Why Write? Because I Love to Read

I love to read. Sometimes people say that and then follow up with the twelve dozen books they have read in the last year and the nine they are currently reading, and I find that incredibly intimidating and a little frustrating. I wish that were me. 

I’m not a speed reader, and I struggle to work through multiple books at a time. In fact, I’m super proud of myself for having knocked out three books so far in 2022, but all three were part of a single fantasy series and I read them sequentially, skimming over the parts that were overly-long once I got the hang of the author’s tendency to over-describe. But even though my reading resume isn’t the most impressive (I’m on goodreads, so you can sneak a peek, if you want), I still consider myself an avid reader. I love reading. 

I write because what I read inspires me to make something, too. I know that loving to read doesn’t mean my writing is good, any more than eating three meals a day for 32 years has made me an Iron Chef. However, the opposite is also true, to some extent: A writer who feels indifferent toward reading is as bad as a chef who eats nothing but unseasoned oatmeal and boiled chicken breast. 

A few of my happiest childhood memories are actually the events from books I read in grade school. I still sometimes chuckle at Hank the Cowdog’s logical conclusion that mop water and root stimulator are the same basic thing. I still get chills when I think about Matthias decapitating Asmodeus. 

Through reading I have faced some of my deepest fears. I’ve had nightmares about being trapped in a pit with a pendulum. My skin crawls when I recall the unholy work of Herbert West. Occasionally I feel my heart begin to race as I consider how I would try to survive the most dangerous game.   

Some of my most profound grief has come from fictional events too. I tear up thinking about Simon and Piggy’s fate. I’ll never forgive George for what happens to Lennie. It crushes me to remember the price Villefort pays when the Count pushes his family past the breaking point.

Reading allows us to plumb the depths of what it means to be human. Reading teaches us more about who we are, who we want to be, who we are capable of being. Books are filled with people and places just waiting for readers to come and get to know them, exploring what they have to offer. I can think of no better avenue than reading, except perhaps travel, to expand your view of the world and open your mind to new perspectives. But then again, travel is cost prohibitive to many and we are still in a never-ending, global pandemic… So maybe reading should clinch that top spot?

I write in hopes that somehow I’ll leave a lasting impression on someone else. I write because I firmly believe there cannot be too many books. I write because no one knows better what I love about books than I do. I write because the idea of living in a world where there’s less to read than there could be is tragic. 

I write for love of reading.