On (Not) Reading as a Writer
I am surrounded by books, but I do not read. I am writing my own books, but I do not read the books of others. It’s the fundamental sin of being a writer: not reading the work of others. It’s not time, though I do have little for myself as a mom struggling to find the time to write my own words. It’s not the availability of books that interest me (I have a bad habit of buying books that interest me). It’s not even energy, which I usually lack and impedes my other productivity. So what is it?
I’ve long focused on my depressive symptoms, which involve heaviness, lack of motivation, and psychological paralysis. All of these indeed make reading, especially a book, difficult. When depressed, reading is impossible. A text just isn’t powerful enough to erase the many ruminating, self-loathing, and catastrophizing thoughts inherent in my depression (the infinite scroll of social media can numb me enough to get through the day and has become a depressed addiction). The way my depression ebbs and flows through my life, I may pick up a book in a good spell, read about 10% of it, then dip into a depression, abandon it, then be uninterested and have lost the plot when I’m well enough to read again. I’m excellent at buying books, okay at starting books, and terrible at getting past that 10%. I’m also a slow reader. I’ve never enjoyed reading when scanning the page and not reading every word, hearing every word in my head. Maybe this comes from being read to as a child every night by my father until I was twelve. I expect to hear all the words the way my dad read all the words out loud (don’t get me wrong, I am grateful my father did this; it gave me a love of the words and a fundamental understanding of how they fall onto the page). My slow reading may also be because I obsess over not missing the words.
But there’s another reason, and one I may have resolved: a lack of concentration. Lack of concentration is a problem for both people with depression and, more infamously, people with ADHD. I am exploring whether I may have the latter, but the symptom’s root cause is less important than fixing it. I would attempt to read but have difficulty focusing and end up reading the same sentence repeatedly to try to take it in. Yes, seriously. It makes reading a larger work nearly impossible.
Recently, I started a new medication, a stimulant prescribed to help my depressive self with two symptoms: energy and concentration. It’s a drug commonly prescribed for ADHD. Yes, it has provided me with energy, but I noticed something else. Instead of struggling to read and take in one page in a 15-minute block of time, I am able to read and take in 10 pages during that same time period. As a result, I look forward to reading, am interested in continuing a book, and am able to enjoy myself. I’m reading! I got a full halfway through the brilliant Yellowface by R.F. Kuang before I had to put it away because it was making me want to quit writing. I’m now reading Real Self-Care by Pooja Lakshmin, and I’m confident I’ll finish it because the words are flowing for me. I haven’t finished a full-length book in years. I think this year I will.
I was an avid reader as a kid. Then my grade seven English teacher assigned excruciatingly boring books, and my love of reading died. I always blamed him. But I recently found out that there’s a theory that ADHD symptoms arise in women around the time of adolescence (suggesting a hormonal element), which for me was grade seven. Maybe my struggle to read has always been just about my neurodivergence.
Either way, I’ve been ashamed of it ever since. I don’t have a favourite author, I don’t have writers who have influenced me. I was excellent all the way through high school and university at getting As on assignments and exams without reading the book. I’m always embarrassed when I’m asked about what I’m reading and have read, an inevitable question from other writers and laypeople alike. I can talk about my own writing extensively. I can tell you if I recognize an author’s name, label their genre(s), and recognize the titles of their books, tell you if I own that book. But I have likely not read it. In my writing program, I was especially ashamed as I never did the readings. I know others in my cohort looked down upon me. I mean, what kind of writer doesn’t read??
But now I may have the answer: a neurodivergent one, maybe even a disabled one. (My relationship to disability has been on my mind a lot this year, but that’s a topic for another piece of writing I’m working on.) And I may have found a treatment that allows me to finish a damn book. Maybe.
When it comes to fiction, I’m finding myself so able to concentrate that I am immersed, losing track of not just time but my own train of thought. I am losing control of my awareness. And that’s a little scary for me. Previously, it only happened with video and computer gameplay, which is why I never really got into them. Losing myself for a while results in anxiety, not relaxation. (Note: I have never been high or drunk in my life for the same reason: I need to maintain control.) Now, this sense of anxiety is happening after I watch a fictional TV show or read a portion of a novel and lose myself in the fictional world.
It’s a new problem to solve. It may be less easy than taking a pill every morning, but hopefully, it won’t take me another thirty years to figure out. In the meantime, back to my book.