Do I like reading, or do I like being seen as someone who reads?

I have this fear about myself, perhaps an offshoot of imposter syndrome, that I don’t actually like to read but rather like the idea of being seen as someone who likes to read. 

Ultimately, I know that this isn’t true. But this idea, I’ll call it a phobia, has been on my mind.

 

On an early childhood to childhood level, I loved to read. I would keep my bathroom light on at night, trying to finish another chapter in the dark as I listened for the creak of my Dad’s knee on the stairs. My stamina for reading was unmatched at this time, a level I don’t think it will ever get to again (I have hope).

 

I stopped working at Lululemon recently, and its left me with sudden free time. What am I supposed to be doing? Should I read? Should I run? Am I reading or running because I like to, or because I feel like that’s who I am, or because that’s what the kind of person I want to be would do? Sitting and mulling all of this over is clearly a privilege, probably a waste of time. These thoughts are likely only filling my head because I didn’t have to go to work on a Monday for the first time in a while rather than being indicative of a bigger problem. But here I am, regardless.

 

There’s been a lack in time dedicated to reading in my recent life. I think all I had read by the end of the summer was Missoula by Jon Krakauer, a short story collection about kink, and the 7 Harry Potter audiobooks I filled my days in the laundry room with. I don’t know…I don’t want the girl who spent her childhood organizing and reorganizing her bookshelf to be disappointed in me.

 

I think about Gigi Hadid waltzing around in paparazzi photos with a book underarm, or Kaia Gerber’s internet book club, or aesthetically pleasing images of books on Instagram amongst friends giving unsolicited recs, or influencers posting their latest vacation read. The presence of hot girls reading, shared to us via the internet. It freaks me out that I might – and probably do –create some version of the same thing. I want to read because I love to read, not because of anything else.

 

The other day, I logged on to the Instagram of a club I run (a toxic habit I should really put a stop to). But there we were: I saw an old acquaintance’s Instagram post of the fat stack of books she had received for her birthday. Why are we meant to be looking at this, I thought, and what information are we supposed to gain? Look at me, the image told me. I read books. Do I do this? I don’t want to do this, but I assume on some unconscious level I do the exact same thing. It’s the gaze theory of looking at other people’s bookshelves. Oh, yes, Zadie Smith. Oh, Jeffrey Eugenides. I haven’t read either of these people! Why do I say this?!

 

Love her books or hate them, there’s a passage in Sally Rooney’s new book, Beautiful World, Where Are You that captures my feelings on ‘bookstagram’ better than I’ll ever be able to, it being “…a perfect example of our shallow self-congratulatory ‘book culture,’ in which non-readers are shunned as morally and intellectually inferior, and the more books you read, the smarter and better you are than everyone else.” Oh man, this quote disturbs me.

 

We consume media like books, TV shows, podcasts, films, etc., for pleasure, but what about the pleasure gained by being someone who has seen/read/listened to X Y or Z? It’s absolutely bonkers to think about, too many layers for my brain to handle, the matrix glitching. No thank you, we say, but we (I) can’t escape.

 

I loved the app Goodreads throughout middle and high school, but I deleted it about a year ago. I hated the way the tallying and comparing and rating of what I was reading made me feel. Sure, publishing is a moneymaking industry, but I don’t want to experience the act of reading through that lens. Maybe that’s easier said than done, but I want to try.

 

I’ve been trying to make the reading part of my brain more agile, recently. I need to look at reading like a muscle, at the joy of reading like chasing a runner’s high. Running sucks the first ten times you step out your door. But the eleventh…I like to think it’s possible to be where I was at age ten, to read for myself and not for the self that exists on the internet. I just need to toe the start line.