For most of my life, if I was awake, I had a book in my hand.
Riding the bus, walking to school, in the quad between classes, lounging at home, I’d have a book open, thumb in the crease, my nose buried in its leaves. Novels, anthologies, treatises, memoirs, history, science, poetry.
Anything.
Everything.
I read it.
Then, about a dozen years ago, life went off the rails. Book deals dried up. Friends and family began to die (at least ten during this period). We fostered a young woman, giving her a place to live for a year. Work became a stress factory. The economy tanked, causing the Great Recession. Then along came Trump. And then this pandemic.
In response, my reading habits changed, radically. They became constrained, limited to news articles, political analyses, and works of non-fiction. Instead of a dog-eared book, I carried my tablet with its instant-on, 24×7 access to current events and a front-row seat to our increasingly divided society.
Even so, every now and again, I would return to my fiction books, the stacks of TBR novels that inhabit every room in this house. I tried, repeatedly, to read one of them, hungry for that immersive experience, that miraculous wash of words that would sweep away reality and bathe me in the light of a different sun.
But the miracle never came. I didn’t have the patience, lacked the power to focus., and was unable to drive away the here-and-now with worlds of what-if. Book after book I picked up, opened, began, and abandoned within a few days, the only evidence of my attempt, a bookmark left somewhere in the first thirty pages.
With all this as preamble, one might wonder why, during my recent time off, I decided yet again to pick up a novel and give it a try. I mean, there I was in the last month of the most turbulent election cycle of my sixty-plus years, with a pandemic raging beyond my door, a daily gush of political scandals and turmoil filling the airwaves, and everywhere people shouting and crying and grieving and protesting. Was it hope? Obstinacy? Desperation? Whatever compelled me, it was in this moment, amid this maelstrom of chaos, that I chose to try again, and opened up a 150-year-old book.
And I read it. Cover to cover, in record time.
And then . . . I picked up another book, and read it, too.
And now, here I am, wondering what to read next.
. . .
Do yourself a favor.
Turn off the television. Put down the phone. Leave the tablet in the other room.
Pick up a book. A real book. The one you’ve been meaning to read for so long.
Take a seat near the window, where the natural light will be over your shoulder. Settle in, book in hand.
Open it up. Stick your nose in it. Smell it. Feel the pebbled surface of the printed page, the tension of the spine.
Chapter One.
Read.
I tell you, it’s like coming home.
k
[…] I mentioned a while ago, my mind is once again calm enough to allow me the enjoyment of reading fiction. In […]
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So glad. Reading a book is good for your mental health. My recent adventures: I turned in my ballot at the drop box, Shoreline Library parking lot, and was approached by a worried Vietnamese man who came there just to watch and ask if the box was a real one and why no election officials were on-site. Good conversation, I hope I answered his questions and reassured him. The Shoreline Library is closed for construction but I am getting good results by picking up reserved books at the Bothell Library. I read to my preschool-age grandchildren over FaceTime every week.
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Oh, that’s lovely! (Both providing help at the drop-box and (esp.) reading to your grandkids!) Excellent!
I’m waiting on a shipment of books from the UK, and while that makes me sound a bit like Newland Archer, it’s worth it. Of course, it’s not like I don’t have a zillion titles lying about already, but for some reason a two-volume early 20th c edition of The Count of Monte Cristo, well, I’m looking forward to that.
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Your book choices are nutty but at least you are enjoying your reading time again.
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A long time ago, in trying to wean myself off a 100% SF/F reading diet, I decided to change it up. Every 2nd or 3rd title had to be a classic, was the rule, and I’ve kept it up ever since. The older book I recently read was The Diary of a Nobody (ca 1889), and then Juliet (2010). Next will be some Dumas (1844) and then, I think, a couple of Alice Hoffman titles.
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Or maybe I’ll reread Rebecca.
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