Summer Reading
Predictably, the horrors are persisting and proliferating, and I am trying my best to not give in to despair like I did last time. In the past decade—well, decade and a half, now, at least—a significant portion of social media discourse has centered on self-care, what it is and how to meet those needs. Once the advertising world got hold of the idea, it began to feel like self-indulgent nonsense, of course, and a lot of recommendations for how to achieve self-care are just that. In the weeks after the election I noticed someone describing maintaining one’s own sense of joy as putting on one’s own oxygen mask before helping others, and that comparison has stayed with me. (I did not think at the time to note who made this comparison, which I regret, as now I don’t know who to credit. If ever I do find out who that is, I’ll update this post.) I’ve spent a good bit of time since then thinking more seriously about things that actually do help me sleep through the night, not just what I like to do to distract myself or get through a particularly bad day. I mean, I love a nice bottle of wine, more than I should, but I don’t like it so much that I feel it’s worth even a light headache, let alone a hangover.
When I was a kid the great joy of the weekend and any holiday was having more time to read whatever I wanted, for the most part whenever I felt like it—I was certain that one of the perks of being an adult was not having to finish off homework before reading after dinner. There were also Friday evenings, when we went out for fish and chips for dinner, followed by an hour at the bookstore across the street from the Captain D’s. And of course the Scholastic book fairs. I still remember the visceral excitement of watching my teachers unpack boxes of books, knowing that two or three of them were for me—it was definitely up there with Christmas and holidays away from home. Summer reading lists in high school weren’t half as much fun, but I still looked forward to them.
My ability to read for more than perhaps 15 minutes at a time has been shattered a few times, twice in the last decade. This last time has proven much harder to recover from. There’s a particular sense of fury born from the frustration of wanting to do something you’re suddenly no longer capable of. I didn’t love my books any less, and at times I’ve hated myself for not being able to accomplish a fraction of what I used to be able to achieve effortlessly, physically and mentally. Audiobooks saved my sanity—it wasn’t the same as reading on paper and there are some shockingly bad readers out there, but a great voice actor can make even flawed stories a great experience.
In the last year or so I’ve regained enough of my powers of concentration to get through a light novel or two within a week, and occasionally more demanding writing, fiction and nonfiction alike. I’m nowhere near what I once was, but I’m happy with what I’ve been able to build back. In the spirit of finding joy where I can, I’ve decided it’s time to try out a TBR pile again for the summer. I know I won’t finish it: I won’t be able to resist adding to it, and there are library books and ebooks I want to get to as well, but lately I’m finding I need to make myself lists to get most things done, even things I’m looking forward to. If you have a reading list of your own, feel free to share in the comments—I love a good chat about books. Happy summer reading!
