SAKINA LEDUC-AKBAR

I was once book-challenge obsessed, and tried—and failed—to morph myself into the ultimate reader who could cycle through books at the speed of light. I admire those who possess the talent to read a seemingly insurmountable number of books each month. However, I find these reading goals to be unattainable. Having gone through a phase in which my first and only concern was reaching a certain number of books read, I discourage people from setting such goals for themselves, for once reading is made a matter of meeting a self-imposed quota, it might quickly become an overwhelming task rather than a source of enjoyment.

It was a desire to keep track of the books I had read which led me to discover Goodreads, a platform for logging books, adding them to virtual shelves, and sharing reviews. I was instantly hooked. I savored the moment when I would mark a book as “read” and add my one-through-five star rating to the pool of thousands. What I found intriguing was the reading challenges users set for themselves to finish a number of books by the end of the year. The participants in the challenges, many of whom started the year with goals of one hundred books and beyond, seemed unbelievably capable to me, caught in an intense online competition I had been entirely unaware of. Users only set goals for themselves, yet updates received on the progress of other members quickly captured my attention, and I couldn’t help but imagine each participant racing against the clock—and each other—in an effort to reach their goal. I was eager to be a part of this ambitious literary community. 

My reading ambitions were, in part, brought about by the circumstances of the year. Lockdown was a book enthusiast’s heaven, for it seemed all there was to do was read. It was then that I began to take writing seriously, and I knew that the key to being a good writer was to ingest a sizable number of books. Reading went by slowly for me and I decided on the Goodreads challenge to keep myself accountable. Ignited by the generous amount of free time, I took on reading as a competitive sport. Preparations were intense; I became a reader of every genre and author, purchasing hordes of books raved about online, no matter how unappealing they seemed. Droves of hardbacks arrived at my doorstep, and after completing the mandatory ritual of disinfecting each dust jacket, the books underwent a placement ceremony on my special “to be read” or “TBR” shelf, symbols of the exciting challenge I had thrown myself headlong into. I was desperate to reach “true reader” status, a highly coveted title I had entirely made up yet was determined to be the sole recipient of. 

I assigned myself the task of reading one hundred books in twelve months. My Goodreads fellows read as many and more. They gorged on words and spit out the pages as fast as they were turned, razing dozens of genres and authors within the span of a month. However, I had not comprehended the volume of reading that was one hundred books. I had believed that the challengers’ reading pace was supernatural, coming out of the “set reading goal” button, yet I quickly realized there were no paranormal forces at play, and that one hundred books a year was a far too ambitious goal. Nonetheless, I couldn’t bring myself to lower it. I was fixated on molding myself into an awe-inspiring machine of a reader. 

I attempted to emulate strangers’ reading habits. I spent nights scouring the internet for videos on how to increase reading speed, hoping to unearth the secrets to achieving my goal. Alongside my research, I continued to order books, fattening my collection but failing to get through any of them. I was unconcerned with the content I was actually reading. It did not matter if I never cared for romance novels; I now dedicated an entire shelf of my bookcase to those cookie-cutter covers. I purchased graphic novels for the sake of having a quick read I could add to my list. I bought trilogies and long series, even if I disliked the first installment; all I cared about was having myself—and others—see the series displayed in all its grandeur and completion on my Goodreads page.

Deep into my self-imposed reading challenge, it seemed nothing was more horrifying than abandoning a book. Unable to separate my self-worth from my reading goal, I continued to pursue my challenge not out of any actual desire to read but for the fear that my status as a reader and writer would be minimized if I failed. I forced myself through 1-star reads. The words became painful to look at, yet I was unable to accept the shame of returning a book to the to-read pile, which had become stunningly large. The grasp this app had on me was astronomical. 

I was nowhere near my goal when December rolled around with the agility I had failed to summon for myself throughout my reading year, having read just ten books out of one hundred. My reading was so far removed from my tastes in literature, reduced to an anxiety-inducing drudgery, that when I looked at the rows of unread books on my shelf, all I saw was an overwhelmingly uninspiring heap. 

I quit book challenges at the end of the year, ashamed of my pitiful reading wrap-up, and directed my energy towards university. Perhaps it was the fresh slate of the new year, or simply a symptom of being surrounded by literature lovers, yet looking back at my failed challenge a year later, I struggle to express how silly the challenge seemed in the grand scheme of things. I started picking up books about my own interests, packing my library with thrillers and suspense novels. After a year as an English major in which I paid no mind to the amount of books I was reading, I had disentangled myself from pervasive literary challenges and felt inclined to read without the pressure of a goalpost. By allowing myself to lose count, I was hit with the revelation that there is no such thing as an accomplished or unaccomplished reader, there are just readers.

My Goodreads challenge is living proof that reading is meant to be enjoyed, not quantified. There is no such thing as a “true reader,” and a numerical score means nothing if the books you pick up do not inspire thought or creation. To disregard these challenges is not an acceptance of failure. It does not take one hundred books to make a reader.

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