. I suspect the number would reveal how many hours I “rested my eyes” with a book.
In the early years, I had a strict policy: no DNF. If I started it, I finished it. It didn’t matter how dense, slow or determined to test my patience it was. I would power through, slightly dramatic, highly principled. When I closed those difficult books, I felt absurdly proud — as though I had completed an intellectual marathon no one else knew I was running.
Over time, something evolved. I realised reading is for joy and not a contract. Some books arrive at the wrong season. Some demand more than you can give. Allowing a DNF into my life wasn’t a failure; it was discernment. Strangely, that freedom made me finish more books — and choose them better.
Today, I’m reading Shattered Lands — a world far removed from polite drawing rooms. The themes are heavier, the edges sharper yet the essence remains the same: people navigating pride, power, loss, hope.
Reading has taught me many things — patience, perspective, humility. But most of all, it has taught me evolution. From reluctant homework to joyful habit. From rigid completionist to selective finisher.
Joy, it turns out, was never about counting pages.
It was about becoming.
P. S. – I still haven’t joined the bandwagon of ‘Audio Books’ ! How many of you consider reading is different than listening?
Similar experience… some days i want to drown myself amidst those pages and some days it’s perhaps weeks that i wouldn’t touch the book. Finishing any book used to be my mental assignment, but slowly i learned not every book is for everyone.
Reading is dying slowly. Specially with new generation.