A few years ago I switched from reading paperback books to using a kindle app on my phone. It is just way more convenient to carry around an entire library of books digitally, especially because my opportunities to actually read for pleasure are few and far between.
Long, long ago, (whahh!) when I was in college and I majored in English, I had a stack of books on my bedside at any given moment. I was always juggling between works — from Modern to Medieval to the Ancients. College was a 4-year jumble of paperbacks, most of which were prerequisite assignments and not at all enjoyable. After I sacrificed sleep and sanity to get through the texts, I’d hammer out a quasi-intelligible paper for my assignments, bank a decent grade for the class and move on… That was my reality.
Recently, I was at my mother’s house looking through some old boxes and found many of my favorite books from college — all had worn spines, folded pages and inked margins. These were the chosen ones — the small collection of books that left such a lasting impression on me, I actually kept them. Did I keep them because I wrote in them? Did I write in them because they were keepers? Chicken? Egg? I have no idea.
But reuniting with these old treasures caused me to wonder– Why did I write in the margins at all? and perhaps more important to ask: Why don’t I write in the margins anymore?
I guess one could argue that:
- Nothing I have read as of late actually compels me to take notes
Or
- The Kindle app note-taker is just not as satisfying as scratching notes with a leaky, blue BIC pen. (while chewing the cap, lol)
Or
- I have forgotten how to read, reflect and allow the author’s words to stick with me.
Let’s go with the latter…
There was a time when reading was more than just an activity to fill the time. It was an intimate exercise of the mind; an opportunity to enrich my thoughts and come away with something newer, greater…lasting.
Furthermore, taking notes in the margins was proof that I was thinking about what I read. It was a way to hold my self accountable for my own meta cognition (thinking about thinking). It’s prodded me — Hey, Ang – you read something awesome, it made you think, you recorded it for all posterity. Nice! For posterity, not quite, but for my own edification and reflection, more likely.
In that way, writing in the margins and reflecting on what I read, made me more present in the act and more invested overall.
These days I speed my way through reading — beach reads, mysteries, self-help??(FML!). Every once in a while, I stop to ponder a clever quote or a well-crafted dialogue, but for the most part, it’s like a competitive event — Can I finish this chapter before I reach my stop on the train? Can I wrap-up this book before the weekend?
Will I ever switch gears and revert back to my lost art of reading, reflecting and inking the pages? Maybe I need more time to read, or choose the right book or use one of those cheap, blue, ballpoint pens.
Or maybe I need to make it a priority to savor reading as I once did, and hold myself accountable for whatever thoughts may follow.