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Flipping Through the Pages

By Sara Ryan

I was raised on weekly trips to the library and dog-eared novels. My little feet would carry me up the two flights of stairs at a lightning pace, to the children’s section, eager to see what my next adventure within the pages would be. When I wasn’t reading, I was dreaming. From the far-off lands of Narnia, to the dystopian life of Katniss Everdeen, my mind never wandered far from the words that were whispered through books. As I grew, so did my tendency to fly through the pages – I was an unstoppable, locomotive machine, with novels as my fuel. Soon, my reading came to a screeching halt, my adventures no more. What changed? Where did my dreaming go? I longed, craved for its return, to find my solace in the pages once again. 

I don’t remember when I first started to read, it was just something so constant in my life that it seemed utterly impossible for there to have ever been a time I wasn’t reading. My earliest memory with reading was in the living room of my Kay Kay’s apartment. I recall my grandma’s embrace, sitting there snug in the crook of her arm, and reading with her. We are going on a bear hunt, was the picture book of my choosing on many occasions. I’d sit in anticipation, waiting for the family in the story to come across the bear – and then my grandma would bring the story to life with a tickle in the ribs once the bear appeared. I’d shriek and giggle, delighted by the time the story ended. “Again!” I’d ask, not wanting the fun to end. 

Alas, I couldn’t have Kay Kay read out loud to me for the rest of my life, so I had to learn to read. My mom got these big cases of little cards, each with a sentence or two on them, and a picture. We’d sit at the kitchen table, my mother encouragingly nodding her head as I sounded out the constants and vowels, discovering how the words on the page would seep through my eyes and float around in my brain, before spilling out my mouth. But these little “books” were boring – I desired more. I quickly moved on to the longer picture books. I remember one of the I Can Read series, about Biscuit, the little yellow puppy. When I read those books, I wasn’t just reading about a little puppy. To me, Biscuit was all mine, my first dog, and in-between the pages he was alive, cradled in my arms as I held open the picture book. 

Soon enough I was in grade school, and picture books were in my past – I was all about the quick-read chapter books now. I Survived and The Magic Treehouse series were all the rage. Those fifteen minutes of independent reading after recess became my most treasured time of the day, right after snack time, of course. My teachers started to take notice of my passion too, offering suggestions for my next read, especially since I had begun to burn through a book a day. My passion for reading at the time was lost on me, I didn’t exactly realize how special reading was to me. It wasn’t until I took my first standardized test that I realized that maybe I had a talent for reading. I scored high on that test, higher than my classmates by a long shot. I remember being puzzled too, after talking to one of my friends on the playground. “What do you mean you can’t see images in your head when you read?” 

I quickly learned that everyone had something they were good at. Some of my classmates could do math well, others could speak another language. For me, I was good at reading and comprehending it. In third grade there was this program we did, where after finishing a book, we would have to take a test on it. I’d be at the computer corner at least twice a week, taking these comprehension tests on the book I’d just finished. My teacher would complement my scores, praising me for recognizing the message conveyed in the story. I didn’t really care too much though. After all, I just wanted to keep reading. It seemed as if there weren’t enough books in the classroom for me to read, and it would be the end of the world once I got through them all. In fact, just the next year, my fourth-grade teacher gave me a “most likely to be a future librarian” award at the end of the year. I guess he noticed how much I read, considering I went through almost his entire collection. 

Skipping ahead to middle school, where I discovered my first real big chapter books. As you can imagine, I instantly fell in love. The longer novels created a weight in my hands that I was unfamiliar with, and I was thrilled by it. My middle school had a whole new library to explore, too, but most of all, I adored my English teacher’s personal library. It was a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall bookshelf of dark wood, all along the back of the classroom. I had always been the type of student to sit up front, but in English class, I sat in the way back to be closer to the books. During the more mundane moments of class I would attempt to slyly look over my shoulder, and eye the books, scanning their spines for the title of my next read. 

My teachers and friends that year really propelled me to read even more. I had this one friend, Izzy, who introduced me to YA romance novels, and sure enough I was hooked. I would stand at the bus stop, book open and my head craned, chin to chest, reading. I would read some more on the bus, and at every free moment during the school day I was reading. My book even accompanied me to lunch, and despite all my friends surrounding me in conversation, I read on. It’s a miracle I didn’t try reading in the halls while walking to my next class. I recall my friend Izzy telling me she was reading Twilight, and that I should check it out too. I got the book that very afternoon, and by the time I returned to school the next day, I was already finished, and on my way to check out New Moon. My seventh-grade teacher would track our independent reading progress during class. I remember her shocked face, when she realized I had finished all 544 pages in one night. My friend was also irritated when I finished the series in a week, when she herself had not yet finished, despite being the one to introduce me to it.  

After noticing just how much I read, my seventh-grade teacher started giving me more book suggestions, but this time the novels were more mature and probably meant for an older audience, not a thirteen-year-old girl. While I enjoyed the new reading scene, looking back on it now, I think reading books like the ones my teacher recommended propelled me to age faster, mature more than I was supposed to. At one point, after finishing yet another novel with dark themes, my teacher admitted that she “felt bad I’m giving you so many heavy books”. The serious topics weren’t lost on me, I understood the gravity of the messages the pages spoke, but the real question, at my young age, was if I was ready to carry the burdens of an adult world. 

I was still reading novels with darker themes in 8th grade, despite still being young. I remember the feeling of being whiplashed after finishing Monday’s Not Coming by Tiffany D. Jackson. The plot twist Jackson had at the end of the novel sent a shiver down my spine, quite literally. I don’t remember many of the titles of books I’ve read in the past. Sometimes their character’s names, or plot points of the stories come back to me randomly, sparking a frenzy of searching things on google – “That one novel with the character named Tiger who runs away from her mom”. The book that haunts me the most is the one I left half read in my school locker on March 20th, 2020. I don’t even remember the characters from that one, all I know is I left them behind, along with much of my youth, in that very locker. 

Without access to a library during Covid, I bought a Kindle and began reading books digitally. With no real schedule during the pandemic either, I was stay up for hours on end, reading. It was almost like I was nocturnal. I remember finishing The Cellar particularly late one night and then feeling fear grip my chest, the weight of the story crushing down on me. I started choosing books with lighter themes after that. Then, I started high school.

High school stripped me of my independent reading and introduced me to the thick volumes of a wordy textbook. My hours were spent reading Degler and Brinkly, two authors of history texts. I was bored, drained, and more importantly, unwilling to pick up a book. My spark was gone, and when I had free time, it wasn’t spent reading. Instead of having my nose in a book, I had my eyes glued to a screen, my fingers swiping instead of flipping a page. What was apparent though was my longing, I walked with the feeling of always wanting more, not being able to identify what it was I was craving. It wasn’t until my senior year, when one of the mandatory books, Crime and Punishment, reminded me of my old love. I picked up my kindle once again, and thought I’d try giving independent reading a shot again, after not touching a novel in almost four years. I quickly fell back into my old patterns; but this time I would read books way below my reading level. I started with Percy Jackson, a series I had surprisingly never read in my youth. It felt freeing, to discover what was missing. A part of me felt more complete, I felt young once again. I could escape from the more adult things going on in my life, like worrying about where I was going to continue my education. 

While reading offered me an escape, I honestly forgot about my rediscovered passion during my first semester of college. I would once again be spending hours scrolling on my phone, once I was done with my studies. Over the past winter break, I noticed how drained and angry I would become after scrolling. I vowed I wouldn’t let myself keep following that path. I put a screen time limit on my phone and started going to the library again. I’ve read 12 books since making that vow, which was only in late January. I feel grateful to have something other than studying to look forward to, and I’ve begun to crave my next story adventure again. Now, the biggest issue I must face is making sure I have enough time to study, and sleep. 

For me, reading has always been more than a hobby. It’s the ability to gain a pair of wings and simply float away. Reading is what gives me passion and hope when I struggle in the many other avenues of my life. And although I forget about it sometimes, it still feels like the very blood in my veins, the type that allows me to dream far past the confines of what is strictly my reality.