Is My Reading Challenge For Me, Or Is It Just For Social Validation?

This year, I've set myself a goal of reading 50 books. By my logic, that would mean that I read about one book a week, with two allocated 'deadbeat' weeks where I can sit quietly with not a single thought, reading not a single word. This goal was a girthy improvement from my 2023 goal, which saw me read 34 books, falling short of my goal by just one book (oh, the frustration!).

Book reading challenges have exploded on the scene as of late. Debates about whether you're a GoodReads or a Storygraph girlie have been rampant. BookTokkers have inundated the app, carefully ranking their 200+ reads, much to many commenters' amazement (how does someone have that much time to read?!). It seems in the last few years, we're all perfectly content snuggling in on a Friday night with a fantasy book rather than, you know, leaving the house. Like many people, my almost decade-long reading dry spell was released by giving myself a small challenge to read books — and now, more than ever, people like me are actually reading books, which is so, so cool.

But as much as my new reading challenges have helped me read a mountain-load of books I likely wouldn't otherwise prioritise, I've recently started to feel pressure building from these challenges, making me question my new love of reading. Every time I sit down to open a new book (well, my Kindle), I've had to consider how the book fits into my overall reading goal. I've had to contemplate how reading longer books might affect my reading goal, with one rather hefty book eating into the time I could have spent reading other books. Seriously, I could have been two or three books ahead on my reading challenge if I'd never started this 700-page behemoth!

At times, I've found myself altering my reading habits, strategically choosing shorter 100-page novels that will quickly allow me to squeeze a book in to get to that elusive 'You're on track!' notice. I've chosen genres that are easier to digest and whip through on a lazy Saturday afternoon, simply because they can help me clock up my total read goal. I've cancelled plans to get in my read of the week, trying to fight off the dreaded 'one book behind schedule' message, which has started to fill me with anxiety and self-doubt. I've made the conscious decision not to take on any challenging reads that, pre-reading goal, I would take my sweet ass time with (Have you ever tried binge-reading War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy? I don't recommend it; not one bit.) Am I ever going actually to finish Frank Herbert's Dune? With these lofty reading goals, I'm starting to think I won't.

While it may sound like I'm an anxious and dramatic mess (and you'd be right), my anxiety and carefully thought-out strategy around reading challenges is likely emblematic of how reading culture has evolved, particularly over the last two years. I used to find reading challenges fun. They were a cute, community-driven way for me to dive into more books, see what other people were reading, and to rediscover my joy for reading. As someone who has a kink for academic validation, I also need to admit that it feels damn good to be able to polish off a bunch of reads, especially because my friends are impressed by my reading ability. "She's so smart!" they'd say (probably). "Wow, I wish I could read as much as you, you clever thing," I assume they're thinking (naturally).

But what they don't see is that when I'm one, two, or seven books behind my unrealistic reading goal, I chastise myself. I berate myself. I lock myself away in my room in an attempt to read more. Reading is no longer the goal; completing the challenge is.

Let me be clear — I absolutely love our collective newfound love for reading. I love how BookTok has helped make reading more accessible to those who were usually too afraid to pick up a book. I love how we've validated 'chicklit' as defensible form of entertainment, like any other genre. I love that listening to an audiobook (which is still reading, by the way), has now become a common routine during our morning commutes. I love that many more of us now love to read — and that we're actively trying to challenge ourselves to read more.

But I have to admit that there feels like an inherent commodification of the act of reading. Already, critiques about how TikTok and the wider publishing industry have turned books into fast fashion are aplenty, with themes and tropes of successful books regurgitated so much that they've become a go-to formula that they know readers will guzzle up. Next, I think it's time we start turning our attention to why our reading goals keep getting higher and higher — and why exactly that might be.

While creating goals is undoubtedly positive (we love personal development!) setting a specific target for the number of books to be read within a tight timeframe has transformed a healthy challenge into a competitive pursuit. This often leads to unnecessary comparisons with our peers and individuals on the internet, as we vie for the title of being the most avid bookworm within our social circle.

For me, this has manifested in unusual ways. How can I call myself a writer if I don't read over 40 books a year? How can I call myself a culture editor if I haven't enveloped myself in the stories of a number of different authors? How will people know I'm 'cool' if I don't go to my local cafe with a little Penguin book in my tote bag? What do I do when, god forbid, someone I know reads more than me? For me — and many other people — books are no longer about experiencing new worlds or even just enjoying the act of reading. There's now an inherent social credibility that's tied to reading, where the more you read, the cooler and more intelligent you are.

And it's not just the social pressure we need to start dissecting. Who is actually benefitting from these lofty reading goals? Is it us? Or is it those that we pour our money into, funding and purchasing a plethora of books to pile onto our TBR pile with the knowledge that we probably won't actually get round to reading them (but hey, at least the cover is pretty). In a capitalist system, are reading goals just another clever way to make us rush to Amazon to buy the next big book, trading our time (and our money) in exchange for the social currency of being able to say we read 50 books last year?

While I must admit that I still can't stomach the idea of bowing out of my GoodReads Reading Challenge (said as someone who is currently two whole books ahead of schedule), I might need to start checking myself when it comes to reading — and maybe you do, too. I like to ask myself, Am I genuinely enjoying reading this book, or am I just trying to finish it to polish off another number on the list? Am I taking the time to appreciate the prose on the page, or am I just whizzing through it to get to the end? Do I actually want to read right now, or am I just doing it so people will think I'm well-read? If we're finding that our pressure to make us read books is ultimately affecting our mental health and our self-worth, it's about time we really challenge why reading goals exist — and who's benefiting from them.