A reader reads
Earlier, I read a tweet that said something like a musician must perform. Because that's what musicians do. I suppose in the same vein, a writer must write, a dancer must dance, etc. I guess, at this point in the lockdown/quarantine, I like the romanticism, the sense of purpose.
I've told many people I haven't really been able to read. It's been 51 days since our lockdown started, and I've only been able to finish two books: Gods of Jade and Shadow by Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Weather by Jenny Offill. The first took me three weeks to finish; the second, a day because I crammed it for book club (thank God for book club). Like a few other people I know, I can't seem to concentrate on a book during this period. Any book. Many things have been written about our collective and personal anxieties during lockdown. I acknowledge all of this (likely, too, why I'm penning this at 1:41AM my time), More specifically, though, I feel I can't read because I find it hard to allow myself to enjoy things at the moment.
And this is strange, since I've always thought that my identity is intricately entwined with my being a reader. That's how I fashioned my life and my career. When everything else is stripped away, I thought, one of the core things that will remain is that I am a reader. Yet here we are, in a pandemic where the future is woefully uncertain, and each of us is going through levels of grief, and I cannot seem to read. So yes, I do not feel entirely myself.
I realize this is an immensely privileged concern to work through during this pandemic, where people have lost their jobs and are struggling just to survive. I cannot apologize for it, though: for wanting to keep intact the parts we believe make us whole.
And so, maybe 51 days into this lockdown, I can try to carve out space in my head and my soul to indulge in that activity which I love most. A reader must read. And if "must" is too strong a word for me right now, then let's just say, a reader reads. This reader is going to try to find her way back, however slowly that takes.
I've told many people I haven't really been able to read. It's been 51 days since our lockdown started, and I've only been able to finish two books: Gods of Jade and Shadow by Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Weather by Jenny Offill. The first took me three weeks to finish; the second, a day because I crammed it for book club (thank God for book club). Like a few other people I know, I can't seem to concentrate on a book during this period. Any book. Many things have been written about our collective and personal anxieties during lockdown. I acknowledge all of this (likely, too, why I'm penning this at 1:41AM my time), More specifically, though, I feel I can't read because I find it hard to allow myself to enjoy things at the moment.
And this is strange, since I've always thought that my identity is intricately entwined with my being a reader. That's how I fashioned my life and my career. When everything else is stripped away, I thought, one of the core things that will remain is that I am a reader. Yet here we are, in a pandemic where the future is woefully uncertain, and each of us is going through levels of grief, and I cannot seem to read. So yes, I do not feel entirely myself.
I realize this is an immensely privileged concern to work through during this pandemic, where people have lost their jobs and are struggling just to survive. I cannot apologize for it, though: for wanting to keep intact the parts we believe make us whole.
And so, maybe 51 days into this lockdown, I can try to carve out space in my head and my soul to indulge in that activity which I love most. A reader must read. And if "must" is too strong a word for me right now, then let's just say, a reader reads. This reader is going to try to find her way back, however slowly that takes.
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