I’m pretty hard on myself based on what I’m reading, more specifically, on what I’m not reading.
Somewhere along my journey to complete my bachelor’s in English, I decided that some books were books I must read and others weren’t worth my time. I allowed my pretentious English major perspective to shape what I read for a few years, sloughing off YA novels and things I deemed “unimportant,” while I painstakingly and diligently returned to the dry Russian novels I decided I should been reading. Especially in my senior year, I began to change my perspective. I mostly have Lemon to thank for that, and also John Green because that man can write a YA novel. Haters gonna hate. (I’m looking at you English majors). Though, my perspective has changed, I still occasionally find myself feeling guilty for reading numerous modern novels in a row while ignoring novels familiar to course syllabi.
Somewhere during The Vandenburg Rewrites’ unintentional hiatus, I found myself in a reading rut. I am aggressively type A and I approach my reading goals as such. I make a list of books I both want to read and books I think I probably should read, and then I put them in a specific order making sure I don’t read too many books written in the same time period, about the same issues, by authors with similar voices subsequently. I force myself into an eclectic reading schedule, and I have always done this. I think it’s good to be thinking about what you’re reading and aiming for a variety of influences, but I’m also pretty sure it leads to inevitable reading slumps and hours of time wasting.
At the beginning of the summer, a reread of Mrs. Dalloway was at the top of my list. This was mostly because I had just watched The Hours. I still want to reread it, but a week after graduation, I could not get interested in it. I tried to read the first twenty pages of that novel for a solid week and got nowhere. I thought I didn’t want to read just because I didn’t want to read Mrs. Dalloway. This of course led to a Netflix binge, which really isn’t good for anyone. I emerged from that short slump with my personal discovery of Meg Wolitzer, but as my list would remind me, I shouldn’t read five Wolitzer novels in a row; that’s not very eclectic of me. A few weeks later, still burdened with the guilt of the unfinished Woolf novel by my bed, I reached for The Moviegoer. I read a few pages, and the next day I went to Powell’s and got a few new releases I had been eager to read. I guess I’ll see you later Walker Percy, I thought as I ignored another layer of self-induced reader’s guilt. Last month I picked up The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad, a book that I have heard my favorite professors reference too many times to not want to read it. Again, I devoted about a week and a half to this book as I tried to lose myself in it. And again, I found Netflix. I didn’t read anything for two weeks because I didn’t want to read what I had deemed the next book I must read for the sake of feeling like I was well-rounded.
Maybe this post isn’t relatable, but I am mostly writing this post to convince myself of something I’ve long needed to hear. It doesn’t matter what you’re reading, as long as you’re reading and not watching reruns of 30 Rock. (Reruns of 30 Rock are also important, but reading should also be happening regularly.) I don’t want to read Joseph Conrad or Virginia Woolf right now. I spent a lot of time with them in the past, they’re dear friends, I love them. But right now I want to read 21st century female authors’ perspectives on adolescents and 20-somethings navigating adulthood, and that’s ok.
There are plenty of instances when I am drawn to books that are deemed more “respectable”, the classics, if you will. I’m not rejecting them, but I don’t think an elevation of these books should lead to a mindset that says modern literature isn’t worth reading. This is what I’ve been reading all summer, and not for one second do I believe any book I’ve read in the past few months to have been a waste of time. Right now, I want to read Meg Wolitzer, Jennifer Egan, and Pamela Erens (I’m still working on you Karen Russell), and I’m going to keep doing that. When I hear the voice of Virginia and Flannery beckoning me, you guys will be the first to know.
Opening up my horizons to more modern literature as I continued to read the classics was exactly what I needed. The novels assigned by my professors are important works, and I will always be glad I read them, but they’re not the only important books. If we perpetuate a mindset that only the classics are worth our time, what happens to the voice of our generation? It’s important that that voice is formed through not just what we read on blogs, twitter, and satirical websites. We need literature. So whatever you’re reading, just keep reading it, even if your roommates, friends, and past professors may be silently judging you. Just don’t read Twilight. (I’m kidding, kind of.)
Kansas
