There is a book on my TBR shelf that has been there a decent while. It’s a fat volume, just over 400 pages, and the spine is a dark brown streaked with red and gold. It looks heavy. I just went to go and check- it is heavy. It’s such a brick that I’ve been putting off reading it many months. Today, when it caught my eye once again, however, I suddenly thought: ‘how about that one next?’
Not an especially thrilling revelation, that’s for sure, but I found myself wondering why exactly this book suddenly appealed. And it occurred to me, after having read a post on Book Riot a week or two back, that it may have been the result of the temperature drop experienced by all over the last month or so. In the post that I read, the author claims that the winter months inspire her to revert back to reading her childhood favourites. I do not think that that is the case for me, but I do think that she was onto to something when she started paying attention to what she picked up off the shelf at different times of the year.
Now, please be aware that when I speak of weather and seasons, you are reading the words of somebody who grew up in Britain. ‘Season’ is a strong word for what happens over twelve months on our little island; cold summers sometimes resemble warm winters. Growing up in a country where it’s sunny so rarely (and with no seasonal guarantees) makes your body react in quite a bizarre way when the sun finally shines. In short, you put down whatever it is you’re doing and get the hell out of the house before it clouds over. It’s as though you have an invisible friend who lassoes you and drags you out the front door. For me, I’ve got to the point where being forced to stay inside whilst the weather is nice (revision, exams, work) makes me genuinely anxious. My boyfriend, raised in Italy, has no qualms with staying on the couch all day when the weather is nice. I, on the other hand, hop up and down at the window like a wound-up puppy.
You may be wondering how this is any way related to reading books. Simply put, I grew up reading voraciously- indoors. Then, as soon as the sun came out, I would put the book down and leg it outside for my monthly dose of Vitamin D. You can maybe come to understand how torn I have felt the last few months living in Minneapolis, Minnesota. It’s actually hot here during the summer. Hot AND sunny. It’s been an absolute dream, but I have been reading thinner books, and less often.
For those of you who aren’t aware, Minnesota gets a bit nippy during the winter. Did I say nippy? I meant agonisingly cold. Add to that the fact that the sun is starting to set frustratingly early and there you have it- my ideal reading and writing haven.
This is why I believe that I looked at that heavy book with a fresh set of eager eyes. I am warmly anticipating being wrapped up in a woolly cardigan with a blanket draped over me and a great big book on my lap when the weather goes below freezing. This is the reading experience I cherish the most and will continue to cherish the most.
Does anyone else consider themselves a reader of seasonal habits??