For the Love of Books?
- B.R. Dexter
- 6 days ago
- 3 min read
You know you’re old when…
Seriously, there are lots of groaning-when-I-stand and waistline complaints that could follow that opening. But this one made me feel like a proper dad-nerd: Reading rates.
In particular, literacy and reading rates for boys.
The stats are out, from everywhere that collects them, boys aren’t reading. (ok, I’ll link a few below, but trust me, they’re worrying!
So what? Who cares?
We all should.
Higher literacy rates are linked with: reduced criminality, higher achievement in later life, financial security, lower birth rates, and higher book sales!
OK, so I care about the last one more than you do. But I also care about the rest.
Here’s a banger: reading enjoyment at school-going age is more important for later life success than genetics, the social class you were born into, and overall IQ.
Reading enjoyment is about getting the right kids reading the right books. Stories. Good stories, with interesting, memorable characters. And good writing. That’s what we need.
It got me thinking about how I came to enjoy reading. I was lucky enough to be read to. I have no memory of my mother or father reading to me as a kid—though, I’m sure they did. Rather, I was lucky enough to have a great aunt who had been a teacher, and she read to me. Her sister, my gran, then gave me books at every birthday, and it is those two women who got me to love reading. That, and competition.
When I was in standard one (third grade, age 8-9), our teacher started a reading competition. You read a book and then got to colour in patterned drawings relative to how long, how complicated and how well you knew a book. I block/square/space per point awarded. We had to bring them in, and she would quiz us on them and then assign a score. At the time, I was munching my way through all of Willard Price’s adventure books. And Mrs H thought these were cerebral enough to be valued at fifty points each. Fifty! My closest competitor, D, was reading a series of pulp fiction westerns… and he was getting thirty points per book. So I was flying!
In the end, neither of us won. The winner was our long-term nemesis Miss C. An interesting aside here: D, C and I all went on to medical school and all became doctors. D is now a CEO, C is a geneticist, and I am writing this. Reading hey.
When I look at books for boys these days, the covers are cartoony, childish nonsense. Mrs H would probably give these no more than five or ten points. D’s Westerns had proper western covers: cowboys, horses, trains and guns. My Willard Price novels had polar bears, elephants, sharks, and screamed danger and adventure. I honestly don’t remember what C read…Probably war and bloody peace.
Even at eight, I would have turned my nose up at everything in the modern children’s section. And I see my son doing the same, even at six.
The covers are silly, the writing is patronising, and the stories are bleached white-bread dullery! (Pretty sure I made that word up.)
So, what have I learnt? If you want to be a success in life have an aunty who went to university in the 1940’s, and find someone to compete against. I am conscious of my privilege here.
Read to your kids, let your kids see you reading, turn the TV off and put the phone down, and try and remember what you enjoyed at their age; chances are it will be similar.
Don’t have kids? Lead by example, and look at the benefits of reading for teens and adults – they’re all the ones you think: IQ, success, stress, happiness, crime, etc etc amen.
Get boys reading.
Get kids and teens reading.
And get yourself reading.
I think what we need is to stop patronising teen readers and young readers. And write better books.
On that note…
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