How reading fiends are made
On becoming a reader — and why fiction is getting harder to hold onto
Last week, I asked for stories about how you became a reading fiend – and whether fiction still holds you. Why?
Well, early last year my wife Harriet, who basically never posts anything on LinkedIn – not from one year to the next – went mad and did actually post something there. It went viral, got well over 100,000 views and well over 600 comments, which obviously made me sick with envy but hey.
What was it about? Well, we both studied English Lit – that’s how we met – and have both always been voracious readers, but Harriet has gradually realised that her own capacity to read fiction has dwindled to almost-nothing.
Thanks to her post I have become increasingly aware that my own reading too has suffered. For a large part of my life, you would not have caught me without a book in my hands or back pocket. I used to read walking down the street, which is obviously not to be recommended, but again – hey.
Looking back I can remember tons of reading incidents, early in life, that basically blew my mind. Probably the most exquisite occurred on the sixth floor of a ten-floor apartment block in Brussels, where I lived between the ages of six and eight. I had a copy of Roger Lancellyn Green’s Tales of King Arthur, and honestly it was a bit of a slog at times because he used a lot of vaguely medieval language and I was only… seven? But I loved the stories and got wrapped up in the sheer nobility of Arthur’s vision for the country he ruled, and (most of) his knights’ commitment to that, apart from beastly evil Mordred, obvs, and as I came to the end I could hardly bear to read the bit when (spoiler alert) Arthur tells Bedivere to chuck his sword in the lake and Bedivere pretends to do it but Arthur can see through the subterfuge and keeps telling him to do it until the sword does finally go, and meanwhile Guinevere sweeps off to a new life in a nunnery and Arthur’s former friend Lancelot quits the scene – and basically I was just in floods of tears.
Inconsolable, but determined to read everything.
I still read loads of non-fiction, but since Harriet’s LinkedIn extravaganza I’ve come to see non-fiction as different because, amid 24-hour news and social media bonfires, it appears to be useful. Another way to say that it’s become increasingly hard for me to “justify” (if only to myself) spending more than a short time on fiction.
This perhaps explains why I’ve become such a big, big fan of short stories, which are obviously easier to fit in. Also: reading George Saunders’s A Swim In A Pond In The Rain made such a great case for the short story form. (If you haven’t already, please read it!) All the same, I’m increasing my consumption of longer fiction too.
So: that’s why I asked for your stories. And I was delighted by the response. I expected enthusiasm. What I didn’t expect was such warmth, specificity, and honesty. Here’s a taste of what came back.
Charmian Spencer’s mother bribed her with sixpence per book – a stroke of genius that doubled her pocket money and opened a door to Treasure Island, Anne of Green Gables, and eventually Shakespeare read aloud on Sunday afternoons, with her mother filling in as the “band of brothers” and improvising magnificently1. Peter Grimsdale resisted his father’s attempts to press Jack London on him, got hooked instead on Swallows and Amazons, and years later watched his own daughter reject Swallows and Amazons – only to reach out from under her duvet at midnight and seize the very book he’d been trying to give her all along. Call of the Wild2. Finished by morning.
Melanie Sims was a slow reader until The Death of Grass made her want to speed up3. Ryan Turpin moved from the Hardy Boys and Goosebumps to Where the Red Fern Grows and Bridge to Terabithia – books that, as he puts it, spoke to him about identity, meaning, and pain in ways that serials tend not to, and many parents of young children don’t know how to4.
Almost everyone who wrote in admitted something: it’s harder than it used to be. The culprits named most often were phones, news, podcasts, streaming, and – as Ryan simply called it – life. Pat Maier put it plainly: she’s horrified and hooked by what’s going on in the US, and feels she needs to know when it will end5. Fiona Watson traded late-night reading for late-night streaming6. Susan Wade finds herself wondering whether fiction is time well spent compared to something more informative.7
But none of them have given up. Peter Frampton reads the books his daughter recommends, and the shared conversation afterwards is the whole point8. Ryan tore through a thrift-shop copy of The Guns of Navarone last month. Melanie says she needs fiction more than ever – not for escapism, but because it helps her understand the world. And Ryan, reflecting on all this, landed on something worth sitting with: growing up, he believed fiction was for entertainment and non-fiction for education. Now he wonders if that isn’t backward.
Your turn
If you haven’t replied already, I’d love to hear your version of this story. How did you become a reader – was there a moment, a book, a person? And can you still lose yourself in fiction, or has something changed? Hit reply and tell me.
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1 Improvising magnificently. I really wasn’t into reading until I was about 8 or 9, as I think I’d worked out that, if I helped my lovely mother in the kitchen whilst my two big sisters read in the sitting room, I got all of her attention.
On a Saturday morning we were taken to the local library, a huge stone building that was quiet, and seemingly full of children’s books — though the name “Reference Library” on an arrow pointing up to the next flight of stairs always intrigued me. My mother decided to offer me sixpence if I read a book in two weeks. That doubled my pocket money.
The first big book I remember was The Children’s Compendium of Short Stories, and I loved it. I felt so grown up reading such a big book. When you’re eight and your sisters are 11 and 15, anything that makes you feel grown up is a huge bonus! Then I read books like Treasure Island, The Famous Five, Anne of Green Gables.
My parents used to read Shakespeare, and when I was 16, my first boyfriend came over for Sunday afternoon tea. My parents were reading out loud from Henry V — my father was the King and my mother filled in as the “band of brothers”. At “Once more unto the breach…” she got very carried away and yelled out “Come on you lazy bastards, move your arses!” My boyfriend was visibly shocked, but we were all delighted. I was very lucky to have this love for literature encouraged by my parents. – Charmian Spencer
2 Call of the Wild. I was slower than my father wanted me to be about reading. I read car magazines and car books, and on one bad day he said: “If you don’t look out you’ll be standing on the side of the street watching other people going by in their cars and you won’t have one.” It was a bit out of character, and I must have driven (ha!) him mad with my relentless monologue about the minutiae of different cars in the street.
He gave me his favourite childhood book, Call of the Wild by Jack London. I didn’t want to read a book about a dog. I did read Moonraker by Ian Fleming, which wasn’t entirely approved of, and then a novelisation of the then hit show The Man from U.N.C.L.E. I still have my UNCLE ID card, along with the photostatted note they sent out to those who applied to join THRUSH – the Man from UNCLE equivalent of SMERSH. Maybe my desire to join the bad guys reflects the path I was toying with taking.
But then along came Swallows and Amazons and within a fortnight I’d read all eight of the series. Parental approval shot up and I was on my way to Lord of the Rings and so on. Though books about cars remained my favourite – I write books about cars now.
I never did read Call of the Wild, but I did try Swallows and Amazons on my daughter Lydia. No go. I read her the first two pages and she shook her head. But for the hell of it I gave Jack London’s Call of the Wild a go. After a page she reached out from the duvet and took hold of it. By morning she had finished it. And devoured the follow-up White Fang a few days later. – Peter Grimsdale
3 Want to speed up. I am a slow reader and always have been. The first book that set me alight was The Death of Grass by John Christopher. I was only able to read it if I finished the set text we had to read at school, and I so wanted to read it that I managed to speed up my reading!
The other book that set me alight was Red Fox by Charles G.D. Roberts — to be so immersed in this animal’s world captivated me, and in many ways that’s why I still find fiction so important. You are opened up in ways you couldn’t imagine, seeing things anew.
I read fiction continually and it hasn’t decreased in recent times — quite the opposite. I need it more than ever. And not really for escapism (though that helps in these times) but because it helps me understand the world. I read contemporary authors, people responding to the now, though that might be through fiction set in a different era. – Melanie Sims
4 Don’t know how to. As a really young reader of 6, 7, 8 and so on, it was all about suspense and drama. The Hardy Boys, The Boxcar Children, Goosebumps of course, and the incredible Animorphs. The more drama, the better, even if it meant raiding my older sister’s bookshelves for an entry of Sweet Valley High or The Baby-Sitters Club.
Whilst series like those were a huge part of my experience at that age, a number of standalone novels — among them Where the Red Fern Grows, Old Yeller, and Bridge to Terabithia — gave me more than entertainment. They spoke to me about identity, meaning, and pain in ways that serials tend not to, and many parents of young children (mine among them) don’t know how to.
I can admit that in recent years it’s been more difficult to reach an immersion point in written fiction. The availability of the internet, and specifically of algorithm-driven short-form content, is certainly a factor for me, but I also blame life. Growing up. Taking on other hobbies. And especially having young children. Of course, my children also compel me to approach fiction from new directions. When I read children’s books to them, I’m affected in different but no less meaningful ways compared to when I read fiction for myself.
When we tackled C.S. Lewis last year, or The Indian in the Cupboard before that, with my oldest, I often find myself surprised and reinspired when revisiting stories and ideas I had forgotten to care about. That said, I don’t find it in any way impossible to be drawn into fiction even today, when the right book and amount of free time coincide. Only last month, I devoured a copy of The Guns of Navarone, recently acquired from a charity shop. Its age notwithstanding, it was right up my alley, with rock climbing, sailing, and plenty of drama.
As I answer your questions, I’m led to think plenty about the role that reading can play in our lives. Growing up, I believed that fiction was for entertainment and non-fiction for education. Now I wonder if that isn’t backward. – Ryan Turpin
5 When it will end. Have I noticed that it’s harder to read fiction these last few years? Absolutely. It may be a cliché but I do think it’s my phone. In particular the excellent political podcasts that grab my attention. I’m horrified and hooked by what’s going on in the US. I think I need to know when it will end. This stops me reading much, unfortunately. – Pat Maier
6 Late night streaming. Enid Blyton!!! Loved the adventures, the camaraderie, the settings – the Famous Five books. With Five on a Treasure Island, I wish I could say I remember the moment, but I know I used to read a lot lying in the garden of my parents’ house in the summer holidays.
The last two novels I’ve read, I tore through in a day. I read much less than I used to, before the pandemic. Partly due to streaming at night in bed (iPad) before going to sleep — when I used to read, I never scrolled in bed at night, that would have been disastrous!! I’ve joined a writing group, which I love. – Fiona Watson
7 Something more informative. My first encounter with reading for fun was via my mother and her sisters’ childhood books. Although I’m not near them at present (Mexico), I remember The Lonesomest Doll, The Little Lame Prince, The Blythe Girls, Nancy Drew, The Enchanted Peacock and others. I loved these books, as much for the wonderful illustrations as for the words.
I am not so keen on fiction these days (although much keener than I was ten years ago), because I feel as if I’m not learning anything in particular and that I should concentrate on spending time reading something informative. What’s helped me a bit along those lines is the fact that I’m now in a book group in which fiction is pretty much the name of the game. That’s my two cents. – Susan House Wade
8 The whole point. My addiction to news gets in the way of the delayed gratification of long-form fiction. But I’m doing better. My reading-fiend daughter tells me of a book she is reading, and then I read it too. My connection with her serves as inspiration. Even if it takes me a while to finish the book, I savour it and plough on until finished, and when I proudly announce that, we can proceed to compare notes. – Peter Frampton