The Writer Who Can't Read

Blame the smartphones!

I have a confession to make, and it’s one I’m somewhat ashamed of. Promise you won’t think less of me after I tell you, okay?

Here goes: I can’t remember the last time I finished a book. There isn’t a clear instance in recent memory where I picked up a full-length novel and actually reached the last page.

That’s not to say I haven’t tried. In my nightstand drawer, I currently have three different titles bookmarked a few chapters in. My office has a massive IKEA shelf with 16 cubbies and half of them are overflowing with books, all of which I once hoped to read, or have attempted to read. And at the time of writing this, I just brought home three more books from the library.

The fact that I struggle to finish books is somewhat of a point of shame for me. What good is a writer who doesn’t read ‘til the end? To be fair, I read plenty of news and magazine articles, but consuming just one style of writing isn’t a very balanced literary diet. And even then, I only get halfway through most articles before clicking away.

There was a time when I was really, really good at reading books. As a kid, I tore through novel after novel, often finishing entire series in a week or two. I loved Harry Potter, Percy Jackson & the Olympians, 39 Clues, Molly Moon, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Magic Tree House, and Warriors, to name a few. There simply weren’t enough books to keep me busy.

So what happened? I ask myself this question all the time. The answer I have is what I call the Luddite hypothesis. Back in the olden days (my olden days, which would be the late 1990s to mid 2010s), computers or smartphones were way less plentiful, or at least didn’t take up the space that they do in today’s world.

There was no TikTok, Twitter, Snapchat, or Instagram for a big part of my life. And even once those apps emerged, I wasn’t an early adopter or a frequent user. My youth and tween years, as I’ve come to realize, were remarkably quiet.

I wasn’t constantly firehosed with notifications, information and bad hot takes from social media, or pressured to post online in order to maintain a digital presence. The closest thing I had to social media as a kid were Webkinz and Club Penguin, and my parents were pretty strict with how long I was allowed to be on there everyday.

So, in the absence of that, I had time to read. I had time to roam around outside or ride my bike in circles around the neighborhood when I was bored, or construct a fantasy world with my stuffed animals. My attention span was way longer, and I didn’t seek instant gratification when I did activities for fun.

Today, I’m on all the apps (and frankly, I’d appreciate if they stopped coming out with new ones — looking at you, Threads). My brain is stuck on a dopamine hamster wheel that’s fueled by likes, follows, and internet drama happening at lightning speed.

And that, friends, is why I believe I’m incapable of reading books. My attention span is shot; I can’t bring myself to read more than a few dozen pages before the task feels like eating gravel. There are many times when my eyes glaze over as I read a sentence, and I have to re-read it like a half dozen times before it makes sense.

Whenever I experience a modicum of boredom as I read, my brain just shuts down. Once I put the bookmark in, that’s the end. I probably won’t pick the book up again until I find it abandoned in a drawer or collecting dust in a corner weeks or months later.

I think that’s because my brain is thinking: Why would I tolerate boredom when I have a smartphone that gives me instant excitement?

Now, there’s certainly a chance I could have struggled finishing books in my youth more than I remember. I know I had trouble finishing some (sorry, Series of Unfortunate Events) and also had a knack for abandoning games and projects after I tried my hand at them for a short while. Maybe there’s something else going on, like a touch of undiagnosed ADHD.

But without surefire evidence, I’m just gonna metaphorically shake my fist and scream, “those damn smartphones!” Having one in my pocket has undoubtedly changed my life and my habits. I think my attention span — and my ability to handle boredom — has shrunk so much that I’m incapable of reading anything cover to cover.

Okay, maybe not incapable. I’ve made it through a few novels in the past few years, though there seems to be no rhyme or reason to the books I finish. I also read manga, and you can easily tear through a single volume in an evening or less.

But as for the vast majority of books — my eyes will only skim a few chapters before putting them down. That sucks because there are genuinely so many books that I want to read, both fiction and non-fiction.

I have a mental list of sci-fi, great works of journalism, historical accounts, biographies, how-tos, and important literature that I’ve noted as vital reading materials over the years. The problem is, when I get the book in my hands, I quickly lose interest in the actual words on the page.

I had to quit a friend’s book club a few months back because I kept getting so frustrated with myself that I never finished the novels on time. Sometimes I’d show up to the discussion with just a few chapters read, which was enough to talk about the major themes. But I started to feel the weight of all those unread pages, which felt like work, which felt like something that I just didn’t want to deal with anymore.

Don’t get me wrong — I love books. I love buying and skimming them and collecting them on my shelves. I love sharing books with friends and family when I feel like they can add value to their lives. I love talking about books and analyzing them in the company of others. But what I don’t love is the fact that books sometimes make me feel bored, and boredom keeps me from finishing what I’ve started.

So that’s my confession. I’ll try anyway to get through my library books this week. I can promise I’ll at least start them before they’re dumped back in the drop box — but only after they collect a little dust.