I’m an avid reader. I tend to carry a book with me everywhere I go. If not a physical book, then I’ll have one on my phone. This is all to restate, I read a lot.
I got into the habit of reading just a couple of years ago. Before that, you’d never catch me with a book in my hands. Not unless it was a book from the Twilight saga. (We’ve all been there). Recently, I went through my bookself and realized I have over 200 unread books. That’s a big number. It doesn’t scare me, though. I want to read all of them. I’m looking forward to reading all of them eventually. I want to keep my home library for as long as I can, to be able to go back to these pages and remember the experiences they gave me.
Recently, though, I’ve had quite a lot of people comment on my reading. People who have no filter or are just too blunt, have come up to me as I’m reading a book to simply ask me if I have a life. How could I ever have a life if I spend so much time reading? They think it’s not right to spend so much time delving into fictional stories. They judge me for carrying a book with me. They can’t understand.
My usual excuse for these insulting people is calmed and relaxed. I explain that I’m an aspiring author and reading is vital in my improvement and growth. They’re never fully satisfied with my response. They still give me looks of pity. There’s no point in clarifying anything to them.
I work full-time. I’m about to start college. I’m writing three novels. I go to bars, restaurants, parties. I go on trips. I co-run this blog.
If that isn’t a life, then I don’t know what is. And in the middle of all of that, I find time to read. Am I ashamed of being a reader?