Confessions of a Slow Reader

I saw something the other day summarizing the results of a survey about reading books. It was called "The Psychology of Abandonment" and it asked people why they sometimes don't finish a book they are reading. The top answer by far was "Slow, boring" (46%). The second answer -- "Weak writing" -- trailed at 19%. It also listed the Top Five Abandoned Classics -- books that were started but ditched. The most slow, boring books ever are apparently Catch-22, Lord of the Rings, Ulysses, Moby Dick, and Atlas Shrugged. I have to admit, I have never tried to read any of them. Yes, not even Lord of the Rings. Blasphemous, I know.

The truth is, I am really just not that into reading. More blasphemy.

I wish I were. When I do finally actually read a book, I usually enjoy it. I almost always learn something. And I definitely enjoy the sense of accomplishment of turning the last page and thinking, "Aaaand...done!" But it is really difficult for me to get the motivation to pick up a book in the first place.

I have tons of friends, relatives, and even a husband who are voracious readers. I know of bookshelves smushed full of well-loved and unread escapes. I have friends who read multiple books at a time, who are buddies with the library staff, who read triple-digit books every year. And then there's me, who actually once had a New Year's Resolution to "Read more books." I think that year I read a total of five books. I was on fire!

I've spent some time pondering my uncouth lack of interest in reading. Because, truly, in my world I should be embarrassed and ashamed that I am even admitting this. In my world, reading is an intellectual activity. It demonstrates a hunger for and active pursuit of knowledge. It shows an appreciation for literature. It is a springboard for civilized discourse (Fifty Shades of Grey aside. And no, I haven't read that either.).

But in all honesty, reading just doesn't seem productive to me. If I try to read in the middle of the day, I get all antsy and my mind starts wandering to other things I could be doing, like laundry. If I read at night, I usually get a few pages in and then decide I would rather be sleeping.

I know part of this is that it takes me FOREVER to finish a book. I am a very slow reader. A friend of mine who teaches elementary school asked me once if when I read, I hear every word in my head as if I am reading the book aloud. I looked at her incredulously and said, "Yes, of course. Doesn't everybody?" Well, no. There is another way people read in which they mostly skim words and absorb the concept and meaning without resting that millisecond on every. single. word. Well, THAT would certainly make things go a bit faster. I tried it once. I had no idea what I read and had to start over.

We recently took a long trip that involved about 40 hours of plane travel and airports, several "At Sea" days on a cruise ship, and three loungy days on a Greek island. Rob read two and a half dense books, about five travel guide books, and every pamphlet, flyer, brochure, and hotel Guest Services book he could get his hands on.

Me? I read the "Princess Patter" nightly to see what was happening onboard our ship the next day. I browsed three in-flight magazines (the Aegean Air one written almost entirely in Greek was so pretty, I brought it home). I read SkyMall cover-to-cover. I bought People magazine during a long, foreign layover and was horrified to realize I had paid the equivalent of $8 to read about People I had never heard of (who is Demi Lovato and why should I care?). I packed one book from home but never even cracked open the cover. It was essentially a paperweight that traveled the world for no reason other than to give me hope that I might actually relax like civilized people do.

So what highly productive activities did I choose instead of reading a reportedly fascinating book about a woman who walked the entire Pacific Coast Trail? Well, I did a lot of Sudoku. I'm actually pretty good at it. I listened to hour upon hour of a favorite radio podcast, finally winnowing my playlist to being only one month behind. And I wrote. A lot. Probably about 75 pages, maybe more.

Somewhere over an ocean, I finally realized and accepted who I am. I am a writer, not a reader.  I do that one word at a time, too. And that is just fine.