There are those who read because they just love to do it, and there are those who read because they have to do it. That's a key difference in verb usage, and it's intentional.
Many people love to read. It's fun for them to collect books and to fill their free hours with new worlds and stories or histories and real crime. They read their preferred genre, or not. They just really like the way that they get to watch a story unfold right before their eyes, all thanks to a set of pages, bound together.
Believe me when I say that there is obviously nothing wrong with reading because you love it. Isn't that the definition of reading for pleasure? And reading does grant me a good amount of utility. I do love to learn a new world and new characters, and I really enjoy getting to know an author's style, and more often than not, reading inspires my writing in some fashion.
But I don't read because I love it.
I read because I need it.
Yes, really. I need to.
There are a litany of reasons for this, but most of them stem back many years, to when I was a kid growing up mostly by myself after about age 11. I couldn't go anywhere, seeing as I couldn't drive, so what were my options? Books and music (which I'm sure I'll attempt to handle in a different post, because holy jeez) and later, with more seriousness, writing.
From a very young age, I learned that if I wanted a reprieve from the strain of my day-to-day life, all I had to do was slip between the covers of a book. Between the paragraphs on the pages. Between letters in the phrases. I could lose myself that way. I could lose sight of whatever was going on in my life, and unfortunately, there was (with rather alarming regularity) always something negative and dramatic going on in my life. Reading was one of the only ways I could discern that allowed me to leave without ever physically going anywhere and, without my ever realizing it (until much later in life), it very quickly became my primary outlet and sanity keeper. Later, I would begin to write in an attempt to vent all of these feelings out of my head - that started around age 14 - but for a few years, it was me and my books, my books and me. Whether said books were from my then quite meager collection, or borrowed from my school or public library didn't matter. I treasured them. They helped me in a thousand ways. They were my coping mechanism.
And, as an adult, I have realized that in all honesty? Not much has changed.
Take this evening for example: I left work in a rather foul mood, because of a very specific reason. I got home and I was able to (mostly) shake off the ickies and be in a good mood for my kiddo and hubs, but (as the ickies are wont to do) it crept back up on me by about 9PM. By 9:30, I was trying like hell to get lost and wander around in a book, and already, the distraction was helping, nevermind that the book itself isn't actually all that great.
Reading keeps me generally sane. It keeps me focused outwardly as well as in. It helps me cope. And sure, it gives me something to collect, but more importantly, it allows me to find inner peace when everything around me is apeshit and a nasty red color and just plain mean. I need it.
And I really wouldn't have it any other way.
Besides:
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