For the love of reading: hereditary or environmental? For rebecca, it was environmental, but for me?

When I was 16, I was gifted a bundle of V.C. Andrews books by Rebecca, the founder and publisher of this newsletter you’re reading right now. Our mothers were great friends, but we didn’t know each other all that well. Frankly, we were never good friends. 

So, little did I know way back then that almost 30 years later, she’d be asking me to help her on this new literary journey as the executive editor of re:books. (Why did she choose me? Well, you’ll have to ask her! Only Rebecca knows what's going on in her overthinking brain!)

I also didn’t know, way back then, that I would turn out to be such an avid reader. I was often gifted books, especially from my dad. He had a passion for reading I witnessed my entire life, until his passing. 

All through my childhood our house was always full of books, hundreds and hundreds of them, with bookshelves practically falling over and filled with books from floor to ceiling. My mom loved reading, too. Her preferred genre was mystery. (It still is today!) 

My dad’s book collection spanned the gamut of literary genres, though. And he read them all. In my youth, I never thought much about his love of reading or his fondness for books. It was just what he did.  

I was never forced or expected to read, but it was certainly encouraged. It was a normal part of life — like dinner. I always had a ton of book choices, but only here and there do I distinctly remember reading. Growing up, I didn’t swallow up books like my dad did, or give them much thought, certainly not like I do today. 

I remember trips to the library and the bookstore, again, always a given. I never questioned it, even though I don’t remember enjoying it that much.

In my very early 20s, I was babysitting at a family friend's house. I was bored. They had a small shelf of books, so I picked up a John Grisham novel — The Rainmaker. I finished it in less than 24 hours. And that was the trigger of the avalanche that would become my favourite pastime: reading and then reading more.

For 25 years now, I’ve been reading, buying, borrowing, researching and discussing books. They have become a huge part of who I am. 

When I first found out I was pregnant, I had high hopes for my child: one was that the kid would be an Olympic swimmer. The other? That my child would love to read. Over the past 12 years, however, I’ve realized that (a) unless my daughter is the female Michael Phelps, her Olympic aspirations (or rather, mine) are dwindling into a hope of maybe a joy of swimming; and (b) the only way my 12-year-old daughter is going to love to read is if I inspire her to read, by having her watch me, gifting her books, taking her to the library and just being myself and talking about books — a lot!

Rebecca and I were recently discussing whether the love of reading is hereditary or environmental. She told me that she was an avid reader as a child, as a result of being the only girl growing up with three brothers. Her parents, she told me, would force her to spend a month at the cottage with her three brothers, whom she really, really didn't want to play with. 

Her fondest memories as a child spending summers at her family cottage were the weekly visits when her mother took her to the Parry Sound Public Library, where mini-Rebecca — known as Becky back then — would take out at least a dozen books each week. For Rebecca, those trips were the highlights of her week, when she knew she could escape into other people's lives and worlds that were not her own (“or my dumb brothers’,” she says). Rebecca knew when she became a reader and she knew why. For Rebecca, it was a result of her environment. (Her parents do like to read, generally mystery novels or book club picks.)

I, however, had to pause for a moment because I had never considered this. Thinking about my dad, myself and then my own kid, I assumed it was nurtured. However, I was a mathematics major many moons ago. (Yes! I am a math geek, too!) That voice in me needed a concrete answer. So of course, I ended up doing a little bit of research. 

I read articles and spoke to family members who are university profs (you know — the smart ones in the family!). Almost all my relatives agreed with my assertion that the love of reading is purely environmental. I’ll quote one: “I would think early exposure to books and reading, access, socialization, could foster a love of reading. I see the love of reading as more of an acquired trait than an inherited one.” And another relative said, “Of course it’s nurtured, don’t be silly.”

I love my cousins and am proud of their accomplishments, so I’m happy to be grouped with them when I say, we are all wrong. 

Turns out, the love of reading is, in fact, hereditary. However, my scientific mind also realized that we carry a lot of genes, some that are obvious and some not so much, but the “love of reading” piece of DNA falls into the category of genes that should be taught and nurtured and encouraged, much like kindness and love for humans around us, which, ultimately, we all have within us.

I do know this: if my dad hadn't been such an avid reader, at some point in my life (maybe that time I was babysitting?), I too would eventually find that love within me. 

I recently moved, and my collection of books is mostly still in boxes. I’m planning to build shelves that fill one whole wall of my bedroom, just like my dad had — books from floor to ceiling — in the hopes that one day, my daughter will enjoy reading as much as I do. 

And if she finds passion elsewhere, that would be okay too, because I’ll know that I did my best to inspire and boost all her passions, as well as mine — the pure joy and pleasure I get from reading all kinds of books.

And the next time I’m at a doctor’s office and they ask for a family history? I’ll list all the ailments I’m probably prone to. At the bottom of the list, I’ll include, “Love. Of. Reading.”

xo Maya B.

(Executive Editor, re:books)