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I used to be a voracious reader in my younger days. But ever since breaking out of my teens my reading has slowed.
Once, I could manage a book per week. Now if I read over one book a year, it’s an achievement.
I have excuses (what adult doesn’t for failing their younger selves?). At university I started going out more, then came relationships, jobs, a marriage and — soon — a child.
I still read. I read the news; I read articles online daily. I still try to read books, too. I stack my bedside table with books I’m partway through. My house is full of books I’ve bought — or been bought — that I have not yet read. So much so there isn’t room for all the books and the ones I have read sit in crates in the garage.
I’ve tried a few different things to get me back into the habit. Reading short story collections rather than novels (something that should suit me, given I’ve published two of my own). Re-reading books I have enjoyed before (a dog-eared copy of A Place of Greater Safety is glaring at me from the bedside table) and dedicating specific periods of time to reading. So far none of it has successfully got me back into the reading habit.
There have been a few false dawns. Every time I finish a book I think I’m back in the habit. But I never…
