Dear Ricky,

I felt a strong impulse to respond to your column from last week (“Pay No Attention,” Sept. 20, 2011). I’d also noticed some of the same things you alluded to: writers fill newspapers with stories, regardless of whether newsworthy events have occurred since the issue prior; and a person’s choice of reading materials is, at times, not much more than a fashion statement. But I drew different conclusions than you did based on my own experiences.

When I was about six and a half years old, there was a day I remember when I was as sad as I thought it was possible to be.

I learned to read when I was six and instantly became addicted. For the next six months I read like it was my job—anything with words on it that came near me: books, comics, newspapers, menus. Hell, even the ingredients and instructions on soup cans were fair game. I disliked not reading so much that I simply refused to stop. When my parents took me shopping I would always bring a book. Then, using my peripheral vision to keep a parent’s pants in sight, I would cruise around the store on an invisible tether reading, completely oblivious to the world around me. This got me in trouble once when I followed the wrong pair of pants around a store for 45 minutes, but it wasn’t a habit I was willing to give up. This is because I harboured a secret ambition—I was going to be the most well-read person in the world, and I was going to accomplish that by reading everything. Every book. Every newspaper. Every soup can.

But, six months into my master scheme, I learned a lesson in perspective: someone brought to my attention just how many new things were being written every year. This revelation shocked and depressed me. How was I supposed to read everything if writers were producing new material faster than I could read the old stuff? I cried for hours.

The point of this story is not that I was a kid with weird aspirations, but that I, like so many other people, love words and the knowledge that they seem to promise. Whatever convinced me to read everything in the entire world is also what drives the machinery of publishing. As I write this late on Monday night, I can’t argue that dealines and the need to fill space don’t have a part to play, but what truly drives the industry are desperately curious consumers; people who want to devour the day’s news the way I wanted to devour the world’s words. Of course, news doesn’t happen according to a production schedule, so the newsworthiness of articles vary, but it’s no conspiratorial plot. It’s the hopeless attempt to fulfill curiosity.

It’s this curiosity that fuels most of my reading, and it’s curiosity that led me to reflect on your second point—that reading is, at times, not too much more than a fashion statement. I’m as guilty of this self-consciousness as anyone. Whenever I know I’m going to be reading in public, I’ll think twice before selecting a book—I don’t want to be seen reading the pulpy science fiction novels that I eat up at home, but at the same time I feel awkward toting around high brow books in case people think I’m just doing it for the effect. The copy of Barney’s Version that I bought at a second hand bookstore over the summer was probably the most embarrassing dilemma. A fantastic book that I struggled to put down, it had “NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE” proudly emblazoned on the front, leaving me very open to the imagined possibility of some shmuck thinking I wasn’t a Mordecai Richler fan before I saw the movie.

But the vanity exposed by my reading choices still doesn’t change anything. I’ll read some things in public and others in private because I care what people think of me, and books, just like fashion—and as one graffiti artist on campus seems to think, friends—are all accessories in how you’re perceived. But if appearances’ sake is the be-all and end-all for why you’re reading what you’re reading, then that’s a damn shame.