If you were holding your breath for this quarter’s instalment of books I’ve read, don’t - because I’ve read nothing. Nada. Not one novel, not one classic. And I’m okay admitting that.
At the beginning of the year, I found myself unable to stick to a book. I tried many, hoping something would land.
The Dressmaker by Rosalie Ham was an obvious choice because I love the film so much, but I couldn’t separate the characters from their screen versions. There was no room left for surprise. The Cicada House by Ella Ward felt close to the plot of All Fours by Miranda July, with its escapist tone, but it didn’t stick. A Body Made of Glass by Caroline Crampton was too heavy for me at the time. The Summer Book by Tove Jansson sits on my shelf still (gifted by Chanel), but I can’t seem to get through it. And When the Going Was Good by Graydon Carter was, in my opinion, just boring. I’ve tried it so many times I’ve basically memorised the first chapter.
It made me wonder: if I don’t feel the urge to read something, if I’m not excitedly reaching for a book, am I just reading for the sake of it? To say I’ve read it, to appear well-read, to participate in discourse? If there isn’t a single piece of literature I’m yearning to indulge in, then what’s the point of forcing it?
Of course, I’ll still read things when I need to — a research study, some Instagram prose, whatever — but despite borrowing books, trying audiobooks, asking for recommendations, and keeping lists, nothing has been calling me to the page.
It also made me think about how much weight we place on reading in general. We’re not in school anymore, being forced to analyse and report back, so why does it still feel like a measure of intelligence or worth?
Is it because we feel we should be making the effort to read, especially now, when information is so easily accessible in other forms? Do we read to say we do, or do we read for enjoyment?
Personally, I used to read to be inspired to write. The different ways something could be said expanded my understanding of language. Plot twists and narrative turns opened up new ways of thinking and expressing. Reading felt essential.
But this year, I’ve found that same inspiration elsewhere — in supposedly ‘menial’ shows like Sex and the City. It’s not high art in the traditional sense (though it’s iconic and singular in its own way), but I can’t pretend I haven’t read books that enticed me for the same reasons and still didn’t live up to their reputation.
A lot of the books I’ve found most inspiring also centre writers as protagonists — many of Stephen King’s novels, or narrators in books like Butter by Asako Yuzuki and Penance by Eliza Clark. Lately, SATC has been filling that gap through Carrie Bradshaw.
When I read, I visualise everything like a screen already playing in my head. One could argue reading demands more imagination — that you have to build the world yourself — but I’d argue that watching someone else’s interpretation of a script can create a similar kind of expansion. It’s not lesser, just different.
Like feminist literature, I’m drawn to feminist screenwriting too. Both give me glimpses into how others navigate womanhood, and both soften the guilt or uncertainty I sometimes attach to my own thinking.
Watching Girls through Lena Dunham’s lens gave me permission to sit with cringe — to accept it as part of being alive rather than something to avoid at all costs.
And now Sex and the City is offering me a glimpse into my thirties, and into ageing in a way that people in their twenties, like me, are often taught to fear.
I do still yearn to be lost in a book. It has its own charm, its own kind of immersion, and I want to be one of those people reading on trams and trains, completely absorbed again. I hope that desire returns at some point. But I’m not going to force it.
So while some people might already be on their 50th book of the year, I’m sitting here with zero under my belt. I hope this is some comfort to those in a similar place, because I know I’ve felt insecure before about how many books I was or wasn’t reading.
At this point, I don’t really care to know anyone’s book count anymore (or at least, I'm trying not to care). If anything, I’m side-eyeing people who report 100+ books by the end of the year because, genuinely, where did you find the time, and how deeply were you actually engaging with each one?
Even when I was reading three or four books a quarter last year, they would eventually start to blur into one another. A lot of them, I couldn’t reliably recall the main characters or plot points, simply because of how much I was consuming at once.
Maybe those people are better at it than me — maybe they can retain everything and deeply connect with each piece of literature they tick off their list. But it’s not sustainable for me, and I’ve made peace with that (for now).
Who knows, you might see a “10 books I’ve read in 10 days” post here one day (unlikely), and I’d probably feel a sense of achievement if I did. But if not, there’s always the possibility of a “media I’ve consumed in the second quarter of 2026” instead.