I have always loved to read from the moment I learned stringing letters together made a word. It was my escape from everything. But as I got older, school foisted books upon me that I just could not tolerate.
Every one wasn't a dud of course, but so many of them just sucked the fun out of reading. Because school is, well, school, we were forced to finish stories we didn't even want to start.
Somehow that stuck with me.
I can usually tell if I will love a book or at least am open to how it will unfold within the first few pages.
Being a reader is essential to being a good writer, and just like any other specialized industry, there are plenty of people who feel that certain authors are the end all, be all of literature (whether modern or classic).
So like any hungry writer, I'd try to devour all the books I "should" like. I'd slog through boring romances and stomach stupid plots and painful styles, all because I felt like if I didn't read these certain books, I'd be behind.
That mentality began bleeding into every aspect of my life.
I always thought not finishing a book or a task or a hobby meant that I was a failure.
Because completing the task at hand was far more important than the process of getting there … right? At least, that is what I always thought.
So I did what I thought I was supposed to do, and over time, reading for fun, for genuine pleasure, was lost to me.
Becoming a mother changed that for me.
My time became infinitely more valuable. Not only in the sense that my baby took most of it, but whatever time I had left in the day solely to myself was so limited. At the end of busy days I'd find myself pushing through things that were supposed to bring me joy, like reading.
But one night, as I was settled into my couch for a few moments of personal time, I picked up the book I was currently reading that I frankly hated, and slammed it shut.
Both my husband and my dog jumped.
"I literally cannot read it anymore," I whined. After a day of cleaning and working, and mom-ing, the thought of doing something I had no desire to was crushing.
"So … stop," my husband said, obviously in a wary tone that was implying I had finally lost my sanity.
"But then I won't finish it," I retorted.
"And that's bad … why?"
Well, dang. I don't know.
Because the truth is, my small sliver of daily peace is so fleeting, I do not have time for it to be unfulfilling.
Why am I pushing through unnecessary tasks I absolutely can't stand? Why am I reading books that don't feed my soul in the ways I need it to?
As a matter of fact, why am I slogging through anything?
Life is far too damn short to be wasting time doing things you don't love. Granted, there will always be things we have to deal with that we don't want to, but ultimately when it comes to the time we can control, I'm making it a mission to do what is best for me with that time. If that means not reading a book or turning off a popular show or skipping a dinner I don't want to attend, then so be it.
Life is far too short to waste on bad books and boring people. I am officially committing myself to bother with none of it. And I hope you give yourself the same permission too because mama, you deserve it.
