In a world overflowing with book recommendations, reading lists, and how-to guides, it’s easy to get caught up in the ‘logistics’ of reading. Far too often, we focus on the outcomes (the far-reaching benefits of reading) or the process (the ‘right’ way to engage with a text). We praise the quality and quantity of books read (What are you reading? How many books have you finished this month?), fuelling the competitive nature of reading. Thank you, Goodreads.

My reading bug started in preschool. Teachers celebrated excellence, and with that recognition came numerous benefits: the nuns were off my back, my parents were delighted and my sense of self-worth, inextricably tied to a sense of achievement (still working on that), soared. In Year 2, our teacher pasted a star next to our names for every book that we read, accompanied by our ‘reviews’ in the form of book reports. These documents were no slap-dash job, at least as far as I was concerned. I painstakingly drew a representative scene from the book for each report cover, then crafted a story summary, a breakdown of what I liked and didn’t like, and, in a typical case of overreach, offered my suggestions for plot, character and story endings. Why? Because our reading ‘stars’ were pasted in a horizontal line after our names on public display. I was determined to have the top results and did. In fact, my ‘reading line’ wrapped around several corners of the classroom. Annoying, I know.

Today’s school reading challenges manifest in a slightly more subdued form – reading (heaps) for a charitable cause, or for some school, class or personal reward. The race may not be called in real-time, as in my day, but the underlying message is the same: Reading gets you something. But instead of fixating on the quantity of books we consume or the accolades they might bring us, I’m proposing that we amp up the quality of our reading experience. Reading should be a journey, not simply a means to an end, never an end in itself. What if we turn our gaze instead to the connections we forge with the characters and the conversations that arise from our shared experiences? With this approach, there is less focus on what we’re reading and more on what compels us to pick up a book – the stories that linger with us long after we’ve turned the last page.

My children weren’t big readers. I would have thought that one of the three would be inclined to pick up a book now and again, but no. They were all too busy making and doing things, preoccupied with sport, art, movement and adventures the world threw their way. My eldest abhorred the staging aspect of early readers, which made a student’s reading level a matter for public consumption. You’re still on Level 2? I’m reading chapter books already! he once told me some upstart had teased. My kids found most of the readers boring (Who cares what fish the kid caught with his grandpa? was a common lament). Valuing autonomy a tad too much, none of them seemed to appreciate being told what to read. So they were left to zip through pages (or not) at their leisure. Silent reading was the go-to activity when teachers needed to catch up on admin – like when I used to pop in a kids’ video at home ‘just this once’ so I could get dinner underway.

I was a born reader and didn’t mind silent reading at all. It allowed me to plough through worlds, hang out with beloved characters, process pesky emotions and file away a thing or two for future years. But many decades later, I wonder if we (adults and children) should be reading aloud more. Seriously. We have book clubs where we discuss the books we supposedly read. I say supposedly because, more often than not, some members haven’t cracked open the covers yet. Hell, in my old book club, we spent more time deciding what books to read, less time remembering what titles we had actually selected (and why).

I read to my children often, usually right before bed, occasionally just because. White Fang emerged as an early favourite, and I was chuffed to learn recently that the kids, now in their twenties, not only recall these stories but treasure the memories. Why read aloud? Hearing a story read, especially a complex one, allows us to appreciate the flow, nuances, rhythm and tone of language. It can even improve retention and comprehension. Reading aloud is inherently social. It can build confidence when it comes to articulation and public speaking while encouraging an inspired and informed dialogue. What on earth am I proposing, you might ask? Reading clubs! They’re active, with a focus on reading – far more engaging and enjoyable than book clubs, which are more passive, led by opinion and analysis. Bonus points if you dress up like the character for the meetings. Reenactment of book scenes is optional after your second cocktail.

It’s time to shake up the reading culture: less individualism and competition, more shared experiences and community-building. Let kids choose what to read. (My eldest learned to read from YuGiOh! cards when he realised that reading was a skill, a ‘power’ he needed to play his beloved game.) Let’s care a bit less about genres, and while we’re at it, let’s lose the snootiness about literature vs mass market and traditionally published vs hybrid vs self-published titles. A good story is a good story irrespective of where it sits on the shelf (if it even sits on one), how much it costs, who wrote it and who published it.

Let’s get back to the heart of reading.