For the Love of Reading

I love to read, so why do I read books I don’t love?

Why do I pick books off the shelves at the library and the bookstores that I ‘should’ be reading, or have ‘heard’ I would love.

Why do I struggle and continue reading something that I don’t understand or care about?

I’m one of those people that remember a lot of books and a lot about books. Not necessarily where they took place and how it ended, but rather, who wrote it, what the cover looked like and more importantly, if it impacted me.

I started reading a book I had ‘heard’ was ‘the best’. It was so good that I couldn’t find it anywhere, (not at the library, nor in the bookstores), so of course, I ‘had’ to have it, and ordered it online. In the interim, I fidgeted and fumed, and read some ‘lighter’ reading (for me, that’s Harlan Coben, Greg Iles, anything fast paced that moves) and rested my brain, in anticipation of ‘the one’.

So the ‘one’ arrives and I was dismayed to see that the print was rather small. No worries – I indulge in reading glasses from time to time (MOST times) and was prepared. I started reading, intent on the ‘experience’ of something special.

Page 2 – I’m lost. What the f*#k is this book about? I’m starting to panic. Lots of big words and characters I don’t care about. What do I do? Is it me? Why don’t I like this? Am I not smart enough to ‘get’ it? Plus the fact that it’s garnered rave reviews everywhere as one of ‘the best’. Maybe I’m not the reader I thought I was (which means exactly what, by the way?). So what do I do? Continue of course.
My reading slows to a snail’s pace. I dread my ‘alone time’, lunch time, time to read! Dreaded book! On page 15 now and I’m skimming some parts and of course, don’t ‘get’ it and can tell there is tons of foreshadowing of ‘something’ momentous that is the pivotal and life changing moment of the story, but I don’t care enough to guess and am just miserable. I start thinking it’s time for an ‘upstairs’ or ‘car’ book.

An upstairs or car book, or whatever you want to label them, are the books you read when you really want to read. They help you avoid the dreaded slump.

Sometimes I do ‘slump’. By slumping, I mean, I panic and forget WHY I read. What I love about the ‘escape’ and how effortless a good book can be to read. I get ‘caught up’ every now and then, because I am such a ‘reader’ that people assume I have read every and all things. Mention an author to me, and I’ll fire back with, “Oh yes, he’s known for unlikeable characters, example, xxxxxx, or ‘Yes indeed, she’s quite prolific and started writing at a very young age and is still writing into her 80s”. I’ve read neither of these authors, of course.

I love to know what everyone else is reading and am constantly compiling lists of ‘must reads’ want to reads, reserving like crazy at the library, and searching ‘best of’ lists on the ‘net.

I’m constantly changing ‘my’ rules. Do I give up after the first chapter?

First page?

First sentence?

Sometimes I just don’t know what I’m in the mood for and I will happily place myself on the floor of my office and surround myself with library and ‘owned’ books and pick up the ones that appeal to me (known author, attractive cover, etc.) and read the opening sentence, back flap, appraise the text size, etc.). I try and quell the rising panic that escalates with each picked up and tossed aside book, while I frantically try and ‘remember’ why I love reading and what exactly I feel like reading. Sometimes I make mistakes and pick up something that is ‘supposed’ to be good. You know what that’s like; it’s like eating something that your mother told you is ‘good for you’. Tastes like crap. Then again, it IS good for you, so as I weigh a tome by A.S. Byatt against the latest Nick Hornby, and then let my eyes drift over (once again) to the ‘patiently waiting it’s turn’ Kristin Lavansdattar or The Far Pavillions, or upcoming book club selection, I resort back to my library picks, because they have a ‘time limit’. I break down my selections by size, due date, cover, etc., and then start reading a line, a paragraph, a page, until, miraculously, I find myself engrossed.

Oh yeah, that ‘other’ book, I’m still reading it, I’ve just temporarily forgotten that I have.