How the books I read this summer made me feel
On finding joy (and magic) in middle-grade fiction
i.
For the last two years, I haven’t enjoyed reading fiction. Instead, I read books on parenting and early childhood. As I finished each book I found myself wanting more. More of the same. All the books I was reading had a lot in common and cited the same research. Yet I found comfort in reading them again and again. I wanted the information etched into my brain. I wanted to absorb everything until it became second nature. I wanted to be the perfect parent. I wanted to make no mistake. I wanted the impossible. And so I read more books on parenting than I needed to. I read until I couldn’t read anymore. I read until I was ready to read fiction again. Except I didn’t know where to begin.
I wanted to read something that brought me joy. I wanted adventure and mystery. I wanted stories that left me feeling good. I wanted page-turners. I wanted an escape from reality. I wanted Harry Potter and Pride and Prejudice. Nothing in adult fiction drew me in. Nothing felt right. I didn’t know what to read.
Last month, I found what I wanted at a random bookstore. I had stared at the bookshelves for more than twenty minutes when the lady at the counter approached me. Can I help you? she said. Yes. Yes. I told her. I am in a reading rut and I need to get back into reading fiction. Can you help me?
And she did. She found me a book with wizards and witches. With adventure and fantasy. With magical worlds and realms. With characters who possessed magical powers. She found me a book without gory violence and death, without melancholy and navel-gazing. She found me a page-turner. A book that got me excited, reading late into the night. A book that was exactly what I was looking for when I didn’t know where to look.
She helped me realize that I should have looked in the middle-grade fiction section. Middle-grade fiction. Fiction written for 9 to 12-year-olds.
ii.
I bought the book she suggested and read it in a week. Then I headed to our local library and found more books to read. And since then I have read four books. In four weeks. All middle-grade fantasy fiction.
As I lost myself in these fantasies I felt like it was all coming back to me.
Of being 10 and sitting in a single spot, reading for hours, interrupted only by my mother for meals, bathroom breaks, and chores. Waiting for weekly library visits and reading on the rickshaw ride back home. Devouring books meant to last a week over the next 24 hours. Reading until I fell asleep and reading again first thing in the morning. Being so deeply immersed in these magical realms that I could almost imagine it around me. Walking through our backyard looking for clues, looking for mysteries to solve. Writing fan fiction because I couldn’t get enough. And feeling within me magic and joy, and a warm, soft fire that only books can bring.
As I lost myself in these books, I was once again 10 years old. While I couldn’t read uninterrupted for hours, I read every chance I got. I read after my son fell asleep. I read before my son woke up. I thought about the characters while I played with my son. I thought about the book while I cooked dinner.
I read instead of picking up my phone.
iii.
I wrote this three years ago - “ The birth of a baby is also the birth of a mother. As the baby leaves the womb, so does a part of the woman. Around when my son emerged and was placed on my chest, and I held him close, crying, and laughing, my former self left the room and I forgot to say goodbye.”
It felt like we lost our former selves. Like we lost them amidst the novelty and busyness of a change. As we entered our teens, as we entered the workforce, as we got into relationships, as we had kids, at each of these milestones it felt like we lost a little bit of ourselves to make space for the new.
But what if these former selves are never lost? What if they only remain hidden? Forgotten in an attic of former selves. What if our former selves are all waiting to come out? What if all we have to do is dust those cobwebs, jog our memory, and think about all the things we enjoyed when we were 9? Or 15? Or 22?
Parenting consumes you in every way. And you can lose yourself in it. There is always a fire. Or a storm. You're constantly swimming against a current or being dragged into a whirlpool. And you forget little aspects of yourself that make you, you. You forget that being a parent does not define you.
What if all you need is a little nudge? A tap on your shoulder. A zap of electricity to remember old hobbies and pastimes. What if those old hobbies still bring you joy? What if you can feel that magic once again like you did all those years ago? What if the child inside you never grew up? What if she still exists, waiting for you to coax her out?
What if all she needs, what if all you need, is a book?
Thank you so much for reading. I hope to write again soon.
Beautifully written. Took me back to my childhood. Loved it !