On living through (not by) books
I’ve been one to easily compare my life to other people because their lives always seemed to be more eventful than my mundane. I lived through books, especially fiction.
But in some corners of social media, I’m being told I shouldn’t spend my time on “nonsense” stories and instead spend my time improving myself: working out, eating healthy, and reading self-help books.
It took me a long time to realize I’m only reading self-help books to conform to what people say. Often, I feel obliged to change my ways in an instant. I apply these tips they speak highly of and I often find myself asking, “What now?”
So I cling to fiction, which brings me solace. There’s a certain comfort in knowing how things work out in the end—something that self-help requires me to unfold myself by living it. The thing is: I don’t want to. I just want to see how it goes.
I have existed for quite some time in the world, but having been brought up by strict parents, I feel I haven’t lived enough yet. But I’ve already lived the regency life through Julia Quinn and adapted witty remarks from criminals through Leigh Bardugo. I’ve lived a vibrant life through the pages I moved past and it brought me to learn you don’t have to go through something to learn from it.
My life is interwoven in the lives of the characters I’ve already befriended and those I have yet to meet.
Like how Haymitch Abernathy was an addict in The Hunger Games but when the situation called for it, he became the smartest and most strategic in the room. Even as he experienced withdrawal, he remained level-headed. This shows our innate capabilities that even we don’t realize right away.
Like how Effie Trinket has been complaining non-stop in Mockingjay, but still goes out of her room and aids Katniss when she needs it. Aiding rebels may not have been her forte, but she found a family in her team, something that finally dissolved the line between the district and the Capitol in her Capitol-wired brain. This shows growth, no matter how slow.
Books are mosaics of the world, and the world is a mosaic of books and readers. Without us realizing, we see reflections of our life in the books we read even when they’re fictitious. For instance, we see it in the people from the Capitol in The Hunger Games series distracting themselves with eccentric fashion choices rather than dealing with the fact they’re putting mere children to kill one another for entertainment. It’s strikingly similar to airstrikes happening in Palestine while last year’s Oscars were ongoing. (Free Palestine, by the way.)
Self-help put a weight on my shoulders. Instead of wanting change for myself for the benefits it comes with, I wanted to change just to prove I made something out of spending 12 hours finishing a book. It makes me think we have to be “the best,” because otherwise, what’s the point of it all?
But why can’t we simply be us, even if that “simply us” means just drinking 3-in-1 coffee in the morning, not being productive 24/7, and not always being put-together?
Like Marianne in Normal People who reminds us that we don’t always have everything figured out. That the world doesn’t end in high school, or when someone doesn’t choose you. That the world doesn’t stop even if you mess up.
My life is interwoven in the lives of the characters I’ve already befriended and those I have yet to meet. This isn’t to say my life is boring, but it’s a hopeful reminder that, while I’m still trying to learn to take up space like Evelyn Hugo or move someplace else like Linus Baker, there’s a real world out there waiting for me to live in it. And even though I know it’s not as adventurous as in Camp Jupiter or glamorous like in Hollywood, living it could just be as exciting as the worlds I’ve already lived through the pages I’ve moved past.
Living is heavy enough—I don’t need to antagonize myself for having failed to follow self-help books. And you don’t have to beat yourself up just because you haven’t read the titles people always speak highly of online. “You’re 21, you should’ve read this already,” yada-yada. That’s not how reading should be. It shouldn’t be taxing. There are other vessels of life, laughs and love out there. And they’re just as life-changing as self-help claims to be.
