It’s feasible, advisable even, to hold a book in one hand and a sandwich/fork in the other
Idon’t ascribe to New Year’s Resolutions. I think we’re all doing our best every day, so why add any more pressure into the mix of a busy life? But my nine-year-old somehow became aware of the concept of pledging to improve oneself anyway, and he informed me his resolution was to read more books. This wasn’t a huge surprise – he is likely to be found reading by moonlight long after lights-out is called and it’s with great reluctance he closes a book to wait until the following day to pick it up again.
Still, as a complete bibliophile and someone who believes in the power of reading to children, his decision to read more was music to my ears. It has long been said that books are a gift for life – everyone has that one book they could re-read over and over, a book they’ll never loan to anyone for fear it’s not returned. I certainly do – it’s The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. It was difficult to pick just one; in truth, there are several I consider too precious to loan to even my most trusted friends.
To me, books are oxygen, preferable to Netflix and, at times, socialising with other people. There, I said it! I can’t be expected to sit in a coffee shop and nod politely or tut in admonishment, whatever the conversation requires, when the latest DI Rebus novel awaits on my bedside locker and he’s about to crack the case. A conversation with a fellow booklover is truly enjoyable; dissecting the characters and plot lines and agonising over an ending while the coffee goes cold is time well spent.
Is it escapism? It’s certainly powerful to sit and lose oneself in an imaginary world. For readers, books offer something real life can’t compete with. For most of my life, the world has been relatively stable, the Gulf War a scary blip on an otherwise carefree childhood, for which I count myself very lucky. I read feverishly then, devouring every book series I could get my hands on: The Babysitters Club, the Sweet Valley High series, and everything Roald Dahl and Enid Blyton had to offer. Comforting and mysterious and very addictive, they offered thrilling adventures in imaginary worlds. Books were my constant companions and my local library in Carrigaline was my favourite place to go every Saturday.
Adulthood, as it invariably does, brought an end to my carefree state and instead brought exam stress, mortgage repayments, babies and far less time to read. In more recent times, Brexit, Covid and war have become part of our world, and it all adds up to instability, uncertainty, fear and too many what-ifs to contemplate. Making time to read has never been more important. So I read more voraciously than ever before. The genre is irrelevant – if the fictional characters feel real, and the plot grabs my attention, I’m in.
One of my current favourite powerful books is Irish Women’s Speeches: Voices That Rocked The System by Sonja Tiernan. I was a child when Mary Robinson was elected President of Ireland, and vividly remember the excitement that rippled in the air around my primary teacher when, with tears in her eyes, she told us we were living through a genuinely historic moment. I didn’t understand it fully then, but when I first picked that book off the shelves those feelings came flooding back, and now with young children in the house, I’m happy for it to take pride of place on our bookshelf.
Thankfully, my family love to read as well. There is a bookshelf in most rooms in our house and our tastes range from literary classics to autobiographies. A recent gift I received was Gary Barlow’s autobiography, A Better Me. This year’s Christmas gift to myself was Zen In The Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury – two very different books but both immersive and powerful reads.
I am aware though that not everyone feels the absolute joy that is opening the cover and inhaling the smell of a new book. Since my debut Blinding Lies was published I’ve revelled in becoming a contemporary of writers I admire, and as Twisted Truth is published, that feeling intensifies. But it has come with unexpected realities. Namely, the confession from some friends, family members and even strangers, when they are told I’m an author, ‘Oh I don’t have time to read.’ It’s always said in a tone that implies I must be neglecting something more important in order to finish a book. I usually nod politely and smile, because I am sympathetic to someone who doesn’t know the pleasure of getting lost in a book. You have time to eat, don’t you? And in my experience, it’s perfectly feasible, in fact it’s even advisable, to hold a book in one hand and a sandwich/fork in the other.
World Book Day will be celebrated on April 23 this year. In schools all over the world, children will be encouraged to bring their favourite book into class and dress up as their favourite character. For many children, it will cement their love of books; for others, it will be an introduction to the power of such escapism. It’s a wonderful tradition of celebrating the constant companion that is books. Our family tradition, in recent times, is to visit our local library to borrow some books, and to visit a nearby bookshop to buy a book we want to keep – I have been warned that if this tradition continues, we’ll need another book shelf! But it’ll be worth it.
Whenever I’m in a reading slump, I can browse my shelf full of trusted classics that I know will bring me back again to someone else’s world, to someone else’s life, to someone else’s dreams. Whether it’s The Book Thief, or Elinor Oliphant, or Frodo Baggins, or indeed retired Inspector
John Rebus, I know I’ll be in a safe space.