Ruminations on the Reading Resolution

Every year for the past ten years my New Years Resolutions have remained the same: take more pictures, gain 10 lbs (yes, you read that correctly), and be nicer to other people. The first resolution generally fails in part due to residual film hoarding compulsions of my youth – before these fancy schmancy digital cameras were invented. The second fails due to my ridiculously high metabolism and not having a comfort drive-thru food. The third is relative so I can’t comment on its definitive success or failure – I know I *try* (sometimes) but I also know that it’s an ongoing process.

This year, there’s been a lot of buzz around the bookstore and publishing communities about the Reading Resolution. I’m not certain whether this concept is revolutionary to this year or if I simply missed it in years past. I love this idea conceptually, but wonder if it wouldn’t yield the same results for me as annual resolutions one and three…While reading is something that I obviously enjoy doing and discussing, what would be a realistic way for me to take that passion and incorporate it into a reasonable goal? Let’s look at some variations on reading resolutions others have set:

• Reading a Classic

There are numerous books that fall into this category, that have somehow escaped my reading scope even though everybody else read it in high school or college and every book ever written references it. I’m concerned that this goal will make me stagnant in my reading endeavors. As possibly the most extreme example of this, my friend Becky has been trying to read Ulysses for the last three years. She makes headway for about 20 pages and then another book catches her eye. Then she finishes that one, decides to go back to Ulysses (which is her goal!) and makes slow, slow progress reading an average of a page per day for three weeks or not reading anything because she doesn’t feel like reading Joyce. I do not want this to happen to me. What I miss about school are the discussions in class, not the homework and falling behind on things I *should* be doing.

All that said, I do need to read the following: Emma, Jane Eyre, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Moby Dick, Madame Bovary, Ulysses (yes, it’s there, I’m gonna do it…some day), Infinite Jest, The Corrections, Anna Karenina, The Brothers Karamazov, Lord of the Flies, Lolita, If On a Winter’s Night a Traveler, The Hunger Games and Harry Potter (at least the first one); anything by Kerouac, Thompson, and Kesey, and so many others. One of the curses of working in a bookstore is that your “To Read” list seems to grow by two with every one read, and then that number triples while you’re shelving.

•Reading More

There are two ways one can read “More”.

-The first: reading faster. I have always been a slow reader. I love reading and I’m pretty good at it and with words in general, I just take my time with it. I read at approximately the same speed as I would if I were reading aloud—my own book-on-tape narrating in my head every time I crack the cover. While I often do say that I wish I read faster so I could read more, I’m not sure that this is 100% true. Whenever someone suggests learning how to speed read, a small part of my stomach twitches because I’m doubtful that I’d get the same enjoyment reading truly good description if I didn’t let it sink in; I wouldn’t experience things along with the character.

-The second: devoting more time to reading. This is a noble goal. For me, and I’m sure for many others, sadly, more difficult than I’m willing to admit. I leave work late-ish, get home in time to eat dinner (not always in time to help make it) and then there’s about an hour or two that I have free time before I get sleepy around 10pm. Sometimes I spend this time reading – put pjs on early, get into bed around 8:30 and read until I pass out. Those nights are nice. Sometimes I spend that time playing scrabble or watching a documentary with my fiancé, and rarely I venture out into the “real world” and socialize with other people. Then there are nights where grocery shopping and laundry need to happen – both of which take up a chunk of that free time. I mostly read on the bus, when I’m home alone, in a waiting room, and on the rare occasion I find myself taking time off from work to visit parents/grandma, in an airport and on planes. In my case, devoting more time to reading would largely mean playing hooky – great for me and reading, less great for my boss.

• Turning it into math: Reading for X amount every Y period of time

This is a step-by-step variation on the “Reading More” goal for people who enjoy rules and mini-goals. It would instantly set me up for failure. It also harkens back to my “homework” comment and would be less encouraging for me to “reach my full reading potential” because I’ll either be concentrating on the clock or the page numbers and thus draw my focus from the book.

• Reading Differently

By “differently” I mean branching out of your reading comfort zones. I’m primarily a literary fiction reader who dabbles in psychology/sociology and history books when I feel like I haven’t learned anything for a while. For me, this would largely mean reading Science Fiction, Fantasy, Spirituality, and Science books. I like this goal, but would I measure it? Would I have to read one “other” book for every literary fiction book I read? Or would I set a goal for a number of “other” books I read in a year? This also has the possibility of rendering me a stagnant reader, as the Classics section explains.

• Writing

Writing and reading are strongly related. I am currently in the middle of Pam Houston’s book Contents May Have Shifted (out in February!) and, as any good book will, it’s making me miss my college writing classes a lot. Reading like a writer and writing like a reader both add perspectives to each other that can change the reading/writing experience remarkably. Writing is definitely something I haven't done enough of in recent years.

In general, resolutions are great. They help to renew your energy about accomplishing a task that has been neglected for some reason or another, and can add valuable assets to your everyday life (such as exercising, and cutting back on vices like cigarettes, coffee, and junk food) …at least for a little while. A lot of New Years Resolutions articles focus heavily on how temporal the year-long goal is and how that spark fades after a few months (or weeks or days). Instead, the articles suggest making lifelong resolutions and goals that are not confined to a year – which is how I’m rationalizing writing a New Years blog post more than half way through January.

As with everything, resolutions work differently for different people. Some folks need structure to improve their lives in noticeable ways, while others are satiated knowing that they’re working toward an eventual life improvement strategy.

As for me and my reading resolution, I seem to be the latter and so I’m keeping it very open ended. I’m going to strive to be more mindful in making my reading choices. When choosing what to read, I’ll both read more books outside my standard picks and throw in a few classics when they suit my mood. I’ll also write when inspiration strikes me and read when I can and I feel like it – either by finding time or making time. Essentially, I’m going to keep on doing what I’m already doing, but “better”. I resolve to keep reading pleasurable, and I'll read “more” in that I'll try to have more time to myself, to enjoy it.

What about you? Do you have a reading resolution, or other New Years Resolution (I’m also still retaining the three annual resolutions as well as hoping to go on a vacation somewhere other than my parents’ house) you’d like to share – thus making it public and adding incentive/pressure for your success?

-christine

Where All My Boys At?

As a veteran of the bookselling world, I keep up with industry news on a daily basis. I visit several worthy websites on my jaunt around the web, catching up on new books and old friends. Indie bookstores will often post photos of their staff arrayed around this or that visiting author. I'm consistently given pause by the rarity of men in these photos (unless, of course, it's a male author). Where have all my fellow male booksellers gone?

My father was a nurse when I was growing up. My mother dressed me as a nurse for my first three Halloweens. When queried by friends, I would insist on a qualifier: "My dad is a male nurse ..." He later became an anesthetist, at which time I would tell puzzled friends, "He puts people to sleep." Do my own children feel a similar reluctance to divulge that, "My dad is a male bookseller"?

We're grateful to the wonderfully capable women who fuel our indie bookstores across the country. I hold no grudge against them, nor against the traditionally female readers who buy most of the books from our stores. Without them, our industry would be in even more dire straits. It is reported that men don't read as much as women, although god knows I'm attempting to raise my own sons to buck that trend. During the fifteen years I worked at Grass Roots Books & Music in Corvallis, Oregon, there were only two other men who held positions there aside from the owner. One of them was a barrista for our sad little coffee shop. A male barrista, I suppose ... When I come across a fellow male bookseller at conventions or gatherings, I feel like we belong to a secret club, exchanging a covert nod of the head.

While at Grass Roots, I facilitated our official store reading group for several years. My lady friends and I would meet monthly to discuss our most recent selections. One of our recurring topics was whether a male author could effectively render the female voice and psyche. What did I know? I recently began half-jokingly telling friends of a plan to assemble an all-male reading group. We would call ourselves The Li-Bros ... It's not that we would read only male authors, not an Iron John thing, but we could discuss whether female writers could get us guys in all our complexity.

Possibly motivated by this idea, my reading of late has skewed decidedly dude. Think Cormac McCarthy, Tom Franklin, Barry Hannah. Writers who allow few women into their stories, and who even I would argue don't really represent them too accurately. Harry Crews, Larry Brown. I recently finished a stellar read by an author named Charles Willeford, Cockfighter. Note to self: A prime candidate for the next Li-Bros meeting.

As Floor Manager of Boulder Book Store, I've taken care to achieve some balance among our bookselling staff. Younger vs. older, student vs. graduate, female vs male. I feel good about this, perhaps making up for the time I spent with the fine ladies of Grass Roots. While the boys of BBS are not an especially gruff bunch, I feel we represent the male species well enough. My secret plan is to one day send the industry a photo of several of us gathered around a visiting author. Until then, I extend a hearty invitation to my fellow fellows in the greater Boulder area. Follow your wife or a female friend into Boulder Book Store and help realign the literary universe. No need to launch a takeover, just celebrate the manly art of reading.

An all male staff photo (though, not of all our male staff members). Pictured from Left to Right and Top to Bottom: Warren, Larry, Arsen, Patrick, Digs, and Scott.

Know the Past, Find the Future

So a little less than a month ago we thought it would be fun to host a writing contest. The prompt? Libraries. Write anything -- fact or fiction -- about libraries. This was sparked by the release of Know the Past, Find the Future -- a book Penguin released to celebrate the centennial anniversary of the New York Public Library (a pretty big one). Winners received a copy of the book and their winning submissions can be read here:

Poetry--

"Libraries" (by Craig)

Who needs’em ~

Got my iPod

Got my iPad

And my iPhone

Epic ringtone

Got my fast car

Got my own star

Gonna go far

Dig it? We are.

What’s a book, man?

In the trash can!

Turnin’ pages?!

Seems like ages

Since mom read me

Stories fed me

Curled up nice

And… thinkin’ twice

I’m goin’ down there

To the place where

Stories live and

Words like quicksand

Take you under

Words like thunder

Rock the soul and

Like a good band

Live forever ~

Forget them?

Never.

Libraries rock, man!

Prose--

"In The Library with Maurice" (by Sandra)

My mother’s face was red and she was breathing heavily. I wasn’t quite sure if it was the intense heat or her rising anger. She remained silent as we boarded our boat-car, lips pursed into their characteristic thin, crooked line; I noticed that every button on her white cotton shirt had found its hole, all the way up to her neck, which had started to hang a little over the top of her collar. She was barely over forty, but the avalanche had started early. At ten, I didn’t fear my forty-something face. I should have.

She was struggling to start the car. Dad was at work. It was over a hundred degrees; we lived in the middle of nowhere, and the clunky air conditioner in the living room window had just died again. With her right foot, my mother mercilessly pummeled the old Dodge, another cast off from my father’s parents, fairly grunting with frustration and anger. Turn the key. Pump the throttle. Turn. Pump. If Dad had been home, he would have been outside in a jiffy, shouting at her at the top of his lungs to stop—she was flooding the engine. “Mrs. J, you’re flooding it! Stop! Stop!” Sometimes, my mother would do it just a few more times, just to make her point about the car, about everything. Then he would finally understand and hang his head. Loud and clear, Mrs. J. It was too late. At that point, we would have to wait for the car to return to a state of balance. Everyone would slowly disembark and dejectedly walk back into the house.

But this day, by some miracle, she got the engine to turn over. I was in the front seat, and my three younger siblings were in the back, probably mocking me, as usual. My mother broke her silence with a war whoop and we were off. Our tiny air-conditioned library, 20 non-air-conditioned minutes away, was waiting for us.

Once inside, we sighed with cool relief. We wandered over to the children’s section, where the tables were already too short for me, and my mother practically ran for the celebrity bios. The library couldn’t have been much bigger than our own tiny house, but it seemed like a mansion. Like Mom, I staked out my spot, away from my immature siblings, and found my own questionable material: Maurice Sendak. Before I was old enough to start sneak-reading my mother’s secondhand celebrity smut, Maurice opened a window in the room of my repressive childhood. My favorites were Higglety Pigglety Pop! or There Must Be More To Life, and In the Night Kitchen. I suspected that there was something subversive in the former, and something desperately titillating about the latter, but I was very sheltered, and couldn’t have explained my feelings. With a curious, heavy hunger, I poured over the pictures and messages in all of these books, even the popular Where The Wild Things Are, which also seemed a bit twisted for the squeaky-clean, don’t-question-authority, conservative façade of my childhood home.

Once, I borrowed Higgelty, but I knew enough to avoid taking home In the Night Kitchen. As far as I know, my mother never saw it. In 1974, the book had been banned in several states; our librarian was either a hippie or a very distracted lady, like my mother. Maurice inspired me to question my world; his world had different rules. Sometimes, children just enjoyed the moment and didn’t worry about whether they were going to heaven or hell. Rules were broken or thrown away. Characters who questioned the meaning of life may have initially feared being eaten, but eventually everything worked out satisfactorily.

In some ways, I haven’t changed much. If someone had told my ten-year-old self that Maurice was gay (of course, he had not yet revealed his sexuality in the 70s), I wouldn’t have known what it meant, but if I had, I’m sure I would have smiled and said, “That’s why I like him. He doesn’t do what everybody tells him to do.”

Maurice has said that when he was a young man, he kept his sexuality secret in order to please his mother. He was sure that she would have been unhappy with him if she had known the truth. Certainly, when I was young, it seemed to me that my mother was not happy with any sexuality. As a result, all of my growing up work had to be done in secret. In my head. Without answers to many pressing questions. But also in the cool comfort of the library, at the children’s table, with the gentle guidance of an author who, like me, just couldn’t see the point in all the rules.

A special "thank you" goes out not only to those who sent us submissions, but also to everybody who loves books -- whether from libraries, local bookstores, or Aunt Edith's shelves. Thanks for reading!