By the time I was nine, reading was no longer just something I liked to do but something I was compelled to do. As an only child in a single-parent household, in a tobacco-country village where the school sometimes combined grades to fill a classroom, where chronic illness and homemade clothes made me stand out even more than any other newcomer — I was alone a lot. Books helped.
By the time I was grown, I recognized that books made any situation better. When I was sad or sick, I would reread a favourite story. When I was celebrating or enjoying a day off, I would go to a library or bookstore. Even as an adult, at times I have retreated into my relationship with books. Maybe I do rely upon that relationship a little less now, but I recognize its value even more.
Now, more than half of the reading I do is related to my writing. For the past decade, I’ve read an average of 288 books each year. If statistics is your jam, you can browse my shelves on LibraryThing and GoodReads and peek at my decade of reading. (2023’s are here, if you like to keep current.)
In short, if I need to know something, I read. Reading makes my world bigger. Last year, 57% of my reading was penned by writers of colour and I visited 32 countries on the page. I read about people who work and live, dream and love differently than I do. And I often recognize myself on the page too. Books reliably offer a sense of belonging that I still search for in the world off-the-page.
I’ll still be reading for research in 2024. And for review work. But I’ll also be continuing my short story reading projects (in 2024, Carol Shields and Nancy Hale). And I’ll be rereading some other favourites in 2024 and “discovering” new ones too.
(Curious about the writing resources I’ve read and reviewed in particular? More each year, a mix of new and backlisted books. See here.)