Why can’t I read anymore? It’s a frustrating conundrum. I have a mound of started novels by my bed, each with a bookmarker sticking out like tongues wagging at me from the first 100 pages. I keep adding more books to the pile, but I don’t add many pages to what I’ve read. What is going on in my head?
I’m a life-long avid reader. I started young, before first grade, with Dick and Jane. I have hundreds of books under my belt, and not pulp fiction, classics. I’ve read most of the great books of antiquity, most of the world-renowned authors. I can’t list them all. You know who they are – Steinbeck, Melville, Tolstoy, Dostoyevski, Dante, Plato, Vonnegut. Those guys, the old dead ones.
Seldom have I had much interest in contemporary authors, be they Stephen King or Michael Crichton. Too much literal surface story. I loved books that were philosophically challenging, ambiguous, allegorical, full of symbolism and buried meanings that revealed universal truths. Now, they don’t even draw me in.
After 30 years as a literature teacher analyzing and coping with reluctant readers, searching for causes and solutions, I find myself rowing the same boat. Am I victim of the same causes, or are my obstacles more unique?
I keep telling myself that if I find the right author, the right book, I’ll begin reading again, but to be honest, it’s not working. Most recently I bought “Infinite Jest” by David Foster Wallace. It’s a mind blower at 1,079 pages, but I can’t stay with it.
What’s happening to me? This column is a self-analysis. Sometimes writing about problems leads to a solution. We shall see. However, I’ve just stated another contradiction. I’m an avid writer. You’d think writers would have a life-long affinity for reading. I haven’t written a novel yet, but my 30 years of columns adds up to 1,331,000 words. If it were a novel, it would be the second longest novel ever written.
What goes on in my head when I try to read? Hmm. First off, I become impatient easily. I want the story to rocket ahead. I want every word to push the storyline down the road. I’m not impressed with fanciful descriptions and detailed scenes of sideline events. I feel like the authors are showing off their talents rather than telling a story. But if that’s true, why am I tackling ‘Infinite Jest?”
Perhaps I’m critical because I’m used to developing my own written ideas in 800 words. Not much room for adjectives and adverbs in my pieces. I stick to nouns and verbs.
Maybe I’m jealous of other authors. When I read passages that I feel are less interesting than my own, I feel a twinge of resentment that they got published and I did not. Of course, I’ve never tried. Why not? Well, that’s a problem to be solved in a future column.
Researching the causes of reading’s decline in today’s society, there’s mention of dopamine, a neurotransmitter that has been called the body’s reward activator, controlling our pleasure center. It’s reported that seeking new information releases dopamine, like reading Facebook, Twitter and Buzzfeed. Every tweet provides a treat. Perhaps I’m getting my pleasure fix from disjointed clusters of random information on my glow screens, and they’ve replaced my traditional reading rushes of yore.
Our PA love loft was a sanctuary for many years, full of books and no network signals. During my recent visit, I secured Wi-Fi and bought a flat-screen television. During this year’s visit, my evenings were spent scrolling through Netflix and Amazon seeking out action movies.
One cause for becoming a life-long reluctant reader has been connected tightly to children getting a late start at reading until after they have evolved a sense of preference. If taught to read and enjoy books before they learn to prefer one thing over another, reading is never judged as a thing to like or dislike. It is a part of their original face. Once a child prefers to dislike reading, it’s a life-long struggle to change his mind. Postponing reading skills also makes eventual reading more difficult, contributing to the impulse to prefer not to.
Not as much study has gone into why avid readers burn out and turn to video and short paragraphs.
What else can classic profound novels give to me that I haven’t already gleaned? Sometimes I feel like I’ve learned all the philosophy and cosmic consequence I need to know to make it to the end of days. Classics don’t have the guaranteed promise of further enlightenment that they once held. Now I just want escape through car chases, magical powers, and intrigue. Bring me “Game of Thrones.”
One tarnished bright spot is that I still enjoy reading nonfiction. Currently, I am reading “The History of the Blues by Francis Davis.” I’ve been reading it for two months and I’m on page 87. The going is slow because each time I read of minstrels or songs from the 1800s, I’m able to visit the audio collections at the Library of Congress and actually listen to music collected by Alan Lomax while I read. The book integrates well with modern multimedia. I can play “Crazy Blues” by Mamie Smith 1920 on YouTube as I learn about pioneer female blues singers. I got to watch Bessie Smith’s only movie, “St. Louis Blues.”
Still, I’m not sure if I’m evolving or de-evolving. Perhaps I need a good, long freighter cruise.

Steve Gibbs is a retired Benicia High School teacher who has written a column for The Herald since 1985.

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