Something about “words, words, words” became boring, boring, boring along the way. If I had to pinpoint the moment that I fell out of love with reading, it would have to be seventh grade.

My middle school had two higher-learning – or advanced – options. There was an option for students who excelled in STEM, and another for students who excelled in humanities. Instead of taking two electives, I opted for more reading and enrolled in the humanities course. My elementary school self was squealing with joy, as I had raked my way through all of Rick Riordan’s catalog one weekend and read Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire four times through. I had always been fond of reading, and I hoped that this class would only excel me further into my reading frenzy and introduce me to new books.

We read books like The Outsiders and The Phantom of the Opera, both of which continued to pique my reading interest. I would walk out of the classroom feeling refreshed and like I had learned something new. Everyone in the class was like-minded about literature, excited to learn and share their findings with the rest of the class. Or maybe they really just had a soft spot for Ponyboy. Later in the same day, I would attend regular classes, which felt off for me. Nobody seemed to care about reading as I had.

It began to feel like a chore instead of something of pure enjoyment. School made it feel like reading was a punishment, and that has been something that I have attempted to flush from my system since middle school. The most difficult part about growing up has been the ebbs and flows of my relationship with reading. I suppose that’s why I enjoy writing more recently.