I read a blog this morning (https://www.likesbooks.com/blog/) about whether readers are born or made, whether we can raise our kids to be readers or if genetically they are just born that way. It got me thinking about my own journey as a lover of books. 

 

Genetically speaking, reading is in my blood. Both of my parents love to read, though my dad did so much less often when I was a child than he does now. Several of my grandparents loved to read, especially my maternal grandfather, who rabidly collected books. Many of my aunts and uncles and cousins are also big readers, and several have jobs in journalism and publishing. So, if there is a “reader” gene, I likely have it.

 

However, from the nurture point of view, I was also raised to love books. My parents read to my siblings and I often as children, and I have many favorites, like Pinkerton, Behave and The Day Jimmy’s Boa Ate the Wash. As I grew, I fell in love with Amelia Bedelia and Ramona Quimby. During my preteen years, I voraciously consumed Nancy Drew Mysteries and The Babysitter’s Club and The Gymnasts series, always begging my mom for more or scouring the library for the few stocked on their shelves. 

 

And, then, something happened. I became busy with the sports and clubs and productions of Junior High and High School, and I seem to have stopped reading, except for the assignments of the classics for English class. To be honest, I can’t remember what, or even if I read at all during those years. And they carried through to college, where once again I was so busy with class assignments and studying, and social obligations that I seem to have lost touch with reading for pleasure. Oh, there are a few bright spots. A friend introduced me to Jane Austen (Thanks, Stacy!). And one summer while I was working as a receptionist at a law firm I read Les Miserables by Victor Hugo—still one of my favorites. But, by and large, I didn’t read books of my own choosing. This seems sad to me, though, at the time, I hardly missed them. 

 

Some time after graduating, I began to discover reading again, slowly. I started reading the Mrs. Murphy Mystery Series by Rita Mae Brown, and fed my brain interesting history books. Then, about a year and a half out of school, I decided to try my hand at writing one. It was to be historical fiction, and I spent half a year happily devouring research books on my chosen subject and time period. During that time, I read other things, off and on, but I still was not back to the voracious reading of my childhood. 

 

Until I received the book Outlander by Diana Gabaldon for Christmas 2005. I devoured it, as much as a person can devour an 850-page book. Then I gobbled up the next four installments in the series, and, having exhausted Gabaldon’s backlist, branched out to other authors. Eloisa James, Lisa Kleypas, Carla Kelly, Julia Quinn, Susan Carroll. I became a glutton for books, consuming three or four a week. And in the process I discovered some of my favorite authors—authors who influenced my own writing and inspired me to keep trying—Deanna Raybourn, Mary Stewart, Tasha Alexander, Susanna Kearsley, and Sarah Addison Allen. 

 

Now, I still read an average of two books a week, depending on the size, but I’ve had to learn to curb my appetite so that I have time to actually write. It’s far too easy to be swept away by a good story and forget to write my self-assigned word count for the day. 

 

So, do I believe that readers are born or made? I don’t know. Perhaps a little of both. Though, I would like to think that anyone can become an enthusiastic reader, if provided with the right material. While I was in elementary school they introduced the Book-It program, where students who read a proscribed number of books per month or quarter were awarded a star to get a free personal pan pizza from Pizza Hut. My mother worked tirelessly with my siblings and I to make certain we always earned our star. For most of my siblings and I, this was no challenge, but my brother Adam was another story. He just didn’t like to read, unless the book had something to do with sports, be it about a particular team or seemingly boring facts and statistics. So my mom searched high and low for books Adam would read. To her, the subject matter was not what was important, it was the exercising of the reading muscles in my brother’s brain and the achievement he felt at earning his pizza. Does Adam read more often now as an adult? No. But he does continue to collect and peruse sports books, and he may not have done so had it not been for my mom. 

 

I also think that as readers we go through stages. Sometimes we want to read, sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we’re too busy to even think about picking up a book. Does this mean that because we don’t feel the itch to do so we’re not really big readers? No. I think it just means we’re human beings. And, as such, life and whimsy will take us in different directions. The important thing is that, whether it be a few weeks or a few years, we will always eventually return to the written word and the stories we so crave.

 

What do you think? Are readers born or made? Do readers always read, or does the urge ebb and flow like everything else in life?