About a month ago I had the displeasure of suffering a jammed rib, owing likely to a couple of awkward falls while snowboarding. The injury was easy to fix, but stressful as it was also very easy to reinjure (which I found out the hard way). It effectively ended my snowboarding season, until which time I had enjoyed riding 2-3 times a week. I was also stressed that the injury impacted my ability to do my job as a golf course maintenance worker. It’s a physical job, and I had to take a large chunk of time off when I was just on the verge of finally getting my finances under control. The combination of these factors were a recipe for mental health disaster, which I avoided by the rediscovery of an old passion of mine. 

After a few days of time off, hurting, down on myself, and bored “af,” I picked up a book. The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt had been sitting in my stack for a while, lent or given to me by my dad at some point. He’d told me that I would like it, so I thought ‘what the hell.’ I didn’t have anything else to do, so I started reading.

It was a novel about western outlaws, easy to read, with a vivid story and good language. I finished it in a day and a half. It had been a long time since I was completely swept up in a story. Keen to keep the literary fire lit, I ripped over to the nearest Vancouver Public Library branch and walked out with a library card and three books I selected not-quite-arbitrarily from the fiction shelf: Unnatural Magic by C. M. Waggoner, Whale Music by Paul Quarrington, also recommended by my dad, and Niagara Motel by Ashley Little. The first was a fun fantasy novel with notes of historical fiction. I remembered my fondness for fantasy. The second was another funny, weird, sad, sweet one about a washed up rock star grieving the loss of a brother. I remembered my affinity for bizarrity. The third was a sweet one about an 11 year-old kid on an international journey to find his father. 

By the fourth book, they had ceased to be chores and I was wasting no time between closing one book and cracking open another. I decided that I would reread the Harry Potter series, and I began to do so, the whole time wearing a silly grin. I’d never actually read the first few myself. I was still young enough that my mom had read them to me, and I had grown into a young reader by the time the last few had been released. I alternated between the light reading of HP and some others that either caught my eye or had been on my list for a while: A Woman is No Man– Etaf Rum, Breakfast of Champions– Kurt Vonnegut, The Handmaid’s Tale– Margaret Atwood, Amberlough– Lara Elena Donnelly. 

So, in just over a month I’ve read 12 books, now working on my 13th, American Gods by Neil Gaiman. I’ve noticed how my internal voice has changed, playing with different lyrical styles, speaking more with imagined eloquence than it has in some time. My thought patterns, which of late have felt worn out and circular, have been shaken up and refreshed. New thoughts are flooding my great big brain, and it’s very exciting! I’ve returned to partial duties at work now as my injury is nearly healed, but the reading hasn’t stopped. If anything, I’ve been reading even more, when I can. I wouldn’t say I’m glad I got injured, but if I hadn’t, I’m not sure when I would’ve started reading again, so I’ll just keep the pages turning.