I Can’t Read Books Anymore
What has the Internet done to my brain?
I’ve been a reader for as long as I can remember.
My mom told me that when I was three, I could read books on my own. It seems a little far-fetched, but there’s no doubt I practically came out of the womb reading.
Growing up, loving books was an integral part of my identity. While other kids played sports, I passed my days in The Secret Garden and along the White Way of Delight with Anne Shirley.
As a teen, I imagined being Elizabeth Bennet, swooning over Mr. Darcy.
In my 20s, I’d say “42” in a knowing tone every time someone realized the meaning of life wasn’t an answer but a question.
Coming from a dysfunctional home, I learned early how to escape into a book. Reading was a buffer from the out-of-control ego and hostility around me. It made me feel peaceful and gave me imaginary places to go, safe from the drama.
I was known for my reader’s vocabulary. Pre-Google, people would regularly ask me what this or that word meant.
“How do you always know?” they’d ask.
“Read more books,” I’d say.
At one point I was in two different book clubs. It was a great conduit to discover reads I’d never have chosen…
