Ever since I can remember, I’ve fostered a fond love for classics. From Little Women to The Lion, the Witch, & the Wardrobe, my childhood was filled with rich and beautiful stories. I’ve found comfort and enjoyment in stories, particularly in the classics sphere, and my fascination only increased as the years passed. Enchanted by these tales of old, I grew up believing that if I read and cherished these stories, it was only natural that others did as well. “Classics are so precious… they must see that as well” were my wee thoughts.
Yet, as I grew older, I began to realize how little people read (and valued) classics. I knew there were bookworms out there, and I bonded with the ones I found. Nonetheless, it was rare for me to find another classics lover.
Recently, I’ve become more conscious of how different my reading taste is from others. And the disappointment of my earlier years was replaced by shame. Shame that my nose was stuck in a classic, while others were devouring hyped releases and the latest bestseller. Feelings of pressure to read popular novels for the sake of fitting in with the bookworms of today…CONTINUE READING