I really did not want to read the Scarlet Letter.
So being my honest-to-goodness-grumpy-silly-11th-grade-mature self, I waited till the weekend before it was due, then, I put the book on my bedside table. Then, I waited a couple hours. Then, I made myself a cup of coffee. Then, I got some snacks. Then, I hit play on my Mumford and Sons playlist. Then, I sat on my bed, equipped with sticky notes and a pen. Then, I read.
Needless to say, I procrastinated. I’m sorry.
So I read the Scarlet Letter and probably didn’t enjoy as much as I could have. And this is what I learned:
I’m not nearly as good of a reader as I thought I was.
I’ve always been a reader and I’ve always thought myself a “good” reader.
(Hey, there is a whole post on reading!)
But when I began to read the Scarlet Letter, I had to drop this idea that I had of being a “good” reader. I wasn’t because I couldn’t recognize my thoughts as they came. I couldn’t write down what I was thinking in meaningful sentences. I couldn’t understand what Hawthorne’s diction meant and how it was contributing to the feelings I was experiencing. I was oblivious to heavy-handed, clever allusions being made in conjunction with brilliant writing.
So I think I learned that I can always grow in my understanding. Especially in such things like reading. I can always learn to better inhale the glory of magnificent writing, even if I procrastinate, especially if I procrastinate.