I set myself a target on books. This is what I learned

Reading and writing was something I was naturally good at in primary school. At one point, my teacher at the time even started bringing in extra books from her personal collection for me to take home.

I don’t remember all the books from back then, but some I do. I can still recall the general plot of Erich Kästner’s Das doppelte Lottchen (fun fact: many might, on the surface, not know this book, but the old German story, published in 1949, is what the popular movie The Parent Trap is based on).

Maybe it will forever stick with me, because it really symbolised my teacher’s kindness. I spilled a big glass of orange juice all over the book, which stained and wrinkled its pages. The event lead to a tearful confession in front of said teacher, who responded by smiling and, despite what I thought would happen, giving me a new book to read.

Other books stuck because of the lessons I learned. I still remember Astrid Lindgren’s The Brother Lionheart deeply scaring me, but also making me think about death, for example.

Even the books I don’t remember the plotline of, I remember how they made me feel. I found a whole box of them in my father’s loft a few months back. Looking at the illustrated hardcover bindings, some with my name scribbled inside them, I felt a sense of longing and belonging while holding them in my hands; the same hands my mum says she used to have to pry them from so I would go to sleep.

Anyway, it wasn’t to last. My love for books continued for a few years after starting high school but then, for whatever reason, somewhat faded for quite some time. I was busy with life and reading took a backseat.

My interest only returned when I was away travelling and, not having any other commitments at that point, I suddenly had a lot more time. Someone gave me a book and from then on, I started reading again.

I’ve been reading semi-regularly again for around five years now and have, page by page, been rediscovering my love for doing it. Still, my attempts were always a bit half-hearted. While I was enjoying reading, it would always still be something I only did when conditions were just right: when I was off for a long period of time; holidays or long weekends mostly. Not an everyday thing.

So, to make it a “proper” habit, I set myself the above challenge. Like a lot of people, I don’t often keep these new-year, new-me ambitions beyond the first week of January, but this one stuck. I have read pretty much every day this year, even if it was only a page or two.

Now, mid-October, with 11 weeks left in 2023, I am on course and about to finish book number 21. Aside from feeling accomplished and proud (maybe a little smug, really), I also feel that this year of reading has taught me lessons beyond what I imagined it would.

For one, it improved my writing. I am exploring imagery far more than I did this time last year and know more words each month that passes. When I discover a new word, I think about how to show off my knowledge by weaving it in somewhere with almost child-like excitement.

Books also made me feel part of something. One of my best friends and I have been sharing books with each other. If you would have asked me a year ago, I would have probably not thought of anything that would bring us closer than we already were, but books have. We swap batches of them regularly, give each other synopses, and talk about our favourite aspects. It has given me another layer to our friendship that I love. I am hoping to join a book club to, perhaps, get even more of all that (but that will be 2024’s goal!)

The other is that I have found the discipline to make time for something. For too long I felt I didn’t have enough time to read. However, looking at it when setting myself this challenge, I came to realise I did; I just chose to spend it differently. I have to admit that, for me, readjusting the time I had available was fairly easy. I am in my twenties with no children or commitments that reach beyond taking care of myself (and work). So, I am not saying that every person that doesn’t read every day is undisciplined, or that the alternatives (TV, sitting on my phone) are bad. More that, for me, it was a lesson in prioritising. If I wanted to read two books in one month, I would have to make time for it.

But I think the most valuable lesson for me is coming to realise once again quite how much reading fiction can teach you about the world. I started the year with Matt Haig’s Midnight Library, in which the book’s protagonist enters a world between life and death and gets to try out alternative lives she could have lived, made me think about obsessing too much about past lives and my tendency to obsess over what-if?

Dolly Alderton’s Everything I Know About Love, detailing the author’s own journey through her twenties, made me think about the value of friendships and platonic love. Nadine Aisha Jassat’s The Stories Grandma Forgot made me laugh and cry. Mostly, it made me wish I could have viewed my own family member’s experience with Alzheimer’s through the eyes of the book’s child protagonist, with the patience and nuance she would have deserved.

One of my more recent reads, Yomi Adegoke’s The List, in which a soon-to-be bride has to face serious allegations against her fiance and has to decide who to side with, made me think about social media and how quickly things online can have offline consequences.

Overall, as my year of reading comes to an end, I have come to realise I have never felt as much calm about myself and within myself as I do now. Maybe it is the timing and getting older, but I don’t think so; I think it is the magical power of books.