Memoir of Reading

For all the current and past book lovers who hit their peak in 2014. Ready for some nostalgia?

I held John Green’s Looking for Alaska close to my face, curled up against the wall. A dimming lamp illuminated the pages, but not quite enough. I squinted in the darkness, imagining Alaska and her stained eyeliner and her too-many cigarettes and destructive tendencies. I think I was only about 13, or in other words, far too young to understand the true message behind the book. So, at the time, I idealized her, similar to how Miles himself did. I was sucked into this story, these high schoolers’ lives and their quirks, and the only time I snapped out of it was when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

You have to be a peculiar kid to have your books confiscated as a form of punishment. When I was grounded at that age, I don’t remember what for, my parents took away all of my books, most of which were in the YA genre. I’d also often have my books confiscated by my teacher in math class during the times I was too invested in the story to pay attention to the equation (needless to say, I’m still terrible at math). So Looking for Alaska was a goldmine, a secret treasure, one of the only books I’d managed to sneak away when all of my other ones had been arrested. 

Lucky for me, this one of my many childhood bedrooms had a side door that looked as if it were made for gnomes, and my sister and I decorated the inside to become a special reading nook. We crawled inside, shoved a tiny bookshelf through the door, and pushed it up against the wall, just barely fitting against the slanted ceiling. We tossed some throw pillows and blankets in to sit on, and this became my favorite reading place at the time. I know my parents read my newsletters, so I’m going to let them, and you, in on my secret hiding place: behind the bookshelf, there was the slightest hole in which I could drop all my most precious books and journals, precisely for situations such as these. To retrieve them, I had to move the bookshelf entirely. I knew I had a tendency of talking back to teachers, so it was a given that I’d have some of my books taken away as a form of discipline sooner or later. That’s what this stash was for. 

Bookworm who can relate too much?

Don’t get me wrong; my parents always encouraged reading. I started reading at a very young age and was one of those annoying kids with an “advanced reading level” in primary school. I owe much of my love of reading to my mom, who took us on hundreds of weekly library trips and spent her money on so many of these precious books until I was old enough to afford them myself. I read books way more than I watched TV in my childhood because, for me, it was TV—just in my head. And I suppose my parents realized this at some point, and since I clearly prioritized reading fiction over my schoolwork, my books would be stored away in trash bags. 

At some point, I eventually forgot about these books and only remembered them when we moved houses again, and they were brought out from their hiding place about a year or more later. By then, I’d unfortunately fallen off of reading, something I thought would never happen to me. I didn’t go through a phase where I thought books were boring; I just went through multiple phases where I no longer had the capacity to invest time in them. Or, if I did have the time, I preferred to watch YouTube videos instead because I was too exhausted to read. 

This phase lasted all throughout high school and the beginning of my college years. I’d pick up a book now and then, but I wasn’t reading four in a week like I used to. Honestly, I wasn’t even reading one a week, or one a month. Much to my dismay, life was busy. And I didn’t have the time to get sucked into characters’ lives anymore.

It’s funny, the time we have when we’re kids, that we don’t realize is far gone until years down the line when we take a second to look back. I noticed that when I stopped reading the way I used to, I stopped writing the way I used to as well. I have multiple full-length novels in my drafts that I completed within the span of a month when I was fourteen years old. I’ve been able to write short stories and poetry, but I have, not once, been able to complete a novel since that time. 

If you like this, let me know and we’ll be BFFs

Believe it or not, I wasn’t the type to get back into reading during quarantine in 2020. I revisited other loves, but this wasn’t one of them, although I genuinely don’t know why. However, at the beginning of 2021, I was determined to find my love for books again. I downloaded Goodreads, set up my yearly challenge, and began reading a book I’d long ago bought but never read: Turtles All the Way Down by John Green.

I’m a big fan of full-circle moments. I didn’t realize that I had one until now, writing this, sharing it with you. John Green was one of the first authors that encouraged my reading obsession; he was also the one that continued it after I hadn’t been invested in reading for five years.

I’ve since fallen in love with other authors—Richard Siken, Ocean Vuong, Sally Rooney, Amanda Montell, etc.—but revisiting my little YA novels from my preteen years fills me with nostalgia and longing, overflowing with a sense of fulfillment and satisfaction that I don’t get anywhere else. 

I’ve been writing again. Slowly but surely. I have ideas to the brim that I want to get out on paper one day soon. And every time I pick up another book, I fall in love with words, theirs and my own, all over again. 

I made a reading moodboard for all you book lovers struggling to get through some of your books (with lots of Gilmore Girls inspo). If you enjoyed reading this, I go on little rants about things that are important to me all the time and you can tune in again at my next post if you subscribe!

Want a couple of mini rants about things I love? Check out my Instagram where I overshare on the internet all the time for your viewing pleasure.

Grab a pumpkin spice latte and welcome Fall with open arms.

Until next time,

paula <3