I recently finished reading my first novel in almost 7 years.

For as much as I enjoy writing, I, admittedly, haven’t done a whole lot of reading as of late. As a child I had an immense love of reading, craving the days that me and the rest of my small classroom got to go to our school’s library and check out new books. I wasn’t a fast reader, yet I would still go through numerous books a year based on the sheer amount of time I spent reading. Fiction, and particularly, fantasy novels, were my forte, and I even began buying my own copies of books so that I could have my own library in my room at home. And even though we were “required” to read as part of our school curriculum, there weren’t many particulars about what we read. And so it didn’t feel so much as a chore as it did a friendly nudge into the world of coming-of-age stories and fantastical worlds. The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis is one of my many beloved series that immediately comes to mind.

After I transitioned to a larger public school my 8th grade year, I retained my love of reading, but I could certainly feel it slipping. Adjusting to a more rigorous curriculum, partaking in more extracurriculars, and acquiescing to the unfamiliar territory of public school left a little less time and energy to read what I wanted. However, when the real world gave me anxiety — as it often did while navigating the social minefield that is middle school — I found solace in the imaginary worlds found in novels. My favorite books that year were The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton and Home of the Braves by David Klass.

By freshman year of high school, my interest in reading had nearly evaporated entirely. I don’t know exactly why; all I know is that I had little desire to read anything that wasn’t assigned by the teacher, and even required readings were largely ignored in favor of Sparknotes summaries and Shmoop analyses. Maybe it was the pressure of trying to shed the “nerdy” persona that I felt I had carried up to that point. Maybe it was my attempt to be “cool,” as none of the other “cool” people read novels in their free time. Or maybe academia, had robbed me of the joy I felt when I read books. What I do know is that, from freshman to senior year, I barely read anything that wasn’t a textbook. I can only recall reading one book in its near-entirety: Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell, which I read during my junior year and actually thoroughly enjoyed.

After high school, most of my reading was exclusively in the form of articles and social media posts. As I cultivated my love for music, especially hip-hop, I leaned more heavily into music journalism. As I awakened from my personal Sunken Place into a world of social/racial awareness, I dipped my toes into the works of Black journalists. And as the 2016 election approached, I read more political articles. But I opened nary a book, except for some Japanese manga novels and a book of poetry — Nectar, by Upile Chisala.

It was only recently — within the last two weeks — that I longed for those adolescent days, where I could just immerse myself in a good book. I asked my friends if they read anything non-academic; most of them did not, so at least I wasn’t alone. One of them, though, said that he read almost every day, on his train ride to work and back. After taking some suggestions from the rest of the group based on things they’ve read in the past, I decided that I’d read Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. If I recall correctly, I had never read a non-children’s book written by Black author before. So as I was trying to re-kindle that bookworm spark I had as a child, I was also trying to immerse myself in classic Black literature for the first time.

Needless to say, I think it worked.

I read it all in four days. The book focused on ancient Igbo culture, and, being Igbo myself, there was a part of me that felt like I was in the book as well, experiencing everything alongside the main characters.

Something just clicked for me, and now, I have this desire to read more stories. Black stories especially, since I was bereft of these as a child. I think I’ll go with Toni Morrison next. Or maybe James Baldwin. And having already read his articles in The Atlantic, Ta-Nehisi Coates’ books are most certainly on my list.

I feel like building my library back up again.