I used to think a reading life was something you either had or you didn’t. You were a reader or you weren’t. But the longer I live with books — as a Tamil-Canadian woman in Toronto, as someone who reads translated fiction and debut novelists with a kind of hunger, as a person who has learned to treat reading as emotional practice — the more I believe a reading life is something you build. Slowly. Intentionally. With your own two hands.
This isn’t about reading more books. It’s about reading in a way that returns you to yourself. It’s about choosing books that meet you where you are, and letting go of the ones that don’t. It’s about building a relationship with reading that feels less like a to-do list and more like a conversation.
I want to share what I’ve learned — not as a prescription, but as a series of small discoveries. Some of them came from years of reading. Some came from reading badly, or not at all. All of them have shaped the way I think about books, wellbeing, and the quiet work of paying attention.
What a Reading Life Actually Is
A reading life isn’t a number. It’s not a shelf of unread spines or a streak on an app. It’s a relationship — between you and the page, between the page and the world, between the world and the person you’re becoming.
When I think about the reading lives I admire, they share a few things. They’re curious without being frantic. They make room for slowness. They treat reading as a form of listening — to other voices, other places, other ways of being alive. And they’re honest about the fact that some seasons of life make reading harder, not easier.
For me, a reading life that feeds the soul has three parts:
- Attention — the willingness to be present with a book, even when it’s difficult.
- Intention — choosing books that align with what you need, not just what’s new or buzzy.
- Permission — the freedom to stop reading, to reread, to read slowly, to read for comfort, to read for challenge.
None of this requires a degree in literature. It requires a kind of honesty about what you’re actually looking for when you open a book.
Start With What You’re Hungry For
I spent years reading books I thought I should read. Books that were important. Books that won prizes. Books that made me feel smart at dinner parties. And some of those books changed my life. But many of them didn’t. Many of them sat on my nightstand for months, quietly judging me.
The shift came when I started asking a different question. Not What should I read? but What am I hungry for?
Sometimes the answer is a novel in translation that will take me somewhere I’ve never been. Sometimes it’s a debut novel by a writer who’s still figuring out what they want to say. Sometimes it’s a book I’ve already read three times, because I need the comfort of knowing exactly what happens next.
There’s a term I’ve come to love: bibliotherapy. It’s the practice of using books to support emotional and psychological wellbeing. The idea has roots in ancient Greece — the library at Thebes supposedly carried the inscription “a healing place for the soul” — and it’s been explored by researchers and practitioners in more recent decades. The International Federation for Biblio/Poetry Therapy describes it as the use of literature and writing to promote growth and healing. I’m not a therapist, and I don’t read to self-diagnose. But I do read to feel less alone, to understand my own mind, to find language for things I didn’t know I was carrying.
That’s not a luxury. That’s a practice.
Build a Shelf That Reflects Your Whole Self
My bookshelf is a map of my life. There are Tamil writers and Canadian writers. There are books in translation from Korea, Japan, Argentina, Nigeria, Poland. There are debut novelists whose first books I bought because a bookseller pressed them into my hands. There are books about grief, about migration, about motherhood, about the body. There are books I read in one sitting and books I’ve been reading for a year.
I don’t think a reading life needs to be balanced. But I do think it benefits from range. Reading across cultures, languages, and forms keeps me from getting stuck in one way of seeing. It reminds me that the world is wider than my own experience — and that my own experience is wider than I sometimes remember.
Translated fiction has been especially important to me. There’s something about reading a book that was written in another language, for another audience, that changes the way I read. I pay more attention. I ask different questions. I’m more aware of what I don’t know. And I’m more grateful for the translators who make that encounter possible.
If you’re not sure where to start with translated fiction, try a book from a country you’ve never visited. Or a book by a writer whose name you can’t pronounce. Or a book that was originally published decades ago and only recently made its way into English. Let the unfamiliarity be part of the gift.
Make Space for Slow Reading
I read slowly. Not always — some books pull me under and I surface hours later, disoriented and grateful. But more often, I read the way I eat a good meal: in courses, with pauses, paying attention to what I’m tasting.
Slow reading isn’t about being a better reader. It’s about being a more present one. It’s about letting a sentence sit with you. It’s about rereading a paragraph because it moved you, not because you missed something. It’s about closing the book for a minute and looking out the window.
There’s research that suggests reading fiction can improve empathy and social cognition — the ability to understand other people’s mental states. A 2013 study published in Science found that reading literary fiction, in particular, was associated with better performance on tests of empathy and theory of mind. I think about that study sometimes when I’m reading a novel that asks me to sit with a character I don’t like. The discomfort is part of the work. The slowness is part of the gift.
Let Go of the Books That Aren’t Yours
I used to finish every book I started. It felt like a moral obligation. If I’d committed to a book, I owed it my attention. But somewhere along the way, I realized that finishing a book I wasn’t connecting with wasn’t a virtue. It was a way of avoiding the harder question: What do I actually want to read?
Now I give myself permission to stop. Not casually — I still believe in giving books a fair chance. But if I’m fifty pages in and I’m dreading the next chapter, I close the book. I put it back on the shelf. I might come back to it in a year, or I might not. Either way, I’ve learned that a reading life is built on choices, not obligations.
This is especially true for debut novelists. I read a lot of first books, and I want to be generous with them. But generosity doesn’t mean forcing myself through a book that isn’t working. It means being honest about what I’m experiencing, and trusting that the right book will find me at the right time.
Read for Comfort, Read for Challenge
There’s a false binary I used to believe in: comfort reading versus serious reading. Books that soothe versus books that stretch. But the more I read, the more I see that comfort and challenge aren’t opposites. They’re companions.
Some of the most challenging books I’ve read have also been the most comforting. A novel about grief can be hard to read and deeply reassuring at the same time. A book about migration can unsettle me and make me feel seen. A debut novel that takes risks can remind me that uncertainty is part of the creative process — and part of being alive.
I try to read with both hands open. I read for pleasure, and I read for understanding. I read to escape, and I read to return. I read books that make me laugh and books that make me cry. I read books that I don’t fully understand, and I let that be okay.
Create Rituals Around Reading
Reading doesn’t need to be a special occasion. But I’ve found that small rituals help me protect the practice. A cup of chai before I open a book. A specific chair by the window. A notebook where I write down lines I want to remember. A rule about not checking my phone for the first twenty minutes of reading.
These rituals aren’t about discipline. They’re about attention. They signal to my brain that this time is different — that I’m not scrolling, not multitasking, not half-present. I’m reading.
One of my favorite rituals is reading in the morning, before the day gets loud. Even ten minutes helps. I read a few pages of a novel, or a poem, or a passage from a book I’m rereading. It’s not about quantity. It’s about starting the day with someone else’s voice in my head.
Keep a Reading Notebook (or Don’t)
I keep a reading notebook, but I’m not precious about it. It’s not a review journal. It’s a place where I write down sentences that stop me, questions that linger, connections I’m starting to see between books. Sometimes I write a paragraph about why a book mattered. Sometimes I just write a word.
The notebook isn’t for anyone else. It’s a way of making my reading visible to myself. It helps me remember what I’ve read, but more importantly, it helps me remember who I was when I read it.
If a notebook feels like too much, don’t keep one. The point isn’t to document your reading life. The point is to live it. But if you’re someone who forgets books easily — and I am — a few notes can be a gift to your future self.
Find Your People
Reading is often solitary, but it doesn’t have to be lonely. Some of my most meaningful reading experiences have happened in conversation — with a friend who read the same book, with a book club that disagreed about everything, with a stranger in a bookstore who saw what I was holding and said, “Oh, I loved that one.”
In Toronto, I’ve found community in unexpected places. Independent bookstores with staff who actually read. Library branches with quiet corners and generous librarians. Online spaces where readers share what they’re loving, without the pressure to perform. These connections remind me that reading is a shared practice, even when it happens alone.
If you’re looking for community, start small. Ask a friend what they’re reading. Visit a local bookstore and ask for a recommendation. Join a library book club. The point isn’t to find people who read exactly what you read. It’s to find people who take reading seriously — and who don’t take themselves too seriously.
Let Your Reading Life Change
I used to worry that I wasn’t reading the right books. Now I worry less. My reading life has changed as my life has changed. There were years when I read almost nothing. There were years when I read only poetry. There were years when I read only books by women, or only books in translation, or only books I could finish in a weekend.
None of those seasons was a failure. They were all part of the same long conversation.
A reading life that feeds the soul is not a fixed thing. It’s a living thing. It grows and shrinks and changes shape. It asks different questions at different times. It makes room for new voices and lets go of old ones. It is, in the end, a practice of attention — to books, to the world, to the self.
Frequently Asked Questions
How do I start building a reading life if I haven’t read in years?
Start with something short and inviting. A novella, a collection of essays, a book of poems. Don’t set a goal. Just read for ten minutes and see what happens. The goal is to rebuild the habit of attention, not to prove anything. If a book doesn’t hold you, try another one. The right book is out there.
What if I feel guilty about not finishing books?
Guilt is a common companion for readers, but it doesn’t have to be. Try reframing: every book you stop reading is a book you’re choosing not to force. That’s not failure. That’s discernment. Give a book a fair chance — fifty pages, or a few chapters — and then let it go if it’s not working. You can always come back.
How can I read more translated fiction without feeling lost?
Start with a country or region you’re curious about, and look for books that have been well reviewed or recommended by readers you trust. Don’t worry about “understanding” everything. Part of the gift of translated fiction is sitting with unfamiliarity. Read the translator’s note if there is one — it often opens up the book in beautiful ways.
Is it okay to read for comfort instead of challenge?
Absolutely. Comfort reading is not lesser reading. It’s a form of care. Some seasons of life call for books that soothe, and that’s not something to apologize for. The key is to notice what you need and honor it. A reading life that feeds the soul makes room for both comfort and challenge.
What Comes Next
I’m still building my own reading life, and I suspect I always will be. That’s part of what I love about it. There’s always another book, another voice, another way of seeing. There’s always another question to ask.
If you’re building a reading life too, I’d love to hear what’s working for you. What are you reading right now? What book changed the way you think? What do you do when you’re in a reading slump? These are the questions I want to keep exploring here — not as a critic, but as a fellow reader, trying to pay attention.
Next time, I want to write about debut novelists — why I read them, how I find them, and what they teach me about risk and beginning. Until then, I hope you find a book that feels like it was written for you.