Teenage Ems would have the biggest strop on with me right now. I’m talking inconsolable tears, things thrown across the room and screaming hellfire at me – PURE MELTDOWN MATERIAL – and I don’t blame her one bit. You see, in my prime, I could probably get through a book in 4-5 days and truthfully, I’ve only read about 6 since I left school in 2010, and I can only recall two of the authors (Brené Brown and Ray Celestin), so what happened to me?What had once meant so much to me I had turned into a waste of time; why should I be sitting around reading when I could be cleaning, working, doing something constructive? Overnight it turned from a joy into something self-indulgent and felt selfish.
It breaks my heart to look back at the 9 years since I left Sixth Form and to think of the worlds I haven’t visited, characters not yet met and the feeling of being so immersed into a story I’m left reeling. The ineffable gladness I feel scrolling through the #bookstagram tag on Insta, and the reminder from my Nanny and Dad this weekend gone that I can still be that 17 year old and fall head over heels in love with books again is enough of a jolt for me to do something about it.
So here is a promise to books, and to 17 year old me: I’m sorry I forgot you, I’m sorry I forgot the adventures we had, but now I’ve found you again I won’t let you out of my sight. That’s a promise.