I used to be able to read through a novel in a night. Now I can’t even do it in a month.

I long for the days when my fervor for reading drew me time and again to the library. In elementary school, I prided myself on reading as much as I could and racing to the computers in the library so I could take Accelerated Reader quizzes. I liked to read what the laminated posters in my classrooms called “realistic fiction”, meaning it was set in the present and didn’t contain any fantastical elements, along with a smattering of young adult fantasy; your Harry Potters, your Percy Jacksons, you know the kind. I even got in trouble once in fifth grade because I couldn’t put down my book, even in the middle of a test. I brought books with me everywhere, from parties to vacations to car rides, and read whenever I had the opportunity.

In the midst of a phase starting around eighth grade where I was trying to read “cultured” books, I started to read comics, and neither my reading habits nor my bank account have recovered since. Don’t get me wrong, I love comics, even if the industry surrounding it manages to find new ways to baffle me with every poor decision they make, but I do think it has had a tangible effect on my ability to read prose fiction. Comics are relatively easy to read and can be burned through in a single sitting of about an hour, while prose demands both time and attention to be fully appreciated. Ever since I started getting heavily into comics, I’ve found that I read way slower than I used to be able to, and I struggle to pay attention when I do end up reading regular books. Coming to college, I stopped reading a murder mystery I’d picked up earlier in the summer while I was in the middle of the story for reasons I can’t even remember. I still haven’t picked it back up. For the first few months, I filled the void I’d made with trade paperbacks I’d picked up at the local comic shop and podcasts. Regular books, I’d hadn’t thought about in a long, long while.

Thankfully, as of late I’ve been reacquainting myself with prose fiction, due to a number of factors. For one, I made the discovery of a local book store that had all sorts of used books on the cheap, filled with novels from some of my favorite authors, some of which I didn’t even know existed. More important than that, however, I’d met someone who liked books more than I thought humanly possible, and who gifted me her favorite book series for Christmas/my birthday. I enjoyed the first book immensely, even if it did take me more than a month to finish. Because of the fact that they were given to me, my primary motivator to finish the book was mainly the idea of my friend being disappointed in me because I didn’t finish it. I mean, I guess it’s not the most ideal source of inspiration, but hey, I’ve finished one more book for fun than I did when I first came to college.

So, I guess the moral of the story is: if you want to get something done, embarrass yourself into doing it.