The Lost Art of Reading Alone

The perfect gift to yourself, thirty minutes alone with a book

Poets are created by reading poetry. Billy Collins, former poet laureate of the U.S., says you must read 10,000 hours of poetry to find your own voice. I can hardly find anyone who can sit still and read for ten minutes without a major attack of squirrel brain.

This is why I think there are so few fresh voices… no one can pay the dues of reading until you find yourself. If you needed 10,000 hours of scrolling, every kid in the country would be the next Amanda Gorman.

But reading a book? That is like watching your grandmother use a rolling pin to roll out the dough for a pie. Like being pulled into a 1950s movie in black and white with John Wayne (I know, I know, he used to be somebody if you are old). You want me to read a paper book? Isn’t that something my great grandparents did by the light of wood fires before walking six miles to school in the snow?

Most people under forty are more likely to run a marathon naked with a beer bottle in hand than being able to sit quietly, for a continuous thirty minutes, and read an actual paper book. Ping, ping, ping, must put book down and answer phone. Bleep, bleep, a text that can wait, but cannot wait… must answer now because the phone has trained me.

Must have headphones on and music loud… can’t miss Taylor’s newest song this week. Thirty minutes disconnected for Gen Xers and the Millennials is equivalent to tying them down and rubbing their bellies with sandpaper, or to me five minutes of any rap music. Torture without end… thirty minutes, who has the damn time?

Reading is the last act of meditation. You, a book, quiet minutes, and a dedication to being within your own brain, letting it work, letting it breath, revisiting the act of imagination most of us have lost by letting the world stimulate us without the need to think for ourselves. Netflix for three hours? I am in because I don’t have to think. Read? Alone? A paper book? Where is the volume control on this thing? And why is my brain sweating?

Want to be a good poet? Turn off the world and read? Want to learn to think again? Lock your phone in the car and brave a corner table at Starbucks with a book and cup of tea. Want to give yourself the greatest present ever this year? Sit quietly, phone off and in the underwear drawer, next to your other stuff that vibrates, blanket on lap, dog on blanket, sipping something luscious, and hide from the world at least thirty minutes a day.

Worst that can happen? You learn to think again and discover your brain is not dead?