Old habits die hard. We all know that saying from somewhere. And it’s true, quitting something you’ve leaned on for a long time is damn hard to put down. And the quitting often comes with some shame, some guilt, lots of temptation and an unkempt version of yourself. And that’s just trying to quit the bad stuff.
But what about quitting the good stuff?
Like, for instance, reading. Yes, reading, as I did for decades as much as I could, anywhere I could — parking lots, libraries, restrooms, bedrooms, office chairs. I devoured novel after novel on the Orange Line commuting to work into Boston for years, pounding out The Fountainhead, Norman Mailer essays, anything by Nelson Algren and anything that smelled of ink and inspiration.
Reading for me had very little to do with entertainment. It was a training ground, a way of picking up new tricks and maneuvers, fresh ways of thinking by confronting my own creativity through various channels.
I sucked the marrow out of good lines, perfect paragraphs, the word shifting and tone of the writers. And then, I put all that to good use. There’s a real high in reading when the writing is good and reader’s mind is ready to engage. Your arms tingle, your brain gets hot as a pistol, a beehive of endorphins stinging you alive.
Then, gradually, I just quit reading — books, poems, birthday cards, directions, you name it. My taste for the written word had died. And it scared the hell out of me!
I didn’t notice the quitting happening at first. I’ve always had a routine since I was a kid where I would read for at least 30 minutes before trying to sleep. Nothing profound there. It was a laxative for an overstimulated mind, a safe space I could disappear into, transforming myself into the dirty streets in London, the woodlands of Montana or the dark barrooms of old Los Angeles.
I got lazy, or tired, or just no longer needed the written word to ride shotgun anymore. Our relationship had dried up. I bored it and it bored me. I tried, Lord knows. I willed myself into reading Mark Twain’s “A Tramp Abroad” and tossed that into the heap pile 10 pages in. Blasphemy! I know. I have the tendencies of a heathen.
I even tried busting out some “go-to” writers I fed off in the past — Larry Brown, Jim Harrison, Barry Hannah — and met them like strangers, unable, or unwilling more like it, to feel their words anymore, to have any real interest in what they had to say.
Then I turned to audiobooks. Fair at best. It’s like fast food for readers. Not for me.
So desperate in my withdrawal from reading, I reached out in a panic to the head librarian at Pembroke Library, Ryan O’Hora, and begged him for some counseling on the matter.
O’Hora had some thoughts: Get off your phone, re-read books you loved, read only for pleasure, read outside, read short books. In short, reacquaint yourself with the written word, but approach it softly, without anxiousness. Just don’t quit.
I took solace in his words, and soon after I had remembered a conversation I had with my friend, Derek Astles, lead singer of the Rippin’ E Brakes out of Concord, who suggested a long time back that I read, “Bill Graham Presents: My Life Inside Rock and Out.”
“Best book I ever read,” said Astles. I took his word for it.
I found that exact book quite by accident, literally beneath a pile of other music/art books at our newly used bookstore on Main Street in Pembroke called PCL Records and Books. There it was, right there. Fate had intervened.
That night, I vowed to try reading once again. And then, just two pages into the book, the breakthrough occurred. Graham was speaking my language, filling me up again with visuals, word play, experiences both haunting and captivating. I was reset, reinvigorated, rewired!
Feels so good to be hooked on a habit again.
Rob Azevedo can be reached at pembrokecitylimits@gmail.com.