Unlike every member of my family, I’ve never been a voracious reader. Throughout my secondary and university education, I’ve read all of my academic texts. While getting my PhD, I learned that I very much enjoy journal articles. Reading fiction for pleasure has long eluded me. It seems like a habit I should have and so I have endeavored over the years to cultivate it. No dice.

When I was gripped with depression in 2018, I gave up trying to maintain my interest in novels. Between the numbness of the disease and the fog created by the medication, I couldn’t keep the stories in my head long enough to see a book through.

Two weeks ago, I decided to try again. I went to the local library and secured a library card. I decided to start small, a short novel. I’ve never read Breakfast at Tiffany’s, or anything by Truman Capote for that matter, and it’s relatively short length made it feel achievable. I just finished it and, although I hesitate to say it, I liked reading it.

Maybe this will become a thing.

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