So I spent several weeks in October and November re-reading The Passage by Justin Cronin, then reading its sequel, The Twelve, which I enjoyed a great deal but didn’t LOVE the way I loved The Passage. Then I spent a few days reading the play The Intelligent Design of Jenny Chow: an Instant Message with Excitable Music by Rolin Jones, the guy I knew briefly during my time at Smith, who went on to write for the TV show Friday Night Lights, and who inspired me to write a poem called “The Walk.” Anyway, after reading the two Cronin books (both basically doorstops, though The Twelve is maybe 200 pages shorter), and then a really skinny book (the play), I’m not sure what to read next. Also, book group is in less than two weeks, and we never actually picked a book for December, so there’s nothing lined up with a deadline attached.
This got me thinking a bit about my reading habits, and how I seem never to write reviews — or almost never. A lot of the time, even when I know I have to write a review, like for LibraryThing’s Early Reviewer books, it’s very, very difficult for me to get around to writing it. It seems a little strange to me, because even though I’m an inveterate procrastinator, I truly do love to write. (You probably can’t tell that from my blog this past year or two, I’ve neglected it so badly.)
I’m thinking that, sometimes, there are books that I’m compelled to write about. In the early days of my blog, I remember feeling this way about both The Book Thief and The Glass Castle. But for every book that grabs me that strongly, I usually read eight or ten that I enjoy to a greater or lesser degree, but don’t feel so overwhelmed by them that I can’t move on from them until I’ve mulled them over in writing. I think this is the main reason I’ve never considered myself a book blogger, even when I was posting more regularly, and most of what I was posting was book-related: because it’s such a chore for me to review books.
And suddenly, I’m reminded of a discussion I had at Smith with my advisor, Doug Patey. I was having a rough semester, and I was sitting in his office, probably getting some combination of academic guidance and moral support. I remember saying, “I don’t want to rip books apart, I just want to read them and enjoy them.” He asked, “Can I give you some advice?” I said he could. “Don’t go to grad school for English.”
So that’s it, really: I do enjoy writing about books, in general, but it can be hard to review them, because I don’t want to rip them apart. Sometimes I don’t WANT to look at them too closely, but just enjoy them for what they are.
The other part is, if I finish reading a book and I don’t feel an overwhelming need to think it over, to work through my ideas and emotions in writing, then what I must do next, as soon as possible, is decide what I’ll read next, and then start reading it. The short periods “between books” can be fraught with uncertainty, but also full of wondrous possibility. What, what should I read next?? And will it be thrilling and amazing, will it be beautiful, will it be moving, or thought-provoking? Will it change how I feel or think about things, will it show me something new? Will it change my life?