On not reading for comfort

I’ve talked before about the idea of comfort books, comfort reading. The kind of story that we look toward or go back to when things are a little rough and we want soothing. It’s a kind of literature I turn to myself – I tend to be pretty mood-driven in my reading, and when I’m particularly stressed or anxious, I often turn to books as a way to try to counter that.

I’m in a place right now where I am looking more, if not precisely for comfort in my reading, for a kind of familiarity. A guarantee of a soft landing, or that it will be something I like. I’ve been pretty focused on launching my book, and even though that’s a really good thing, there are associated stresses. I have less patience than usual for a book that doesn’t hold my attention. I don’t have the space in my brain for a book that might be particularly challenging or emotionally devastating. That’s not to say I don’t like those books – I think it’s about time for a reread of Dorothy Dunnett’s fantastic Lymond Chronicles, for example – just that the time for them is not now.

Which brings me to poetry. Oddly enough, for as much as I love poetry, as much as I turn to it for many things, I can’t bring to mind any particular poet or poem that I turn to for comfort, in the way I look to fiction.