A Reading Challenge

I’ve been given
thought recently to the number of people setting themselves reading
challenges for 2016. And that thought was, when did reading become a
challenge rather than privilege to enjoy. We wouldn’t do this for
other forms of media, would we? No one’s saying to themselves they’re
going to aim to watch 20 films, or play 30 video games. No one’s 2016
New Year resolution is to watch a whole bucketload of TV.

I guess this, to a
certain extent, is the point. We’re so overloaded with options, with
things we could do, that some options get pushed to the wayside.
We’re all so incredibly busy. Is it any surprise that people who love
to read are struggling to fit it in amongst the hustle bustle of
modern life?

I, myself, am no
stranger to the problem. I used to fit my reading in on the train.
Unfortunately, the train is also a perfect place to do my writing. I
feel horrendously guilty if a whip a book out, when I know that this
is the only chance I’ll have to make some progress on Chapter 2, or
finally find out how the saintly vicar I killed off in Chapter 3 is
going to turn out to be the evil mastermind behind all the
shenanigans in Chapter 27.

Naturally, I
therefore fret and worry about it for the first five minutes and then
end up listening to a podcast instead because the trains too crowded
and its a little antisocial whipping out my laptop and inflicting my
elbows on fellow commuters.

Podcasts are my new
addiction. Or rather Radio 4 comedy shows on BBC iPlayer. It’s a
joyful discovery that replacement of decent sitcoms on TV with half
baked rubbish that looks like it’s been dragged kicking and screaming
out of the 70s (Mrs. Brown’s Boys, I’m looking at you) is more than
made up for by a wealth of radio comedy ranging from repeats of old
classics to modern classics in the making, such as John Finnemore’s
Double Acts, Tom Wrigglesworth’s Hangups or the Pin.

But if we’re all so
inundated with options of what to do with our spare time that we have
to set ourselves reading goals in order to fit them all in, why oh
why do some people insist that, if they retired, they wouldn’t know
what to do with themselves. That shows an awful lack of imagination.
When my parents retired, they seemed busier than ever before. I found
myself in the ridiculous Bridget Jones situation of being jealous of
my parents social life. I never get to go out, struggle to keep in
touch with friends. I’m too busy either working or running children
from one after-school club to another. My parents, on the other hand,
are living the life of Reilly. Well, if Reilly was really into golf
and Rotary clubs that is.

Still, the point is
that they’re happy. They aren’t finding themselves setting reading
goals for 2016 because they know they can read when they want to. And
if they aren’t reading its because they’re doing something else that
they themselves have chosen to do.

Maybe that’s the
secret to happiness. It’s not wealth, of power, or celebrity. It’s
knowing that whatever you’re doing right now is what you should be
doing. Whatever possibility you’re missing out on, whatever
grass-is-greener could-have-been exists, it’s no better than what you
already have. We could spend our whole lives missing the beauty of
now because we’re too busy despairing the vacancy of not. But unless
you’re in pain, in poverty, or in the iniquity of situation that most
of us will hopefully never have to know, you’re probably doing okay.
You’re probably happier than you think you are. And if you’re current
dissatisfaction is brought on by the fact that you’re missing out,
that there’s something you’d rather do, or somewhere you’d rather be,
than now’s the time to realise that everything is fine, you’re
privileged to exist in such a beautiful world, and that being ‘there’
is never going to be better than being exactly where you are.