How I Raised Myself a Reader
Tags: Lifestyle, Books, Life Lessons, Nonfiction, Reading

My mother is not a reader. She might read a news article or two, but she never quite read a complete book.

My aunt occasionally read a book or two years ago. I got introduced to buying books with her copy of The Broker by John Grisham. Her copy was old, and when she read, it had a final resting place between other things on a random shelf. Now, I still have it on my bookshelf, years after I first found it.

My brother thinks reading is silly.

You get the idea. I do not come from a family of readers.

Reading has become a habit.

I wake up at 7 am. On a good day, I climb out of bed, brush my teeth, and make a cup of coffee. I check my emails and Instagram and send my friends a meme — though not before reading at least a book chapter.

On other days, my alarm rings around 9 am, and I wake up reaching for the phone. I scroll through Instagram before looking at my to-do list, have an instant panic attack, and then get my first cup of coffee. On these days, I forget to read.

My reading habits rule book looks somewhat like this:

Always read when you have a cup of coffee throughout the day.

Read for at least 10 minutes a day.

Read before bed and put your phone away.

Have fun with it.

As a kid, I started cultivating reading habits, which slowly turned into an obsession. I was soon skipping classes to read Enid Blyton and losing friends to Frankenstein. My first rebellious move was reading Stephen King’s IT. And my first prohibited teenager experience was reading Twilight after bedtime.

So in all its cliches, I am the quintessential reader. My mom takes a little credit for it, my teachers some of it, and I take most of it.

I never stopped reading after school.

The first memory I have of picking up a book is when my mom and I took trips to the bookstore as a kid. And on Report Card Day, we went to the Scholastic Book Fair held in my school.

I didn’t stop reading when I got to college, even when the schedule got stuffy. I majored in English, and my professors rocked my world. I felt my eyes sparkle while others looked like they rolled right out of bed. In fact, I still go back and read the books my English teachers suggested with fascination. Almost every year, I go back and find highlighted passages in my textbooks.

I practically lived in the school library.

As far as I can remember, my library card was always overflowing. The library in my school was on the first floor of the high school building. The quiet that you found there was strangely calming. The library was a place you could take a stroll with an intention. With the smell of books, and the stacks reaching the ceiling, I never knew where to begin. But my librarian always said, “Start with Matilda. Always start with Matilda.”

I am always reading something.

I always have a book on my desk, which I read between my Netflix binges or writing breaks. I regularly took Goosebumps books to the bathroom to read. On my bed, under the blanket, are at least two different books, and occasionally, an accidental bookmark (example: tissue paper). On a trip to the mall, my mom would leave me in the bookstore while she shopped for — well, hours.

I (try to) raise my brothers and sisters as readers.

When my brothers and sisters were old enough to read, I tried doing what my mother did. I give them my old collection of Enid Blyton books. I gave unsolicited advice on why reading will bring them joy. But ultimately, I fail.

Kids have their phones, iPads, and Madagascar. They can’t stay still for 2 minutes to read their “interactive” storybooks. I give books as birthday gifts while the other adults give them soft toys. But let’s be real, who needs an encyclopedia when your mom can Google “black holes” for you?