I have always loved to read. My mom claims that on the occasions that I deserved some kind of punishment as a child, she revoked my reading-before-bed privilege. It may be argued that this disallowance is not appropriate. But if the child really enjoys reading, there’s no allowance money to be withheld, and the parent doesn’t believe in grounding…I think my mom had a valid point.

The summer between fifth and sixth grade I read every biography of famous women, from Amelia Earhart to Florence Nightengale, that I could find in the children’s section of the Brewer Public Library. Another summer, I started with the first book on the A shelf of the young adult section and spent the summer reading the books in succession. At times I read books a bit above my reading level; in the eighth grade I read Jane Eyre (although a reread at 26 made me wonder what I had actually grasped the first time). But I wasn’t always a literary scholar, adamant about reading only the great works of literature—I had a penchant for choosing books based on the cover art, as well.

Probably only second to my love of reading is making lists. Since the time that my Great Aunt Verda gave me my first real diary when I was 14, I have documented the books that I read and who wrote them, and at times I even devised a rating system for them. I read so much in high school, between assigned reading and pleasure reading, that I had to insert extra paper into the back of the journals to accommodate the lengthy lists. I walked around school with an extra book at all times, for those occasions when I had time on my hands, like after taking a test.

I started college as a psychology major, in denial of the fact that I was actually an English major. I took as many English classes as I did psychology, and when it came to pass during my junior year that I was unsettled by the thought of too many semesters left of psychology courses, I swapped the two, becoming both an English major and closer to graduating than I was before. The only caveat to this change was that my scholastic reading load increased significantly, reducing my “for fun” reading to John Grisham novels over break or as semesters commenced, when workloads were light. By the time graduation arrived in December of 1996, I was burned out from reading books for classes like 18th Century and Restoration Literature, Comparative Analysis of Styles, and Forms of Fiction. It took me months to recover, to fathom reading a book that didn’t have a 25-page paper or special project attached to it. But I couldn’t abstain forever. One day, I stood in the book section of Wal-Mart and bought two books, The Rapture of Canaan by Sheri Reynolds and The Deep End of the Ocean by Jacquelyn Mitchard.

I made the belated New Year’s resolution, which I make annually now, to read two books per month: one that has some kind of literary merit and another that’s good old trashy fun. This is not a difficult goal to accomplish. For several years I did pretty well. But in the past couple, I’ve been less than stellar.

I have no acceptable distractions. I don’t have a husband and kids who need my attention. My career doesn’t require an unreasonable amount of my time. I can’t even blame my writing aspirations, since my half-finished novel languishes inside my laptop. I have sold out my reading resolution to television. I wouldn’t say that my television watching has increased since I was a kid, but I do remember being able to read and listen to TV concurrently. And while I am a multitasking machine at work, this hasn’t carried over to my home life. I don’t even watch quality TV, if you believe there is such a thing. Roseanne reruns on Nick at Night ensnare me every time.

So when I wrote up my 2005 New Year’s resolutions and realized that in 2004 I had read only six books, I was shocked! What happened? What kind of catastrophic disaster forced me to all but abandon one of my first loves? I needed a plan to reinstate and re-enforce this important facet of my life.

First off, I needed some books. Every volume I own had been read, some of them many times. I love books, but bookstores can overwhelm me. Thinking about the sheer numbers of books that I haven’t read, but want to or ought to for one reason or another, is daunting. I wander the stacks thinking about how, as a writer and English major, I probably should desire shelves and shelves of the classics and other literarily meritorious books, but the fact that I don’t, and that I’m satisfied reading contemporary fiction and the occasional “chick lit” brain candy, convicts me. So instead of browsing the shelves, I bought a few books online that I remembered wanting to read.

I live in Seattle but work in Redmond, so by the time I fight my way home through traffic, after running errands or going to the gym, it’s nearly eight o’clock—just in time to watch Dr. Phil, which is immediately followed by Oprah. By this time, it’s 10 o’clock. Thus begins the hour of channel surfing, because the true addiction, Roseanne, comes on Nick at Night at 11 pm. Weary from staring at a computer all day, hunched over a keyboard, it’s relaxing and comforting to snuggle up on the loveseat under a fleece blanket, a snack in hand, and not have to concentrate. Watching TV doesn’t require much (if any) thought, depending on the program. Before I realize it, the back-to-back episodes of Roseanne are over, it’s midnight, and I am tired. Not only have I not participated in any kind of activity that’s remotely edifying, I haven’t done laundry or washed my dinner dishes. The shower has to wait until the next morning, compounding the already frenetically paced race to get out the door and off to work.

I had to break the habit of automatically turning on the TV when I step into my apartment—once it’s on, it’s too difficult not to continue. I made a list of “must see” shows, shows that I have watched for several years, and only turn the TV on for them, immediately switching it off when they’re over, so I don’t witness any beguiling previews for the following show. Suddenly, I had a lot of time to fill, so I read the books that I ordered. Sometimes, I knitted, a new pastime I enjoyed. And, I also returned to the writing of my novel. But most importantly, I wanted to make a habit of reading before I turn the lights off for bed, like I used to as a kid. It’s a great way to finish off the day.

I realize now that I’d replaced one behavior and what it did for me with another behavior that does the same thing, only with less brain-boosting power. Before, reading was a means of escape for me. It was entertainment as well as a learning tool for my own writing and vocabulary enhancement. Along the way, TV became my means of escape—mindless entertainment to distract me from the rigors of academia, and later, my career. But it lacked many, if not all, of the benefits that reading promises. It may have served a purpose at one time, but no longer. I cannot allow my brain to turn to mush. I have too much to do. Starting with…sitting down with a good book.