Didn't I Hate Reading Before Quarantine?

Not two months ago, when Washington Governor Jay Inslee placed a stay-at-home order on all residents, I was not a big reader.

In elementary school, I loved reading — but back then, I was homeschooled. I had little to do besides read at that point in my life so that’s what I did. The Penderwicks was one of my favorite series’ right after Harry Potter. When middle school came around, I had new responsibilities: homework, a phone, and a social life (barely), not to mention it just wasn’t cool to read anymore, so I switched to watching beauty guru YouTubers instead of picking up a book — but I still utilized the library once or twice a month.

As I grew older, my reading habit was already dwindling — and then came the unfortunate wrath of high school. My homework load multiplied and I suddenly had friends I had to keep up with. I also discovered Netflix, and online shopping, and Snapchat, and suddenly, my books began to gather dust.

I frequently glanced at my bookshelves longingly; if only there was time for me to read, I sometimes thought, but then came an oh well. and a *sigh*.

But recently, miraculously, now that I myself have been home collecting dust for two months, there is literally nothing to do but read, albeit books I’ve already read before. It seems that I’ve been ignorant of one of the most beautiful and ancient forms of entertainment: the written word.

Okay, okay, perhaps this journey to self-discovery doesn’t include Victor Hugo and Oscar Wilde (though I would like to pick up a Wilde novel at some point in my life) and in fact began with The Maze Runner by James Dashner only so I could watch the movie with Dylan O’Brien.

And, by the way, the book wasn’t amazingly good, so I was pretty discouraged about picking up another one.

Truth be told, I’m not just picky about books. I am very easily bored and seldom sucked into a TV show or book right off the bat. I also have a horrible habit of reading the last page of the book before I start it. I can’t help it.

Thankfully, I picked up another book lying around in my house because I liked the illustration on the cover — it was of a Renaissance painting of a young woman in a blue and yellow dress, glancing softly down to the bottom of the cover where the author’s name, Sarah Dunant, was displayed. The book was called The Birth of Venus, which intrigued me because Venus is the mother of Taurus so I have always felt connected to the planet and goddess (my zodiac obsession is showing — my bad)

So, in short, yes, I judged a book by its cover. But I’m glad I did.

The story is about a young woman living in Renaissance Italy, and it follows her life as she grows up, gets married (at age, what, fifteen? Holy shit), and falls in love with a painter. It may sound dull, but it’s absolutely thrilling in my opinion.

It had moments where I gasped and pages where I cried. It had beautiful narration and a likable main character who feels relatable (even though her story takes place in the 1490s). It was gorgeously written and I couldn’t put it down.

I never thought I would be one for historical fiction, but here we are —perhaps I do need to pick up a Victor Hugo novel. But this novel’s page count was a bit kinder than Hugo’s stories, at only around 400 pages.

I think the reason reading is so hard for me is because I’m cursed with being an impenitent visual learner and if I cannot picture the world I read about, I cannot focus on the story. Luckily, I have developed a tactic to help myself. Whenever I read a book, I cast the characters. I use celebrities, for the most part, and put a face to each character’s name. Able to visualize the characters, the story becomes somehow easier to follow.

I finished the book in a day and I was appalled at how much it affected me. I fell in love with the characters and when the book ended, I felt angry that it was over. That I hadn’t savored it more while it lasted.

Of course, with TV shows there’s often another season or other fans who share the sadness of finishing it with you, but books are different. You read it, and that’s all you get, and then it’s over.

Perhaps that’s part of the intrigue and romance of books — you only get so much. You have to enjoy the beauty and impermanence of the story. You have to accept that you’ll never read something exactly like it again. That’s also the wonderful thing about books — there are millions of beautifully written stories, all entirely unique, and there are thousands that will have a profound effect on your personal life.

You just have to be willing to pick up a book and try.