It's Friday, Issue #65
My new favorite author
My friend Jenna is a fellow mother and reader, and we’re always swapping book recommendations because, it turns out, we have very similar reading taste. She, too, is a Larry McMurtry head. She loved Angle of Repose as much as I did. When she recommends a book to me, I take note.
Despite how rapturous Jenna was about the books she urged on me, I wasn’t prepared for how much they’d sweep me off my feet. I took them on my writing retreat, and—wow.
Sometimes, I will read a string of novels that I feel…fine…about. When I get into that pattern, I find myself wondering, “Do I actually love to read?” For a while, reading will feel like an intellectual endeavor, a practice that I embrace as a fellow author, studying craft and technique; that, or reading will feel mindless, just another slice of my entertainment pie, a habit I keep up because it’s such an integral part of my day. Neither is bad, per se—it simply isn’t that OH MY GOD I LOVE TO READ feeling that I live for.
And then, one day, I’ll fall in love with a book. It changes me. It reminds me why I became a writer. I’m immediately disabused of this reading-is-just-okay perspective. Reading is the best.
Reading like this takes on a physical quality. My heart will speed up. I will hold my breath. (Patrick actually pointed this out years ago—I stop breathing as I read…). I might sigh or whimper or gasp. My legs will bounce; I’ll have to stand and walk around. A stellar book will make me feel charged, hopped up.