Last month, I timed myself reading a novel. Not because I was racing to finish — quite the opposite. I wanted to know how long I could go before reaching for my phone. The answer was embarrassing: eleven minutes.
I've spent my adult life surrounded by books. I have a doctorate in literature. I founded a bookstore. And yet somewhere along the way, I lost the ability to sink into a story the way I did as a child, when entire summer afternoons would dissolve into Narnia or Earthsea without me noticing the passage of time.
I don't think I'm alone in this. Every week, customers come into Book Island and confess, almost shamefully, that they can't seem to finish books anymore. They start with good intentions, read a chapter or two, then drift away. The book sits on their nightstand, bookmark unmoved, until they feel guilty enough to donate it and try again with something else.
The Attention Economy's Toll
We live in what's been called the attention economy, where our focus is the most valuable commodity. Every app, every notification, every algorithmically-curated feed is designed to capture and hold our gaze. We've been trained to consume information in quick bursts — a headline here, a tweet there, a thirty-second video that auto-plays into another.
Books don't work that way. Books ask us to slow down, to hold multiple threads in our minds, toRetryTo run code, enable code execution and file creation in Settings > Capabilities.WTContinueOrchestrated article expansion to meet content requirements.Let me continue with the article content. I need to complete this article with substantial content (500-800 words as specified).sit with ambiguity and complexity. They require the very thing our digital environment has systematically eroded: sustained attention.
The neuroscience is sobering. Studies suggest that our brains are being physically rewired by our digital habits. The neural pathways associated with deep, focused reading are weakening while those associated with skimming and scanning are strengthening. We're not just distracted; we're becoming different kinds of readers — and perhaps different kinds of thinkers.
What Slow Reading Looks Like
Slow reading isn't about reading fewer words per minute (though it might involve that). It's about reading with intention and presence. It means choosing not to multitask, not to check your phone between chapters, not to treat a novel like another item on your productivity checklist.
For me, reclaiming slow reading has meant making some deliberate changes. I leave my phone in another room when I read. I've stopped keeping track of how many books I read per year — that gamification was turning reading into a competition with myself rather than an experience. I've given myself permission to reread paragraphs, to pause and think, to put a book down and stare out the window.
I've also rediscovered the physical book. E-readers are convenient, but they exist in the same ecosystem as our other screens. When I read on a Kindle, I'm one tap away from checking email. A physical book is a closed system, complete in itself. There's something grounding about holding pages, about the tactile experience of turning them.
The Rewards of Attention
Slow reading isn't just about avoiding distraction — it's about what becomes possible when we truly pay attention. When I read slowly, I notice more. The rhythm of a sentence, the callback to an earlier chapter, the subtle shift in a character's voice. Books reveal their depths when we give them our full presence.
There's also the simple pleasure of it. Rushed reading is like gulping a meal while standing over the sink. Slow reading is a feast, savoured. It's the difference between skimming the surface of a lake and diving deep enough to see what lives below.
Beyond personal pleasure, I believe there's something culturally important about preserving our capacity for slow reading. Complex ideas require complex expression. Democracy depends on citizens who can engage with nuanced arguments rather than just react to slogans. The ability to sit with a challenging text, to wrestle with it, to change your mind in response to it — these are skills we can't afford to lose.
Starting Small
If you've found yourself in the same boat — wanting to read more deeply but struggling to focus — I'd encourage you to start small. Even fifteen minutes of truly focused reading is better than an hour of half-attention. Build the habit before you build the duration.
Choose books that genuinely interest you rather than books you think you should read. Guilt is not a sustainable motivator. And be patient with yourself. Our attention spans didn't erode overnight, and they won't be rebuilt overnight either.
At Book Island, we've started hosting what we call "Slow Reading Circles" — small groups that meet monthly to discuss a single book, with no pressure to have finished it. The conversation is as much about the experience of reading as it is about the content. It turns out, there's comfort in knowing you're not alone in this struggle.
The eleven-minute experiment I mentioned at the start? I've been working on it. Last week, I made it to forty-five minutes before the urge to check my phone became unbearable. It's not perfect. But I'll take progress over perfection any day. The important thing is that I'm reading again — really reading — and remembering why I fell in love with books in the first place.
Margaret Chen is the founder and head curator at Book Island.
