Escaping into the familiar

By Julie

Photo credit: CaptPiper's Flickr photo stream by Creative Commons License

Last night, I disregarded the half-finished library book waiting on my nightstand. (Peace Like a River by Leif Enger.)

I disregarded the other books teetering beneath that one in my to-be-read pile. Ones I eagerly purchased and really can’t wait to read—but not today. (No One is Here Except All of Us by Ramona Ausubel, for instance.)

I ignored Catching Fire, the second book in Suzanne Collins’ Hunger Games trilogy, which has been queued up on my Nook for a few weeks now. (Series books make me nervous.)

I even turned away from several unread novels written by close friends—ones I know I’ll enjoy immensely not only because I know the authors, but because I know they’ll be good; I’ve read the reviews!

Instead, I scanned my local library’s holdings of available e-books in search of something. I wasn’t exactly sure what it was I searched for, but when I saw this story waiting, I thought, “Yes. That’s the one.”

And today, as I turned to the familiar comfort of this newest Elizabeth Berg novel—Once Upon a Time, There Was You—and I touched my phone screen to flip through page after page after page while I did my daily walk (yes, I am that talented), I nodded and thought again, “Yes.”

Occasionally I read to discover what made a book so revered it won coveted prizes and drew the attention of Oprah Winfrey.

Sometimes I read to learn about yet another instance where humans were capable of incomprehensible horror and humans were capable of unbelievable hope.

Very often, these days, I read to learn what’s on the publishing horizon or what’s trending or what’s grabbing the attention of social media mavens.

Even more often, I buy books and read them in support of authors I’ve come to know online nearly as well as many friends I know in person.

And these are all fine reasons, and inevitably, I enjoy the majority of these books and am grateful for the experience. I’m more knowledgeable, more compassionate, more aware.

But sometimes, I simply need to revel in the familiar. I need to read a book by one of my favorite authors for all time, someone like Elizabeth Berg. Someone who seems to be able to take the contents of my mind and channel them directly onto the page. I read and I nod and I think, “How did she know that?” and “Exactly!”

The last week or so (well, much longer than that if you want to get technical) has been especially sad and depressing from a media standpoint. I’m not going into details there. You know. And I am that person who spends hours and hours poring over news articles and opinion pieces, truly attempting to see issues from all sides, trying to develop an educated perspective as opposed to whatever perspective the media is feeding me. This can be a little exhausting, and I do get to the point where, in my exhaustion, I simply have to withdraw for a time. Withdrawal, for me, often means seeking reading material that not only replaces what I’m avoiding, but re-centers me.

And I thank authors like Elizabeth Berg for writing stories like this one, for recording the thoughts she somehow clairvoyantly withdraws from my mind. The things she says for me. The reminders that we are all human, in spite of our seemingly impossible-to-overcome differences of opinion. We all age. We all have insecurities. We all mess up. We all love desperately. We all love foolishly. We all cry. We all laugh. We all get scared. We all are what we are.

Once Upon a Time, There Was You drew me humbly back to a love for humanity.

That’s why I needed to read today.

More fish in the sea

By Julie

My family reads with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The youngest reads under duress when forced to accrue Accelerated Reader points to pass language arts. In the process, she's found a few books she might publicly admit she enjoyed.

My middle child reads voraciously in spurts as time allows between her other social activities, enjoying many of the books I also enjoy, often reading books behind me, though usually in line after my mom.

My free-spirited eldest won an award for reading 100 books in kindergarten, but never read much as an adolescent. After flying the coop in recent years, he discovered that books about philosophy and sustainable agriculture and making things from scratch (buckskin pants, anyone?) tickle his fancy. He's been tracking down old FOXFIRE books lately.

Some think readers are born. Others believe it takes finding what speaks to a person to make them a reader. I suspect the answer lies between. I can't remember not loving to read, but also identified my reading niche at a very young age, first devouring books about pioneer girls and orphans and huge, all-of-a-kind families, then growing into adult fiction about relationships and family crises and dealing with the world in general. Not much of a stretch from one to the other.

I've tried the last few years, however, to widen my reading experience. I borrow library books I've heard recommended time and again even though they don't fit my usual M.O. Sometimes I grab remaindered hardbacks for a few dollars by authors I've never considered reading. I've discovered there are a lot more fish in the sea of reading and I'm a better person for it, if I do say so myself.

What's been fun lately is seeing others around me branch out, too.

My father-in-law, a retired nuclear physicist who writes poetry and other short forms under the radar, is an obvious intellectual. Yet, in one of our many conversations about books, he freely admitted he rarely read novels by women. I understand. Until the last few years, I rarely read books by men. But shortly before Christmas last year, he emailed me his Christmas wish: Name one book by a female author I'd read in 2009 I'd like him to read. His request flattered and challenged me. I went a step further and recommended two. (And, of course, we purchased those books as gifts.)

This recent feedback from made me smile.

"I did it, I finished HOME (Marilynne Robinson). And I was astounded and moved by much of the writing: some really remarkable descriptions, dialogs, and turns of phrase. I found it a bit difficult getting into at the beginning; sometimes I lost track of who was speaking in extended scenes of conversation; and sometimes I wanted to inflict great bodily harm on one or all of the characters. But altogether wonderfully writ. I thought of COLD MOUNTAIN as I read HOME. Both novels were challenging to read in spots and required some will power to keep after them; but both were eminently satisfying and of both I said "Wow!" when I finished. Fine literature indeed."

And:

"I finally finished reading THE HELP, and I really enjoyed it. It is quite an achievement for a first novel, or any novel for that matter. I notice it is #1 or 2 or so on many best seller lists at present. She (Kathryn Stockett) certainly did a fine job of drawing upon her own experiences of life and place. The characters really rang true and resonated with me from some of my 60's memories even though I lived in 'the north' until '69. An altogether gripping and entertaining read. Thanks for selecting it for us."

My husband seemed an enthusiastic part-time reader for years, going through two or three books during holidays or on vacations. This year, though, he's burned through so many, my own little reading log is cringing in shame. (And a man who reads is an attractive man, indeed. Just saying.) After consuming a forest of books, he's run out of his favorites – thrillers and mysteries by Steve Berry, Harlan Coben, Stieg Larsson, Dan Brown, and Tom Clancy, to name a few.

He decided to postpone another trip to the bookstore last week, but was antsy without something new to read. I got sneaky. I casually handed him a few novels I'd purchased and said, "You might like these. I don't know what they're like because I haven't read them yet." And guess what? He doesn't have to give up his man card because they're by men, but I'm almost certain A RELIABLE WIFE by Robert Goolrick and SECRETS OF EDEN by Chris Bohjalian are unlike anything he's ever read.

The jury's still out on the Bohjalian, though he's about a third in and says he likes it so far. HOORAY! I love Bohjalian's books. He wasn't crazy about the Goolrick novel, going so far as to compare it to "one of those bodice ripper things," (not that he's ever read one ... or so he says). Still, he plowed through and said it had some interesting twists and turns. He claims I better hurry up so we can compare notes because I'm falling behind. :) I'm sure he'll mostly stick with his favorite genres and authors in the future, but I think he's enjoying branching out a bit, and I'm enjoying watching.

I received a text message from my daughter yesterday. Yes, from school.

Her: I finished LOVE IN THE PRESENT TENSE.

Me: Did you like it?

Her: YES!

Me: Cool. I love that book!

I'd mentioned this Catherine Ryan Hyde novel to her a few weeks ago as something I thought she'd enjoy and we found it at the library. (BT-dubs, who has my signed copy?! Gail?! This blog is beginning to serve as a GPS for locating loaned books. Ha.)

Anyway, I think there's a point to this post. It goes something like this:

People like what they like. But sometimes they're just waiting for you to help them get out of their reading comfort zones. Sometimes they're brave enough to ask for your assistance, and sometimes they're just waiting for you to knock them over the head with new books when they least expect it.

Regardless, the connection we gain by sharing out-of-the-box reading experiences with friends and family can be priceless.

Your turn.

Photo credit: he(art)geek's flickr photostream by Creative Commons license

Just One Book

By Elizabeth

The library makes me greedy. Confronted with thousands—probably hundreds of thousands of choices as my city's vast catalogue can be delivered to my neighborhood branch with the swipe of my card—confronted with unreadable-in-my-lifetime options, I check out tons of books. Books I’ve hankered for; books friends recommend; books with nice covers. Books I doubt I’ll read but will try a few chapters. Books my kids bug me for; books I think my kids ought to read. The sheer abundance makes me greedy, nearly ready to throw my acquisitions on the bed and roll in them like Demi Moore and Woody Harrelson in Indecent Proposal.

And then I hear of people who don’t read. At all. Not just some unfathomable fake person invented by politicians or the media, but actual humans. With no effort I can conjure the names of two I know personally. And again, these aren’t underprivileged people with sad or scary back stories—no, these are both college-educated, middle class women much like me. And yet they don’t read. Now, that’s not strictly true. Both happen to be magazine readers. But reading for enjoyment? Novels? Nope—not interested. Not even once, in one woman’s case. Not one book read for pleasure, ever.

Reading has been perhaps the single most sustaining delectation of my life. I was in the third grade when I dethroned my sister as the family bookworm. I well remember Little Witch by Anna Elizabeth Bennett. I still have a copy of Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley, and Me, Elizabeth, by E.L. Konigsburg, and all the Little House books. (And if you’re detecting a hint of narcissism in my choices, I might as well admit that Laura Ingalls Wilder’s middle name is Elizabeth.)

There’s been only one exception in my ongoing read-a-thon since then. The year after my very needy son was born, I literally had no time to read, and I missed it horribly. I remember holding my baby and glaring with envy at my husband as he read the newspaper over a bowl of cereal, my hungry eyes denied by my own silly mother guilt. Long nursing sessions should have provided time for dozens of books, but I was derailed by an awkward two-handed technique. (Seriously, don’t ask.)

After that first year, I couldn’t bear the loss. Somehow I found time, even when I had none. I polished off Harry Potter one through four in thirteen days when my son was two and my daughter under a year—the first movie was coming out, I knew I’d want to read the book before I saw it, and then couldn’t put them down. I find my eyes roving for the printed word when I have nothing to do, like an actual physical craving. So far this year I’ve read about fifty books, mostly novels—and it’s been a busy year.

My son became a bookworm in a single day. Mother’s Day, to be exact: 2006. We were at my mom’s house, and she had twenty or so Secrets of Droon books, Tony Abbott’s chapter series. My first grader picked up book one and about ten days later put down the last, and we barely saw the kid’s nose in the interim. From reluctant reader to addict in one afternoon. Because he found the right book.

It’s no secret there’s a fair bit of snobbery about genre fiction. I still puzzle over my husband’s fondness for fantasy and sci fi, and literary readers are stereotyped for rolling their eyes at bodice-rippers. But clearly all these books have passionate fans. Fans who read.

Not everyone is going to love my books. I know that. But I think of my two non-reading friends, and consider one’s interest in fitness, and think she might like my manuscript about kickboxing women. The other is the mother of a young girl, and I wonder if my middle-grade work would be something they could enjoy together. Just one book. One chapter, one day, and the library can morph from another big box to a bottomless treasure chest, the source of a lifetime of delight. And that book, that life-changing tome, might one day spill from the labors of my pen.

That’s not why I write. That’s a much more complicated issue, and not something I’m sure I could even explain. But it’s a really nice by-product to contemplate.

One book, one life. Changed.