(Okay, I admit; the title is a bit long, but bear with me here).
I never thought that turning 18 made me an adult. As I’ve said before, I still felt like a teenager well into my early twenties.
But, I’ve stumbled upon a self-revelation that I simply must analyze and worry over. My taste in reading material has changed, or should I say, matured.
Where before I never ventured outside the realms of fiction and sci-fi, now I’m all about the newest autobiography, memoir or self-help book.
The change occurred while I was in college. Being an English major meant I had tons of required reading material; prose after prose, quatrain after quatrain jammed into each semester.
I rarely had time to pursue leisurely reading material. The rare time I actually perused a bookstore’s shelves was the night before a flight abroad; be it a study abroad venture or an overdue family vacation.
Oh, the pure joy of inhaling the aroma of freshly pressed pages bound tightly, pages in crisp perfection! Everyone should enjoy that pleasure at least once in their lifetime.
Then, reality struck. Vacations ended and whether I finished the book or not, it was placed in the back of the shelf while the front was packed with books for the upcoming semester.
Not having a choice to read for pleasure was actually depressing. I only noticed that the fun of reading was missing when I was buried deep in 19th-novels and Shakespeare classics and barely kept up with my classes.
The volume of pages I had to read and comprehend each night was extensive. I had forgotten the pleasure of immersing myself in the story; of being whisked away to witness a grand adventure as the plot wound me through the realms of reality and fantasy.
So when I finally got back to choosing my own reading material after college, I was only attracted to real stories based on real people and how they led their lives.
Maybe I had matured or maybe I found that the real adventure lies in the present realm of reality, but whatever the case, my tastes had changed.
It’s not that I dislike this change, but it is new and still needs some time to get adjusted to. I miss the feeling of being pulled into the vortex of fiction; I miss the security of knowing that the hero saves the day and good has won over evil.
Yet, I can’t dislodge the feeling of being intrigued and piqued at the circumstances and obstacles that real authors and real people are faced with. In non-ficition, the impossible occurs to someone; and this little voice in the back of my mind can’t help but ask, “What if that happens to me?”
Because this is the real world we’re talking about and as I’m slowly learing, there is no shortage of adventure here.
黛安娜 다이아나 ഡയാന