When did you fall in love with books? What made you fall in love with books?

Was it the snuggly warmth of curling up with some trusted adult, and having them read to you a story which you knew, even then, was not real—could not be real—yet was absolutely real in the way the characters’ feelings became yours, and the world which existed nowhere except on the page took on a weight and truth which overlay the “real” room you were actually in? Was it the sensory pleasure of turning the page for yourself? Of the brightness of the cover? Of the beauty and endless delight of the illustrations? The sheer wonder of stepping into a store and seeing rack upon rack upon rack of books—all sorts of books: tall books, tiny books, thick books, shy books hiding behind their neighbours, colourful books, books filled with words which had no meaning then but which sounded delicious, books which said exciting things like “murder” and “magic”? Was it the excitement of wandering through a whole store filled with these tiny portals, never knowing which one would next catch your eye—and what was it caught your eye? Some flash of colour on the spine? A familiar name in gold letters? Was it the sheer anticipation of never knowing which world you’d drop into next?

On the other hand, when did you stop reading? When did other matters—life—push all these small magics out of the way?

I’ve stopped counting the number of times a student (or their parent) tells me they stopped reading because school took over—it’s too depressing.

On second thought, that was an inaccurate sentence. I should’ve written instead: I’ve stopped counting the number of times a student tells me they stopped reading fiction because school took over. Reading still happens—just a different kind of reading, and involving different materials.

So really, it’s rather unhelpful to observe that “kids nowadays just don’t read.”

Some young ones simply never took to reading. There could be a million reasons for this, but I suspect that the old truism—that their family members did not read, that there were no books in the house—is a huge factor. Or, they never got to experience reading in positive ways; perhaps reading became associated with work and tension far too early—which, if you think about it, could go back to the family not being readers themselves.

On the other hand, many young children love reading. There is a brightness and sensory pleasure to picture books which make them irresistible, even in an age of Bluey and Nickelodeon. And I think there are some kids whose natural impulse is to turn the mental gaze inwards, rather than outwards: for such people, books are not just something to be enjoyed, but essential to survival/sanity.

But how can we expect anyone else—child and adult alike—to enjoy reading fiction, if everyone around them behaves like reading fiction is a chore, something which must be done to “build vocab” or to “widen their horizons”?

Because, whether we intended this or not, I’d say Singaporean society is extremely hostile toward fiction. Just the fact that we have to find practical reasons for reading—building vocab, improving your English—is inimical to the sheer, aimless wandering joy which is fiction reading. We also deny our children, at far too young an age, the joy of exploring the creation of fiction, because exploration entails the risk of getting lost (i.e. turning in an absolute wreck of a story and getting “bad marks”); we feed them, instead, “good phrases” and “winning structures.” And then, in secondary school, our young ones turn away from fiction forever, and enter the world of personal recounts, (inauthentic) functional writing, and expository and argumentative writing.

We cannot expect anyone to read fiction, if fictional narratives are no longer part of our lives past a certain age.

As always, the usual answer to this is: but I don’t have the time! I really don’t think it’s true that people have no time to read fiction. Rather, they have chosen not to prioritise the reading of fiction. Often, rightly so. (My friends who are mums, I salute you once again.)

But, really, we cannot expect anyone—child or adult alike—to prioritise the reading of fiction if the world we live in tells us that fiction was something for the PSLE and before. Yes, we hear a lot of discourse on the value of reading. However, it’s not what we tell one another, it’s how our actual behaviours form a total environment which speaks far louder than words. When newspapers slash funding for book reviews, we understand where fiction lies on the scale of priorities. When teachers say to students, that they will never write stories again, and must instead concentrate on writing discursive and argumentative essays, we understand where fiction lies on the scale of priorities. When anxious parents, out of sheer love and concern, say for the millionth time that we must read, otherwise we will do poorly in our exams, we understand where fiction lies on the scale of priorities. When we say we want our children to read, but somehow never find time ourselves to do the same, we all understand where fiction lies on the scale of priorities. When we say we support the literary arts, but throw out “storybooks” first thing whenever we do spring cleaning, we all understand where fiction lies on the scale of priorities. When independent and even large bookstores disappear from the landscape, we all understand with lightning clarity where fiction lies on the scale of priorities.

We cannot paper over with our words, the actual violence we are doing with our actions.

Then again, I’m being so dramatic because I do love fiction. But I also wonder if enjoying fiction is the anomaly, not the norm. Meaning: don’t worry what kids are reading. Don’t go to “Popular” and buy them Dickens from the Classics shelf if the child’s usual reading diet is Reddit or comics. It’s too much. The child will learn to hate “the classics” instead. Maybe we have to accept that everyone has different tastes in reading, just as we’ve different tastes in food, and clothing, and so on. Maybe we shouldn’t fuss too much over what our kids are reading. They can build their vocab in other ways. Perhaps it’s enough that they are reading.

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Photo by Ed Robertson on Unsplash