How I Accidentally Became a Reader (Yes, Me!)

Let’s get one thing straight: I wasn’t raised with books.

My childhood home didn’t smell like pages or knowledge. It smelled like fried onions, wet laundry, often alcohol and cigarettes, and sometimes the distant scent of a lost Harlequin romance novel from the '90s (aka the literary equivalent of a steamy TV soap filmed on a potato or lighter and cheaper version of Fifty Shades of Grey). I don’t know who brought it into the house, I don’t know who read it — it just appeared once or twice like a ghost with a ripped cover and a plot involving someone named Alejandro.

That was it. My literary background.

The One School Book I Read (And Didn’t Understand)

During my epic journey through the Valley of Mandatory Education, I read exactly one school-assigned book.

It was about 25 pages long, and I remember finishing it thinking, "Was that it? Is this literature? Should I feel smarter now?"

But the cherry on top? When the teacher asked me, “What did the author mean by the blue curtains?” And I, in my infinite teenage wisdom, answered, “Maybe... they just liked blue?” To which I was told, “That’s not in the answer key.”

Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the author from 1700 had written this book with Google Forms in mind, between hallucinogenic mushroom dinners and fermented hop juice. My bad.

The Bus Ride That Changed It All

Back then, mobile internet was a luxury item. If you had Wi-Fi on the go, you either owned a mansion in Dover or were a secret agent with a Samsung slide phone playing polyphonic ringtones louder than your inner peace.

With hours to kill every day and zero social media to doom-scroll, I decided to pick up a book. And not just any book — Eragon by Christopher Paolini.

Listen. That dragon changed me.

I was transported to a magical realm. For the first time in my life, reading didn’t feel like punishment. It felt like cinema in my brain. I missed my bus stop. Repeatedly. I was late to work so often I considered blaming fictional characters for my tardiness.

“I’m sorry, I had to see if Saphira survived.”

I Became That Person

Now? I read. Like, voluntarily.

Give me a holiday, a sun lounger, and I’ll inhale three to four books before my SPF wears off. I even listen to audiobooks now like a productive intellectual on the move.

And don’t even get me started on the superiority of paper books. That fresh from the printing house smell. The soft rustle of flipping pages. That weird sense of power when you slam a book closed after a dramatic plot twist. I even have a favorite bookmark — a lizard. A flattened one. Because I’m classy like that.

About That Footballer’s Biography…

One time I tried to read the biography of a footballer. I don’t even watch football. I don’t understand the appeal of 11 sweaty men chasing a piece of inflated leather across a giant field.

But he was hot.

That was my entire criteria. I judged the book by the cover — and the jawline. BIG mistake.

It was so boring I could only manage it in five-minute doses during work breaks. It took me seven months to finish. SEVEN. I can still hear the mocking laughter of my book nerd coworker Matthew. I could’ve learned a new language. Or grown a dinosaur. But no. I was reading about knee injuries and match statistics like it was my job.

Still, I finished it. Why?

Because I’m a sadomasochistic literary degenerate who must finish what they start. Even if the only thing the book is good for is lighting a BBQ or surviving a toilet paper shortage.

Why I Read Crime Now (Totally Normal)

These days, I mostly read crime and true crime.

I've read so many of them that I’m now reasonably confident I could help a loved one dispose of a body, should the need arise. Don’t test me. I’ve studied. I know bleach ratios.

Nothing says “relaxing bedtime read” like How to Hide Evidence from Police in a Remote Forest.

In Conclusion: Read a Damn Book

Books open your brain. They make your world bigger. They let you live a thousand lives (even if some of those lives involve serial killers, sexy elves, or annoying footballers).

So if you’ve never been a “reader,” trust me: you can start anytime. All it takes is one good book. Or one bad commute.

And when you find it, you’ll never look at the “Exit” button on a bus the same way again.

Do you remember the first book that changed your mind about reading? Or the one so boring you considered using it as a kitchen tile spacer? Tell me below!