As a little kid, my first dive into the realm of literature can be characterized by one word: penguins. 365 of them, to be exact. 365 Penguins is all but a normal children’s book. Gone are the characters who interact, quarrel, and preserve in order to teach kids a lesson, and in come 365 penguins, each to their own. Some are stuck in trash cans, some are flying, and some dress up as batman 
(batpenguin, actually). This book can best be interpreted by my father, who would stray away from the words on the page, making up new voices for each penguin. It brought a sense of excitement beyond just what the author had written. It made me burst into my parent’s bedroom with the oversized 16×12 inch book in hand, and plead with my Dad to read it just one more time before bed. This was the start to my literary journey.
As time went on, my excitement towards literature dissipated. Many people like to blame the education system, teachers, or parents for their loss of passion towards reading. They claim that mandated reading takes the joy out of scouring through a book, and texts chosen by educators often make students less inclined to truly ‘lose themselves’ in a story.
While I see how this can be true, I don’t think that the blame falls entirely on a structured system of reading for a grade or for completion. In fact, I think the blame falls on ourselves. Simply put, we don’t make, or have, time to lose ourselves in a book anymore. (If you do make time, I commend you for it, because it is something I can’t do.) Life has so many variables: events, activities, cell phones, and a range of priorities that simply don’t allow many people the time to sit down and read daily. We are rushed. We focus more on texting our friends and not diving into a story. Consequently, we forget the benefits and importance of literature. Things like these contribute to my generation’s general distaste for novels and types of literature.
Most of my daily literature intake consists of the New York Times Morning Briefing. It is informative, but most importantly, short. It takes two minutes to read while I make my morning coffee. It also is practical and of interest to me, unlike long-winding novels and stories. Could I find time to branch out into books or longer texts? Sure, I know I could. Is it high enough up on my list of priorities, as a senior with AP classes, college applications, ACT tutoring, and a varsity sport? No, and I have no one to blame but myself for that. It’s a reality that I’ve become comfortable with, and it’s been that way since I entered high school. It’s a reality that I’m ashamed of.
I don’t know if I’ll ever find my love for reading again, or have the same excitement I once had as a seven year old reading a silly book about penguins. It’s sad to think about. Quite frankly, I can’t see myself moving on to the next stages of my life prioritizing reading literature if it isn’t required of me. Life only gets more complicated, right? Maybe that makes me ignorant. Maybe it makes me naive. Maybe it makes me a liar. Only time will tell where I go on my literary journey.