Goldilocks and the Three Books
Lately I’ve felt like Goldilocks in my reading. This book is too short! This book is too long! This book is just… Except I keep not getting to the just right book. Nothing that I’ve tried to read has been what I want to read and I have a stack of seven started and abandoned books on my nightside table.
Hitting a reading slump like this is always a frustrating experience for me. Reading is a necessary part of my work as a writer, of course. I don’t believe it’s possible to be a good writer without being a reader, without being interested in, invested in, the craft of writing and storytelling. Reading is also a pleasure for me, one of my favorite leisure activities. So when I can’t read, when nothing is quite right, and no book is working, it’s the mental equivalent of having an itch I can’t scratch with the added guilt of feeling like I’m not properly doing my job.
I have my usual tricks for trying to get out of a reading slump. Put one book down and pick up something completely different. Raid my shelves for backlist books I haven’t read yet. Pick up an old favorite to reread. Read that one book that someone recommended to me that I was skeptical about. Go to the local bookstore, and ask for recommendations there. Bother a friend whose taste in books I appreciate.
The problem was, none of these things worked. I felt like I needed to make an “it’s not you, it’s me” apology to each of those seven books as they got placed in the pile by the bed, bookmark still in place, because the problem really is me (hi) right now, and I might come back to them some day, when I’m in a less grumpy or less particular mood. And while I normally have no issue with being in a particular mood in terms of reading as that’s usually useful (if I want a hot romance, picking up the latest nonfiction I’ve ordered on the history of Ukraine is really unlikely to be the solution), I had no idea what it was that I wanted to read. Just… not that. Over and over, not that. A closet full of clothes and nothing quite fits.
It's always such a strange feeling when this happens. I have no idea what will precipitate it, and really, it’s not so much like clothing that doesn’t fit, but more like my skin doesn’t. Like I’ve surrounded myself with a scaffolding of stories only to discover that all the supports have rusted through.
It also often feels oddly contrarian. Normally, I don’t worry about whether or not I like the big, popular books that everyone else likes, the ones that sell eleventy billion copies. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t, and more often, it’s a weird sort of relief when I don’t – proof that readers aren’t a monolith, that there is space for all sorts of stories. In a reading slump, that reaction turns into “Everyone likes this! It has sold eleventy billion copies! What is wrong with you?”
I know this will sort itself out – it always does. New books are published every week. Others arrive to be read for possible blurbs. I’ll remember the book I bought years ago and haven’t yet gotten around to, and I’ll love it when I read it. (This is literally what happened with Lauren Groff’s The Monsters of Templeton, which I do completely love, and led me to reading everything else of hers.) A friend will say, “did I ever tell you about X, I think you’ll really like it,” and I will. Or I’ll pick up a book off my shelf, one with a bookmark part-way through, from the last time this sort of reading slump happened, and this time, the book will be just right.
The link in the above paragraph is an affiliate link, which means if you order the book using it, I may make a small amount of money. Thank you for being here in this first month of Epigraph to Epilogue. I have been enjoying writing these little essays for you.