Why I read…

I’ve been thinking about why I read. With so many other things that need my time or how I want to spend my time, why reading? Even now, I probably should be reading to keep up with the last book of this round, The Art Thief. But, we have homework and reading for the reading logs at school and vision therapy and laundry to put away and there's a mess on the floor I need to clean up before it gets bigger. Sometimes I think I read to escape all of the ands.  Sometimes I think maybe I want to imagine someone else’s story is mine for a minute… The Midnight Library and The Magic of Lemon Drop Pie and probably hundreds of other books cover this topic but with books I get to pretend that I don’t have two piles of laundry on the couch and one in the dryer. I get to pretend I’m a trad wife influencer who goes back to the 1800’s and raises her family for just a little bit.  I imagine laundry was so much more difficult then. Sometimes I think I read to connect with people who told me the book was worthwhile and I get a glimpse into what they like. People will suggest a book and I’ll google it to see how much pain the characters experience.  I hate seeing people hurt. I don’t like when bad things happen. It’s hard to read about. I knew that about myself but this experiment has cemented it. I only want happy endings and I want a moderately easy road to get there. Regardless of why I read, I’m glad I do. I’m glad that I can read a book with two piles of laundry waiting for me. It’ll still be there right? Maybe my family will chip away at it.