Compulsive reading

I am a compulsive reader.  I read constantly, voraciously, compulsively. If you put words in front of me, I will read them. If I am doing something that allows reading, I read.

There are people out there who read more books than I read. It depends on the specific books I’m reading. Some books are light and quick; others are heavy and take some time to get through. I tend to read more of the latter. For the past several years I have read a minimum of ten books per month.

But what good does all this reading do? I enjoy it, but then couch potatoes enjoy mindlessly watching TV too. Does my reading habit measurably increase my utility, or even my sense of worth as a human being?  

Here is the crux of my personal crisis: I exist, but what benefit do I bring the world? I take in oxygen, but what do I contribute in return?  I have this nagging feeling that I’m supposed to do something, maybe not bring world peace, but help out someone in some small way. And helping them find Saw IV on the shelf at the library just doesn’t seem to qualify.

Surely there must be some valuable commodity that can be gotten from reading. I definitely have an active life of the mind. There’s a lot going on in there, but I don’t find many opportunities to turn it loose on the outside. Maybe that’s why I read; it’s a self-sustaining compulsion. I read because I would go stir crazy without intellectual stimulation.

And on the flip side there is writing. I write quite a bit, keeping journals and what-not. But the problem with my writing is that it lacks a receptive brain. I wish I could stop people in the street, hand them something I’ve written, and say “here, read this, tell me what you think.” Dang, I miss being in school, because that’s what school gave me–a response. In the real world no one cares what you’re thinking unless you can somehow make them care.

Hmmm…let me ponder that one.