Despite my silence here, 2018, so far, has been one of my busiest reading years to date. The decision to read more was intentional, but other than setting a goal number of books to read for the year I put no other limits or expectations on myself. I also removed the pressure to write about what I was reading. I wanted to read for the sake of reading for pleasure and out of curiosity. Perhaps the decision to quantify my reading sounds too rigid, but I’ve found that it actually has kept my interest piqued, and it’s been more motivating than stifling. In reading only what appeals to me at any given time it’s been fun and interesting, though the fun is necessary in trying to read steadily; I don’t really have time to force myself through anything I don’t like. (Perhaps there’s a lesson here that extends beyond reading.) In case you were wondering, the magic goal number is fifty.
I’ve been tracking my reading list in a spreadsheet with basic information: the dates I read the book, title, author, genre, book format, where I got the book, and some very brief, optional notes. Surprisingly, when I’ve gone back to reflect on my list, I remember each book better than I thought I would without any outside notes or writing, and almost all books also call up some other memory about where I was when I read the book, the season, a general mood or feeling. I read The Diving Bell and the Butterfly on the couch looking out at the snow right after the new year. My husband spied it for me in one of our neighborhood’s Little Free Libraries, and I read it in one afternoon the day he brought it home. My Brilliant Friend had been sitting on my bookshelf for over two years. I had tried reading in a couple of times in those two years and failed to get into it. But after wanting more depth from Clarissa Goenawan’s Rainbirds, I picked it up and couldn’t put it down. It was finally starting to get warm, and I combined reading with listening while I walked to work.
Some of my reading has been less romantic. If I’ve felt like I’m falling too far off my imagined reading pace, I’ve sought out something I knew would be a faster read, like Jenny Offill’s Dept. of Speculation, or Carlo Rovelli’s Seven Brief Lessons in Physics. Both of these books, by the way, were very pleasant surprises. It took awhile to get used to Dept. of Speculation’s rhythm, but once I did I was in awe, and had to verify that I was actually reading fiction. I read Seven Brief Lessons in Physics at Anne’s recommendation, and appreciated both its writing and the introduction to some new-to-me concepts. (Theory of relativity, I kind of get you now.)
Sometimes I simply decide to read when I might do something else, though this is almost always a welcome distraction, and has helped me spend less time doing mindless things on my phone. Other times I find a sweet, sweet compromise between reading and other things, like listening to an audiobook while I knit or walk my dogs. My list has been almost evenly split between fiction and non-fiction, which isn’t something I anticipated; I assumed I’d be heavier on fiction. There’s been a little bit of a grey area as to what I’ve added to my list. I’ve read a few books on distance running/training, for example, that didn’t feel quite in the spirit of this project, so I’ve not counted those. But, I have found myself more and more eager to read as this grand experiment continues on, so that seems like a success no matter what my final tally is.
So, why set a goal? Initially I needed a reason to keep plugging. I’ve always been a bit of a serial reader. I’d plow through a few things in rapid succession and then as rapidly lose my steam. I wanted a find a way not to lose my momentum. I’ve discovered that I had previously discounted how very personal and temporal reading is. You really can’t read a book out of its right time and fully appreciate it, but in asking myself to keep reading I’ve also discovered that it is possible to find a book for any moment. Also, as it turns out, the act of reading is enough in and of its self. Even though I’ve missed writing, I’ve found that reading to write is a very different experience. Maybe I made the process of writing about books too formal for myself. It seemed easier to write about a book if I took notes as I went along, yet the note-taking seemed to make my reading too formulaic and detracted from the process of fully participating in books completely. I’m sure there’s a happy medium, though, and maybe I’ll find it in the future.
In the meantime, it feels good to read and to learn myself as a reader. Like most things, you just have to create the habit and then it starts to take on a life of its own. It’s also possible that writing is something else for me, i.e. not a method of reviewing books, and conversely the growth I’m seeking from reading is not limited to the ability to analyze its form (if this is something I ever did). The jury may still be out, or it may have just crept out a back door to go read a book.
*Photo credit: marty hadding
