What Are You Reading?

Easy question. All I need to do is list off a couple of titles and voila! That’s true about 80% of the time. Every once and a while, I can’t answer the question the way I want. My inner thirteen-year-old grabs hold of the wheel, from time to time, and takes off without the rest of me. “Sharing is not always caring,” she would probably say, “Care Bears, you’re right a lot of the time, but in this situation, not so much.” She chooses to dole out answers that are either non-committal or offer universally accessible titles no one would disagree with. Anyone else feel like a cross between George McFly and a hedgehog rolled into a defensive ball when this question comes up?

My inner Middle-Schooler means well. She’s coming from a different time when that question was a fishing expedition with a nefarious endgame. The ridicule over the books I checked out was consistent, and a source of great upset. My Mom went so far as to sew a book cover to mitigate the attention I received. Books are more than stacks of pages bound together by glue, stitching, and a cover. They take on more than the story and the genres they belong to. Each tome opens up a window into each of its readers for anyone else to see. Yikes. As George would say, “I just don’t think I can handle that kind of rejection.”

The tuck and roll reaction of my inner kiddo might seem absurd. We have apps like Goodreads to track what we read and see what our friends are reading. With that kind of real-time transparency, is there really a place for being book shy anymore?

Yeah, there is. If everyone were 100% honest about what they read, I’d know a lot more romance readers. A lot of money is generated every year by the romance genre. Which means people are buying them. But, I can’t say I know many people who own up to partaking. Are you one? Do you know one? Maybe yes. Maybe not. But the question might have just made your stomach jump. There is a reason for that. Book shame.

Most of the time, the world of books is framed into a rigid, hierarchical society. Have the year’s “IT” book: “Oh my God! LOVE it!”/”Can I borrow your copy after your done?!” Reading Hemingway: “Oh, good for you. I never had to read him in school, but I really should pick up one of his novels.” Still reading young adult books in your twenties or thirties: “Jeez, what’s wrong with you?” Caught with a sizzling page burner: “Oh, hm, I don’t read those books” with an implication of smut and a disapproving lip purse on the side. The mixed bag of reactions to sci-fi/fantasy are gems too. And, of course, graphic novels: “You still read books with pictures?” When put to you that way, it’s almost a responsibility to feel awkward and regretful over your choice. Everyone should be wading through the literary canon to attain the status of well read.

That’s bullshit.

I get the point of the cannon. We like pantheons to set on high, and books can be no exception. Underneath these perfect books, all of the rest are then sorted in their relation to perfection. This might be controversial, but there are plenty of members of the literary elite that are not enjoyable. Great Gatsby and Grapes of Wrath, sorry, but I am looking at you. I know I shouldn’t say that, but I find both slogfests of the highest order. If these are two of your absolute favorites, I applaud your admiration and affection for these titles. Just sub in two titles you find to be examples of cannon ennui, I know you have them.

Reading shouldn’t be a chore. Books are a commitment of time, and time should be well spent. The genre to which your books belong should make no never mind to anyone else. Not every book is going to be a crowd pleaser. Some might inspire a life long love affair in one person and a life long disdain in another. Mae Mordabito in A League of Their Own responds best. “Oh, what difference does it make? She’s reading okay? That’s the important thing. Now go away, go, shoo.”