Reading has brought me endless joy, but I have accidentally crushed my children’s enthusiasm. It is a terrible indictment, writes Zoe Williams
Two weeks ago, I got so cheered up by something that I still think about it most days. I was talking to two extremely literary people – genuine article, book-writing people – and it turns out that their kids don’t read any more than mine do. Until then I thought it was my fault, and it is a genuine source of self-recrimination and sadness. As much as it pleases me to yaw on about the mood-boosting effects of fresh air and exercise, I don’t really believe any of that. Reading for pleasure, I do believe in. There have been times in my life when other people’s stories were the only good things in it, and I didn’t hate those times. I actively enjoyed the disappearing. Yet I have totally failed to inculcate my kids with any of this. The furthest they’ll meet me is to occasionally read some manga and suffer my homily on whether that counts, if it’s mainly pictures.
Other people’s kids read, otherwise who’s buying all those books? Something just went wrong, between 2007 and today, and I don’t know what, but I must have done it.
