I used to love to read. When I was really young I used to love the Hardy Boys, Guardians of Ga'Hoole, and Percy Jackson series¹. Reading to me was so much fun because I often felt so connected to the characters. This is obviously supported by character development and world-building by the author, but I felt this much more than I did from a good movie. For example, when I was in elementary school I read The Beasties. Even today, I can remember some of the imagery in that book: a species of underground creature with crudely-stitched body parts, having translucent skin such that their veins and muscles were visible. Even today, I can recall how I imagined this as I read it, and it's as vivid as ever. I think that's part of the magic of reading a book. You're not recalling a story as a directory intended visually. Instead, the author provides a foundation and some thin guidelines, and the reader is left to fill in the picture using their own imagination. This provides an experience created in collaboration between author and reader. It's a two-way street.

Fast-forward to high school, and everything changed. Reading assignments were given each week. Reading, for me, turned from a past time and into a chore. One where there were consequences for not completing. And this ruined reading for me. I stopped reading and instead turned to summaries such as SparkNotes and CliffsNotes. I stopped reading for the enjoyment of it, and started completing weekly reading assignments with a mind-numbingly mechanical attitude.

And I think there were a couple of reasons for this, ranging from my attitude towards it to the sort of behavior schoolwork like this incentivizes. But this discussion is a tangent I don't want to follow here.

The reason I decided to ramble today isn't to take digs at the education system, or to reveal my work ethic in English and Literature classes, or to suggest young adult novels. Instead, I wanted to tell you that I started reading again, and that I'm so happy I did. Last weekend, I picked up a copy of Red Rising, by Pierce Brown on a whim. I saw an influencer on social media talking about the book and figured, what the hell, why not? And I'm so glad I did. It revived something in me that I thought had long since died out.

In the first few chapters, I quickly found myself effortlessly painting a mental picture of a world Brown was constructing for me with every word. It genuinely filled me with excitement to keep reading. After finishing a chapter, all I wanted to do was read the next. And the next. And the next. I'm roughly a third of the way into the first installment in the series, and I can't wait to learn how the story progresses. I'm even more thrilled that when this story ends, more are waiting for me.

If you're like me and think you lost your love of reading or disenchanted by the lack of good storytelling, you should pick up Red Rising. It just might reignite that spark. I know it did for me.