Reading Between the Lines

Last year, I fell out of love with reading books.

I remember the days of being a kid when the library bus would arrive and I'd carry as many books as possible home with me every Monday after school, excited beyond belief about discovering new worlds and new characters. I hated Bank Holiday Mondays. I didn't care that it was a teacher training day. I wanted my books and I couldn't stand waiting another week for them.

Like most people I know who work in media, I read and read and read when I was a kid. But my habits changed when I went to University to study English. Reading felt like work a lot of the time. Not that it was bad work (discovering The God of Small Things one rainy afternoon was delightful, as was reading Jane Eyre over and over again). But with so many books to get through, reading wasn't a pleasure. Especially not when you're looking out for all the poststructuralism and intertextuality gubbins (that's patterns and politely nicking bits out of other people's work, in case you were wondering).

I learnt a lot, and I probably am quite 'well read' (I bloody hate that term, it's snobby and elitist). But I don't think that's the same as reading for pleasure. I miss that. I tend not to read chick lit, as I find it predictable, but I still miss the immediate escapism it gives you.

And then there's the other problem. That distracting little madam Ms Internet. With all her blogs, tweets and little things, that convince me that it doesn't matter I'm not reading books. I'm reading Other Important Things. I rarely read anything over 2000 words these days. I know it's not like I'm sat in front of the telly doing bugger all each day (I think this year I've worked harder than ever), but when did I start catching up with my RSS before bed instead of F. Scott Fitzgerald? I don't have a commute into town, which probably cuts down my reading time each day by an hour. But I miss it. I miss those new worlds. And from a professional point of view, I'm not sure how successful I'll be at creating them in my own fiction if I don't let myself get immersed in them for fun.

I read about ten works of fiction last year.

That's pathetic. And if I'm honest, pretty damn lazy. And especially noticeable when my housemate reads so much she's started making her way through my bookshelf reading stuff I'd forgotten I even owned.

But! All is not lost! I got me a book voucher for Christmas, and bought that pile of reading loveliness this afternoon. In an actual bookshop, instead of online. I've just finished an interesting Dan Rhodes novel (alas, not as good as his short stories), and The Book Thief is next on my list. In fact, as soon as I've finished writing this I'm going to curl up under my duvet and start it. I want to read every day again. I want to make the effort to try new authors, read new genres and have a form of escapism that isn't attached to my laptop. I don't often make serious New Year resolutions (seriously, if you don't like your life, don't wait until January to change it), but reading books is one that I am going to keep.

Am I the only one who has had trouble reading books recently? Has the internet ruined your reading habits? Feel free to leave reassuring comments below. And, of course, book recommendations.