It was a long Thanksgiving weekend; I was about 15. The only teenager in the house, I didn’t fit with the adults, who were busy catching up on jobs and mortgages and family gossip, and I didn’t fit with the younger cousins, who were busy playing and coloring. And I was so okay with that—there were big windows and gorgeous comfy couches, and I had plenty to read. Far away from the high school halls, I could keep my awkwardness to myself for a little while.
Or I thought I could. I don’t remember if it was adults or kids, but my memory of the weekend was being gently nagged all weekend to get off the couch and do stuff I didn’t want to do. And since I was 15, I stubbornly didn’t want to do anything else. “Come on, Mary Kay,” they’d say. “Come do this, come do that.” But I was comfortable and safe where I was, and awkward and uncomfortable everywhere else, so I tried to turn them down.
“No, thanks. Reading a book.”
Did I say it 100 times, or 10, or just once? I don’t know. But the phrase became a way for my family to tease me for the next few decades. It became a shorthand way to embarrass me out of my preferred activity and into theirs. Despite being in a college-going family with some very bright people, “No thanks, reading a book” was an insult.
In time we grow up and away. The petty insults of childhood get left behind, and we get to live our lives however we want. And I wanted to read, and I did.
The other day, though, I was walking through that Holy of Holies, Seattle’s Central Library. It’s my Crystal Cathedral, the place where I am most awed. There are thousands upon thousands of free books, and I love books. I really love free books. Or I used to. I tried to remember the last time I’d started and finished a book, and I just couldn’t. Why don’t I read more?
Limited time is an obvious factor. I have a career I love, absorbing hobbies, I’m a mom, and before the pandemic, I was a wife. Time is hard to find, anyway. So is focus. Much of our attention is fractured between phone chimes and red notification buttons, every one and every thing demanding a bit of thought. Our brains are dying the death of a thousand cuts.
The stress of the pandemic and the marriage breakup were also huge barriers these last two years. I thought I would read more with the extra hours brought on by the shutdowns, but all I could do was listen to music. I barely kept up on the news. I avoided novels, magazines, DIY guides and all nonfiction. By definition, all stories have tension and conflict; every show, movie, podcast and book is built on the need to resolve some central uncertainty. I did not have capacity for more conflict, tension or uncertainty. Like everyone else in the world, I just wanted to be soothed.
The pandemic and family reorganization wore on for more than a year, though, and even those stresses become bizarrely normal. And still, I didn’t read. For a minute, I assumed it’s because it had just been so long since I’d been in a library at all! How funny, to be nervous about picking up a book in a library. So I reached out to touch it.
“No thanks, reading a book.”
The phrase hit me like an electric shock. The voice in my head was snide, mocking. I pulled my hand back.
Why had I thought that? Why had I said that mean thing… to myself?
To be clear, before the pandemic, I still read books. Plenty of them. I just paid for it with an equal measure of self-loathing.
To be fair to my family of origin, I’m sure it wasn’t meant to be hurtful. They just wanted my attention and participation. I get that. But regardless of intent, I’d internalized “No thanks, reading a book” to mean that I was selfish for taking away from other people. It also implied that there was something wrong with the choice.
Talk about a set of assumptions that were overdue for examination! Let’s start with: I never even considered that they were trying to take MY time away from me. Our time on earth is our time. We get to choose to spend it on other people, and we can choose to spend our time lavishly and exclusively on them if we want. But it’s still our time to spend.
There are natural consequences for those choices: you could work all the time and miss your kids’ childhoods, for example. You could focus on the kids’ needs completely and have no financial resources for retirement. But whether we choose either extreme or the murky middle, our lives and our time are ours. Other people don’t get to shame us into giving up activities we like.
Time with family is important, and it’s occasionally necessary to do all kinds of boring shit, like playing board games you’re going to lose and going to your spouses’ company Christmas party. The time isn’t wasted; it’s invested. And family does stuff for us, that they don’t want to do. And that’s great! There can be so much giving and so much appreciation both ways. Not arguing that.
But the benefits of giving time are better when the time is genuinely given, not given out of shame or resentment. Other parents find that they’ve given up important activities for other people. Painting, gardening, poetry, running, boxing, sailing all go by the wayside, when others want us. We give up these restorative activities, and then we wonder why we’re so tired and resentful. It’s no great newsflash that the urgent overwhelms the important.
I was wrong to give up on reading. Even that sounds harshly judgey, just in different direction. I had bad information and came to an incorrect conclusion. I was incorrect to believe I was selfish; incorrect to feel that I was neglecting my kids or my spouse by reading. I should have given reading greater value, not lesser. Instead of trying to grab a few minutes on the periphery, I should have dedicated a significant, predictable block of time to reading. Similarly, my spouse was entitled to his own enrichment and restoration time, and the kids are entitled to pick their own favorite things to do.
Reading is of particular and general importance. All adults should make time for it. It is not taking time away from our families (though it might take time away from our phones). Reading improves our work lives so we can manage inevitable times of change. Reading gives us personal empathy. It gives us awareness of a rapidly changing world. It gives us solace and hope and energy.
There’s a reason why the First Amendment is first. The men and women who fought a successful revolution against a tyrannical king knew that the most important act of freedom was the ability to say what you want, and to read and listen to what you want. The first act of a tyrant is to control all the words; ergo, the first act of a free person is read all the words.
Obviously, I know all this. Of course I do! I know it, logically. But emotionally, I still felt that reading took time away from people, and that was bad.
So also obviously, I am an idiot! I should read more books, not fewer!
When I was in the library, surrounded by all kinds of knowledge and ideas that I’ve been missing, I realized what a disservice I’ve done to my family. On a very practical level, I’m a knowledge worker. I support myself with my brain. If I don’t read the books, how does the knowledge get in there? I have a master’s degree in journalism, for Pete’s sake. It might as well be medieval poetry. Any solutions I bring to my clients have to be informed by a constant stream of books, magazines, newspapers, and people. A reading deficit is like a calcium deficit—you don’t know how weak you are until you break.
I got a pile of books that day. I have big plans, and I’m not in my 20s anymore. The road ahead is no longer infinite and I need to make the best of my time. My knowledge base needs to be both deeper and wider. I need more skills when it comes to storytelling, education, engagement and leadership. I need more time to work my brain hard, and more time to let it relax. When I’m healthy, I’m curious about a thousand things. Now I know that if I stop reading, it’s a red flag that fatigue, stress and distractions have overwhelmed my ability to take in new information.
After a careful review of all the time-management hacks on the internet, I’ve done a line-item review of my schedule. The results are in. I have time to read. I have time to focus on the people I love. I have time to bring creative solutions to my clients. I do not have time for shame or guilt or apologizing to ghosts.
So respectfully and without apology: No thanks. Reading a book.