Oh no, I thought I was speed reading when I was actually just not reading.

“Wow, I am really flying through this book,” I smugly thought to myself. I must be a man of culture. Scholarly and literate. Possibly the most literate? Unfortunately, as I turned to the last page, an alarming realisation struck me. I have no idea what just happened. One moment, Beth was born in an orphanage, the next, the story was over. What happened to Beth? Is she all right? How do I not know what happened to her? She was the protagonist! It was her POV!

For how long was I repeatedly shifting my head from left to right? How many plot elements did I skip over? Instead of engaging with literature in a meaningful way, I was just holding a book in front of me for a few hours. It did feel good, though. I was out on the balcony, soaking up the sun, using the book to shield my face from the heat. Very relaxing, but I missed out on the main point of the entire activity.

I have a book club meeting in a few hours. There are a few members who already don’t like me very much. They say awful things about me like, ‘I bet he didn’t read the book again’, and ‘Is he even literate?’ Of course, I’m literate. The only issue I have is that I am far too impressed with myself when I read. Three sentences in, and my primary thought is ‘wow, I am reading!’ Then I get sidetracked by how impressive it is that I am doing a smart-person activity. While others party, some play video games, but I am a reader. Or at least, a book holder.

But what even is speed reading? Someone in the book club said that they scan words and find a pattern to estimate what a paragraph conveys. Now, I thought that was what I was doing. But it turns out, I do not understand patterns. It appears that from now on, I will have to go back to slow reading like some neanderthal.