Once Upon A Time

Books must have appeared to be magic. To open one and plunge into a story of a detective tracking down a ruthless killer through fog-shrouded London streets. To open one and learn how a garden works; the secret language between roots and soil, the patience of seeds.

Now, for many, a book feels too hard. The entry effort seems greater than-for example-the effort of scrolling through Instagram. But as any such scroller will reveal in their more honest moments, there’s little pleasure in that endless scroll. It’s simply the temporary calming of a fix; a scratch that never quite reaches the itch.

Starting a new book is like preparing a meal from nothing or lacing up your boots at the trailhead. There’s a threshold to cross, an initial resistance to overcome. Your mind must shift gears. You must settle in, commit, allow the first pages (or finely chopped onion or scrambling of the first incline) to do their work of pulling you from this world into another.

But it’s worth it for the pleasure that follows.

Because unlike the scattered dopamine hits of social media, a book offers something richer: sustained attention rewarded with depth. The satisfaction of watching a plot unfold across hours, not seconds. The joy of understanding something new by the final chapter. The strange intimacy of spending time inside another consciousness, whether that’s a fictional character or the mind of someone teaching you their craft.

A book demands, no doubt. But in return, it more than repays.

Go read a book.