The regrets of a veteran reader

MANILA, Philippines - I have been a reader for 21 years.

Well, okay. Maybe 20, just because I was probably illiterate at one year old.

(I’m just saying that to be polite. To put it this way: I would’ve totally been one of those Baby Einstein kids if that junk existed in 1991.)

I’m not so sure why this reflection on my reading behavior came up, but I started thinking of how much different I was as a reader when I was younger and how I am as a reader now.

The first thing I noticed is that I don’t read as much as I used to anymore. I remember my mom banning me from reading books during exam week in high school because she caught me with a book at three in the morning before a math test. What she didn’t know was that Girl with a Pearl Earring was the third book I had read that evening and was probably why I failed said test.

Anyway, the point is I used to read more. I read almost anything I could get my grubby paws on. I bought more books back then, too. I used to be physically unable to go inside a bookstore or a used bookshop without buying something. I’ve probably only read 65% of all the books I’ve ever bought, and even back then, I knew that I was never gonna touch some of them. Still, I kept on buying books because I thought I had a bottomless pocket, a misconception that has bitten me in the ass now that my phone bill is demanding to be paid off.

I was also able to remember books so much better back then. I have a theory that my memory processor (i.e. brain) needed to make room for the thousands of pages’ worth of useful junk that I had to remember for college, that’s why I began to forget stuff about the books I read—not small details, but actual plots and story arcs. It’s kind of frustrating to know that the books that you thought changed your life are fading into the plane between dream and memory; sometimes I can’t tell if I’m recalling a scene from a story or I’ve mashed it up with some fanfiction.

I know what you’re thinking. It’s totally like The Notebook, except I’m not married to Ryan Gosling (yet).

Oh, and possibly the worst thing about my veteran reading status: I read a lot more dumb books now than I did way back then. I use “dumb books” quite liberally here—I define the term as easy reading books that usually come in girlish covers and are commonly known as chick lit. I read those things a lot (which explains why I’m so neurotic), but in my early teens, I also had the patience to sit through boring classics like Les Miserables or One Hundred Years of Solitude.

Then the popularity of eBooks coincided with the depletion of my personal wealth. I was still a purist at first—a poor purist—so I told myself that I will only download books with titles and covers that are too embarrassing to parade in public.

I eventually got used to this system after appreciating the convenience of eBooks. I could just key in a search word if I wanted to reread a part I like, or highlight passages I enjoyed. I don’t need a bookmarks or a pocket dictionary—I could just double-click an unfamiliar word and already know its meaning and etymology.

But don’t get fooled; eBooks have their evils, too. Reading on an electronic device significantly shortened my attention span. Not only do my eyes get strained after reading extensively, if a chapter got too boring for my taste, I switch apps and play Pac-Man instead.

And so we go back to why I read a lot more chick lit. They’re fast-paced, full of action and the characters are engaging. I never get bored therefore I almost always finish them in one sitting.

Guess what book I’m reading now? I momentarily gave up on Notes on a Scandal, flirted a bit with Persuasion, but had the audacity to finish this book about a miserable fat girl who’s secretly in love with the hot guy in her office. (Nope, not an autobiography.)

I’m definitely not one to criticize a book for lacking in “intellectual merit”, but sometimes I honestly feel like I could benefit from some cerebral growth by picking up a book — an actual book — that is worth more than its romantic overtures. After all, there’s nothing quite like the smell of new books and the thought of brilliant ideas written by men who lived before the invention of toothpaste.

But as much as I regret becoming a less intelligent reader, I believe that my love affair with books will last longer than my future marriage to Ryan Gosling, as much as that hurts for him to hear. I’ve been a reader of 21 years, and will be 21 years after that. I’m not sure about a lot of things, but of that, I certainly am.