This Is So Sad

Hi. My name is Madeline and I don't like reading. I didn't think it was possible for this to happen to me. I'm an English major and a writer. I own over 200 books and exactly 139 classics including a first edition of For Whom the Bell Tolls and every one of Austen’s insignificant pre-Pride and Prejudice works. I wanted to love reading. I tried to love reading. I pretended to love reading. I liked the way readers looked so intellectual sitting in studded brown leather chairs with their black rimmed glasses and turtlenecks. I especially liked the way they could look up from their weathered and annotated copy of Wuthering Heights to chew on the end of their glasses and talk about Heathcliff’s social position or the unreliability of Nelly Dean’s narration or Cathy’s larger-than-life metaphysical passion.*

Admitting it was the hardest part. I should have seen it coming when someone asked me to name ten books that have impacted me and I had to lie about four and make up two. Once I stopped denying it and became open with myself and others, I felt free. I found out there are a lot of other writers and English majors just like me. They said they know how I feel and they told me I’m not alone. Now I feel like I can relax and be comfortable with who I am and now I don’t feel like I have to be reading a book to wear a turtleneck.

*For these references, I searched “Wuthering Heights study questions” on Google. I’ve never read the book, nor do I know what it’s about.