I sincerely don’t understand how people can resist the urge to read. How people can willingly not like to read. It’s one of those things I just can’t wrap my mind around. These are my most valuable possessions. They’re my worlds, the friends I’ve made, have never lost contact, and have saved me. The people I’ve cried over, the worlds I’ve eagerly explored. They’re not just pages that make your fingers dry from running your hands over them, they’re not just bindings of paper that give you slight little cuts or dog eared reminders. They are worlds and universes and adventures and love and tragedy and deceit and passion and soul.
So when people ask me why I like to read, I tend to tell them because I just love to lose myself in the fantasy of another life. But it’s more than that. It’s the praise of someone’s imagination. Someone’s belief in a character, someone’s own little world they’ve slaved over to perfect.
And I used to judge people for what they read and am ashamed of that. Because you should read whatever the heck you want. Read so that you lose yourself for a couple of hours, read so that you can discover yourself inside the writing, read so that you can better your world. As one of my favorite authors once said “We read to know we are not alone,” (C.S. Lewis) and that’s why you should read. I firmly believe that reading gives you hope. It gives you strength. It lets you know that no matter what you’re going through, you’ll get through it, you might not have the help of dragons or armies or dogs or spaceships or others, but you’ll have your imagination. And sometimes that’s all you need.