Growing up, I didn't like to read because I couldn't see well. Once I got my glasses, I went from struggling with "Magic Tree House" to blowing through "Harry Potter."

Once high school hit, I dropped. A lot. I fell out of reading as much because I was so stressed all the time and constantly felt like I didn't have time for anything anymore. Those four years, I maybe read four books for pleasure. Going into college, I stopped reading altogether.

About a month ago, a friend of mine wrote about the fulfillment she finds in reading. During this time, I was writing an analysis of a poem about the form of words. These two things made me realize something I had been trying to ignore: I have lost touch with one of the biggest parts of myself.

My heart broke.

I'm in my sixth semester of college right now, and how many books had I read for pleasure? Five and a half of the Harry Potter series?

I have always considered myself an avid reader and writer, but recently... there hasn't been much. Yes, I write for Odyssey, but have you seen anything creative from me? The poems I write are for class; the short stories from last semester (because of a class) lay abandoned in my "creative compost pile" that I have only touched to toss things in.

I looked to my book collection, which was half Harry Potter and a quarter missing the rest of the series it belonged to. There were books I didn't want anymore and books I had never even opened. It was dismal. I talked to my parents to see what books were at their house, and my mother took the opportunity to give me boxes of books they no longer wanted.

"Sell whatever you don't want and keep what you make," she told me.

I decided whatever profit I made would go to buying new books.

I decided I was done with feeling guilty about not reading anymore. I wanted to read again, wanted to find that old spark in myself that had made me feel so alive when my life got tough.

I made a new rule:Never put down a book once started.

I have cursed myself for that rule each time I pick up a new book, but each time I feel as though I've grown as a reader, as a writer, as an editor. I'm learning. I'm becoming a bookworm again. I'm getting that old creative spark back, slowly but surely, clawing my numb fingers through equally numbing pages.

Even though I'm reading and attempting to write creatively again, I don't know if I truly deserve the title of "avid." Is it really "avid" if I only read a book a month, at best? Is it really "avid" if I have to drag myself through a book because I can't seem to find one that suits me? Am I really a writer if I don't actually write for pleasure anymore?

At this point, I don't care. At my core, I believe myself to be "avid" about reading and writing, so I will call myself that. I will work my way back to being avid because through this rough semester, my love of reading and my want to have more time for it has driven me. This summer, I'm going to drown myself in books, so for the rest of this semester, I need to re-learn how to swim.