I think, have I been someone who loves reading books like many brilliant people I know, I would’ve been better in writing. All of my favorite writers are voracious readers and the smartest people I know owns a lot of books that they actually read.
Book junkies reading this can judge me all they want (some, who are my friends, may think less of me now), but I cannot sustain reading printed text over long periods. I just don’t have the patience and the EQ for it. It got worse now with my presbyopia which made it difficult for me to read anything in front of my nose.
I am saying this not because I’m proud of it, but because it is what it is. I mean, it’s not that I don’t read at all, it’s just not something I do for leisure. I’m not one that finds joy holding a physical book (I even know someone who sniffs pages) and read it obsessively from cover to cover. Simply put, I'm not too keen on reading books but not reading in general.
I am not too well-attuned and I tend to zone out after a while. When this happens, I had to stop and put the book down otherwise nothing penetrates. The problem with this is that when I put it down, I hardly pick it back. There are at least about ten books I bought in my lifetime mostly out of impulse but never finished. For one, I never got past the first few chapters of The Alchemist.
Most of the time when I read a book, there are parts of it I intentionally leave out. Say, one to two paragraphs, or sometimes even a whole chapter. Then I’d start flipping pages because I can’t concentrate anymore, then eventually I lose interest. It happens in almost every book I try to read.
Any author will be frustrated at me especially when the intention of every writer has always been that their book is read from beginning to end. I think they have a term for me: fractal reader — or is it?
Reading a book for long periods can also make my hands feel numb. I’d develop this strain on my thumb for pressing on the pages while my other fingers support the book spine (happens most of the time on thick paperbacks). Once this happens, I put the book down— and I already told you what happens when I put the book down.
Not counting the ones I read for my book report in school, there are ones I did read and finish. Most of them are the light and amusing ones from our local authors like Jessica Zafra’s Twisted series and Womenagerie and Other Tales from the Front and Pam Pastor’s Paper Cuts and Planet Panic. I did read some Tom Clancy, Sidney Sheldon and Dan Brown. I loved Paradise by Judith McNaught but was not as stirred with her other novels.
My choice of books might be sneered at by the pompous bibliomaniac snobs but here goes. I read chick-lit novels like Confessions of the Shopaholic or The Devil Wears Prada. Didn’t shed a single tear for The Fault In Our Stars (even if many friends swore that they did). I did finish the Hunger Games trilogy and actually liked it, but then got bored with another young adult dystopian novel, Divergent trilogy. I secretly read Fifty Shades of Grey E-Book during the idle hours in the office (and became quite an expert when it comes to reading in minimized windows).
Please don’t hate me, but I have never picked up any from the Harry Potter series like, ever.
I’m always fascinated at people who are so passionate about reading that they can talk for hours how much they love it. I envy the ones who’d feel some kind of orgasmic happiness when they’re inside a book store or library. I admire those who challenge themselves to read X number of books in a year. I love how some of them seem like they are living in the pages of the books they read because they enjoyed it that much.
When I see my most admired people and their magnanimous book collection, I always ask myself: How can they do that? How can they read all of that? How can they have the time?
I wish I had that same kind of passion for books. But I honestly don’t think I’ll ever will.
It dawned on me now that all my friends are book lovers. All of them but me. I imagined them sitting at a table with each reading a good book and when I come near they’ll look at me and say, “You can’t sit with us!”
Book junkies reading this can judge me all they want (some, who are my friends, may think less of me now), but I cannot sustain reading printed text over long periods. I just don’t have the patience and the EQ for it. It got worse now with my presbyopia which made it difficult for me to read anything in front of my nose.
I am saying this not because I’m proud of it, but because it is what it is. I mean, it’s not that I don’t read at all, it’s just not something I do for leisure. I’m not one that finds joy holding a physical book (I even know someone who sniffs pages) and read it obsessively from cover to cover. Simply put, I'm not too keen on reading books but not reading in general.
I am not too well-attuned and I tend to zone out after a while. When this happens, I had to stop and put the book down otherwise nothing penetrates. The problem with this is that when I put it down, I hardly pick it back. There are at least about ten books I bought in my lifetime mostly out of impulse but never finished. For one, I never got past the first few chapters of The Alchemist.
Most of the time when I read a book, there are parts of it I intentionally leave out. Say, one to two paragraphs, or sometimes even a whole chapter. Then I’d start flipping pages because I can’t concentrate anymore, then eventually I lose interest. It happens in almost every book I try to read.
Any author will be frustrated at me especially when the intention of every writer has always been that their book is read from beginning to end. I think they have a term for me: fractal reader — or is it?
Reading a book for long periods can also make my hands feel numb. I’d develop this strain on my thumb for pressing on the pages while my other fingers support the book spine (happens most of the time on thick paperbacks). Once this happens, I put the book down— and I already told you what happens when I put the book down.
Not counting the ones I read for my book report in school, there are ones I did read and finish. Most of them are the light and amusing ones from our local authors like Jessica Zafra’s Twisted series and Womenagerie and Other Tales from the Front and Pam Pastor’s Paper Cuts and Planet Panic. I did read some Tom Clancy, Sidney Sheldon and Dan Brown. I loved Paradise by Judith McNaught but was not as stirred with her other novels.
My choice of books might be sneered at by the pompous bibliomaniac snobs but here goes. I read chick-lit novels like Confessions of the Shopaholic or The Devil Wears Prada. Didn’t shed a single tear for The Fault In Our Stars (even if many friends swore that they did). I did finish the Hunger Games trilogy and actually liked it, but then got bored with another young adult dystopian novel, Divergent trilogy. I secretly read Fifty Shades of Grey E-Book during the idle hours in the office (and became quite an expert when it comes to reading in minimized windows).
Please don’t hate me, but I have never picked up any from the Harry Potter series like, ever.
I’m always fascinated at people who are so passionate about reading that they can talk for hours how much they love it. I envy the ones who’d feel some kind of orgasmic happiness when they’re inside a book store or library. I admire those who challenge themselves to read X number of books in a year. I love how some of them seem like they are living in the pages of the books they read because they enjoyed it that much.
When I see my most admired people and their magnanimous book collection, I always ask myself: How can they do that? How can they read all of that? How can they have the time?
I wish I had that same kind of passion for books. But I honestly don’t think I’ll ever will.
It dawned on me now that all my friends are book lovers. All of them but me. I imagined them sitting at a table with each reading a good book and when I come near they’ll look at me and say, “You can’t sit with us!”
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