Ask any writer why they started to write, and I can guarantee you that they will confess to a love of reading. A love that first led them through that enchanted doorway into other people’s stories; of faraway lands and mythical creatures, or common place situations and every day folk, to finally feeling an urge to tell their own stories in their own ways.
I was introduced to reading at a very early age. From Fairy Tales to Enid Blyton to Agatha Christie to the classics, I devoured all kinds of books. I had a fine example in my mother whose nightly winding down routine consisted of reading a chapter of whichever book she was currently immersed in. My father, who was never much of a fiction reader, nevertheless took his Materia medica to bed in a similar fashion. My uncles and aunts were all readers, and I was often advised to always have a book at hand while waiting in long queues, for all sorts of journeys and any other boring interludes. It is no wonder that I developed a passion for reading.
Like all passions however, when life decided to overload me, reading had to be relegated to the background. I still read, but intermittently and haltingly. Often losing track of the story or the characters themselves. From reading a book a week, it became a book every few months, and then a book a year, if that. Social media, the Internet, Television, Netflix and other seemingly more urgent activities and pastimes took over.
During that time, I still kept writing. Some of the stuff I produced was pretty good. Imagination and language skills kept me afloat. But a lot of it was uninspiring and devoid of spark. After all, if life and experiences are grist to the mill of writing, then reading surely is the flavour and seasoning.
Two things rekindled my love of reading. Both, strangely, belonged to the virtual world.
The first was a simple application called Goodreads. A place where books were listed and reviewed, not just by literary critics but by the ordinary Joe or Jane. You could befriend or follow people, or you could roam its virtual shelves solitary yet surrounded by innumerable book lovers. You could add to your own list of books that you had read or books that you wanted to read, and you could rate and review a book as soon as you had finished it.
The second was my induction into a reading group on Facebook. Like many other groups that I had either joined or been added to unwittingly, I chose to ignore the posts in the beginning. Then one day someone’s post piqued my curiosity. It was a beautifully written review on a book I hadn’t heard of. I immediately cross checked the reviews on Goodreads, and suitably satisfied, downloaded this book on to my Kindle. From that moment on, my respect for the members of this group grew. From lurking on the sidelines, I became an active participant, posting reviews or chiming in on discussions. I discovered new writers and newer books, and kindred spirits along the way.
In a very 21st Century way, I had become a part of a Book Club.
You see, wherever book lovers congregate, whether in the real world or in the virtual world, certain preliminaries are already taken care of. The major one being an unwavering love of literature. Your tastes may differ, you may prefer one genre over another, one kind of writing over another, but there is always a love for reading that will unite you.
I was lucky enough to be invited to a proper Book Club this week. I was the visiting author, there to talk about my book: Parvathy’s Well & other stories. Whilst it was an odd experience analysing my stories and my creative process, I was thrilled that this group of women had invested their time in my book, and were now willing to invest time in me too. Once my segment was over, I sat back and watched them discuss another book. What emerged was a desire to understand other lives and experiences through discussion, analysis and swapping of their own stories.
Reading is a portal into other worlds, but the reader has to be receptive to the messages that the book is imparting, and be willing to undertake that journey with the author. Along the way, some readers turn into writers themselves. And so, the tradition of story telling, that began with the caveman’s crude drawings depicting life as he saw it, continues in progressively sophisticated formats.
So also with Book Clubs. In increasingly frenetic lives, it is not always possible to commit to meeting x number of times at a venue, desirable though it may be. Virtual book clubs step in here. Like minded individuals can meet and swap ideas, notes and reviews on books they like or don’t, virtually.
Naysayers had once decried the use of e readers, saying that they could never replace the look, smell and feel of real books. That is true. However, e readers have survived because they are portable, and books can be downloaded with a tap. Ease and convenience are not to be overlooked.
Ultimately, words- whether on paper or on screen- are what set our imaginations alight, and Book Clubs- real or virtual- bring us bibliophiles together.
That is no bad thing.
