in my own little corner, in my own little chair
I have always been an avid reader, occasionally to the point of downright weirdness. As a child I would read in the car, in the bathtub, in the shopping cart, during television commercials, while eating… Many of my books bear the scars of being dropped in the tub or spattered with some sort of food. During school vacations I would often sit in my room with a book all day (yes, I see you rolling your eyes and thinking “This explains a lot.” )
My choice of material has almost invariably been novels, though the subject matter has changed throughout the years. The other day at the library, I decided to try nonfiction. I’ve tried this a few times before and it’s never been successful. My primary motivation for reading is rarely to learn, it’s more to escape and for companionship. These have never seemed like the best of reasons, but most of the time I ignore that. I’ve never understood the enormous difference that everyone says exists between reading and television. While reading requires a little more thought, I’ve always looked on both as forms of entertainment that take me out of my own life for a little while.
I suppose the guilt of knowing way, way too much about things that don’t exist is finally getting to me. There’s also a certain dissatisfaction with the way that most books end up by tying things up in some sort of way, which, whether happy or tragic, is usually just a bit too neat to be real. I’ve decided to ease into my nonfiction foray with memoirs and biographies, then maybe some essays, then possibly books on actual issues. I don’t know how long this preoccupation will last, and I doubt I’ll be giving up fiction any time soon, but it makes me feel a little better about how I’m choosing to spend my time. I suppose I’m learning at least something about the world I exist in, instead of just pretending that I’m somewhere else.