One of my favorite memories from childhood is snuggling up on the window end of my grandparents’ couch with a bowl of popcorn and a book. At the tender age of pre-teen, I could block out the world in my special reading spot. It did not matter if the television blared, my teenage cousin complained at the top of his lungs, or if my grandparents wanted me to go out and play for heaven’s sake. The whole world was the book in my hands, and hours could pass without my hearing anything except the characters in my head.

Nowadays reading is not so simple, or I should say it is not so easy to block out the world and its problems. In my experience, though, the joy of reading is always inextricably linked to a sense of place. I am endlessly fond of atmosphere: from cozy cafés and exotic restaurants to eccentric bars, shoddy dives and swanky boutiques, atmosphere counts. Atmosphere is something we can hold onto in our memories when the specifics are gone. Who does not remember the atmosphere surrounding a first kiss? We may not remember the color of our first love’s eyes or the pattern on the basement sofa where it all took place, but I bet anyone can recall the atmosphere. Atmosphere and a distinctive sense of place can illuminate or haunt us for a lifetime.

I spent many a happy hour in my special reading spot. While I did not particularly enjoy adolescence and the trappings of youth in general—acne, growing pains, pubescent drama—I did enjoy the time I had with my grandparents. Their home was the penultimate cozy place. Paneled walls, shaggy carpet, squishy couches, and the scent of plums cooking when my grandmother canned her infamous red plum jelly all made for a wonderful place to spend lazy summer days with a book. There has never been another place like their home, and I am quite sure there never will be. It was there that I fell in love with reading.

As I have grown, I have found new reading places, although they pale in comparison to that first blush of reading love. On a daily basis my favorite place to read is stretched out on my stomach on my bed with a pillow folded under my chest. While most people look at me funny when I tell them about my favorite reading position, I care not. It works for me. With windows scattered around the room and eight miles of books double and triple-stacked on the shelves, I can think of no better place to be when the urge strikes. Stretched on my bed I am at once ridiculously comfortable and somewhat vulnerable. A fitting recipe for escapism and philosophizing.

When my eyes are tired and my neck is crooked, I find that my mother’s sunroom is a great alternative to prone on the bed. Never have I been an outdoor type of reader. While I enjoy brilliant sunshine and a cool breeze, I tend to get distracted by too much sunshine, bugs, and dirt. You would never find me reading on the beach; give me faux outdoors any day. In the sunroom, I have the perfect blend of cool air, a tree-covered view, and a comfy place to sit—all without leaving the comforts of home.

What makes these two new cozy reading spots suitable and continually enjoyable is, once again, the atmosphere. Having just moved over 1,200 miles across this great land in order to be closer to my family, I appreciate the comfy reading spots in my mother’s house far more than I ever have before. While most nearly-thirty-year-olds would scoff at the idea of living with their parents again, I can only admit that I love it. Maybe I am one of a very small minority, but my mother is one of my best friends. We are eerily similar in our tastes and mannerisms, we have a slew of books stacked in every available corner, and we talk about any and everything. Most of all, we laugh. Reading in my mom’s house is—as cheesy as it sounds—like a big ole hug. Warm, snug, pleasant, it smells nice, there are dogs draped over my lap at any given time, and it is generally conducive to losing track of time.

I doubt there has ever been a time that reading and place have not gone hand in hand for me. The wrong reading spot can ruin everything. An uncomfortable chair, a distressing set of circumstances, dins and clamors, and general frivolity—all reading killers. All can detract from a general sense of peace that I seem to need in order to really sink in and lose myself in a book. Thank goodness for peaceful places to relax and recuperate with the written word.


Andi is a recovering university academic employed by the North Carolina community college system as an online English instructor. While she decided to forego a Ph.D. and career as a professor, she fills in all the free time her current position affords her with editing literary publications, reviewing, freelancing, and blogging at Tripping Toward Lucidity: Estella’s Revenge. Her work can be found in the journal, Multi-Ethnic Literature of the United States (MELUS), and Altar magazine as well as online in various venues such as PopMatters.com. She is a member of the National Book Critics Circle (NBCC), and writes fiction. Her turn-ons include new books and gelato, while her turn-offs are reality television and washing dishes. Contact Andi.