I have an odd relationship with books. On the one hand, I love reading but on the other, I don’t really do enough of it.
When I was growing up I never read much fiction, I was mainly interested in biographies; of learning about the feats of those who had gone before me. I put this down to my desire to be a journalist; of wanting to know all the relevant information.
A lot of that desire went away upon finishing university, although I kept that key instinct of wanting to know stuff before everyone else. It wasn’t because I liked to know more than other people; it’s just that I liked to be the one to tell them. For example, my first reaction to the September 11th attacks was not to marvel at the shocking imagery, but to think of all the people who I knew that probably didn’t know about it that I could tell.
Since I finished university and focused more of my energies on writing fiction, I began to switch my reading to the land of the made up. I have a rotating category list of books to read; Classic, Modern Classic and Commercial that I try and switch my way through. For example, sat on my bookshelf at home I have a succession of Charles Dickens, followed by Heart of Darkness and The Talented Mr Ripley, right through to the more commercial work of Richard Milward or Bret Easton Ellis at the end of the pile.
The aim is this: if I can get my way to the end of a Dickens or a Doestevesky that I can be rewarded with a commercial book like Milward or Nick Hornby that I will devour in mega quick time. I can then go on to something in the middle.
What actually happens in this process is that I stop reading when I’m on the classic book. Over the last few years my reading habits have degenerated to the point now where I only read in bed, last thing at night. That’s fine, except if I’m especially tired the prospect of the hard work of a literary novel is often too much to deal with. It is not unheard of for me to not read anything for a week.
I’m sure I’m not alone in the pain of the classics. All that my reading policy effectively does is result in me spending two or three months reading a book when I could have possibly read four or five books in that time. I often come out of this experience very pleased with myself for getting to the end of it (especially the Russian novels, they fill me with a quite disproportionate sense of pride.) There is also great enjoyment of the journey, as typically once I reach the end, I have actually gained an understanding and enjoyment out of the process, even if it is not the same kind of enjoyment that I get from reading something a bit more page-turning.
This year, I am determined that I am going to read at least two Charles Dickens and the hefty copy of Anna Karenina that has been eagerly awaiting my attention for the two years that I’ve owned it. I have another 7 months to deal with this – by my earlier calculations I’m not going to read much other than these three books this year. Good luck to me.
When I was growing up I never read much fiction, I was mainly interested in biographies; of learning about the feats of those who had gone before me. I put this down to my desire to be a journalist; of wanting to know all the relevant information.
A lot of that desire went away upon finishing university, although I kept that key instinct of wanting to know stuff before everyone else. It wasn’t because I liked to know more than other people; it’s just that I liked to be the one to tell them. For example, my first reaction to the September 11th attacks was not to marvel at the shocking imagery, but to think of all the people who I knew that probably didn’t know about it that I could tell.
Since I finished university and focused more of my energies on writing fiction, I began to switch my reading to the land of the made up. I have a rotating category list of books to read; Classic, Modern Classic and Commercial that I try and switch my way through. For example, sat on my bookshelf at home I have a succession of Charles Dickens, followed by Heart of Darkness and The Talented Mr Ripley, right through to the more commercial work of Richard Milward or Bret Easton Ellis at the end of the pile.
The aim is this: if I can get my way to the end of a Dickens or a Doestevesky that I can be rewarded with a commercial book like Milward or Nick Hornby that I will devour in mega quick time. I can then go on to something in the middle.
What actually happens in this process is that I stop reading when I’m on the classic book. Over the last few years my reading habits have degenerated to the point now where I only read in bed, last thing at night. That’s fine, except if I’m especially tired the prospect of the hard work of a literary novel is often too much to deal with. It is not unheard of for me to not read anything for a week.
I’m sure I’m not alone in the pain of the classics. All that my reading policy effectively does is result in me spending two or three months reading a book when I could have possibly read four or five books in that time. I often come out of this experience very pleased with myself for getting to the end of it (especially the Russian novels, they fill me with a quite disproportionate sense of pride.) There is also great enjoyment of the journey, as typically once I reach the end, I have actually gained an understanding and enjoyment out of the process, even if it is not the same kind of enjoyment that I get from reading something a bit more page-turning.
This year, I am determined that I am going to read at least two Charles Dickens and the hefty copy of Anna Karenina that has been eagerly awaiting my attention for the two years that I’ve owned it. I have another 7 months to deal with this – by my earlier calculations I’m not going to read much other than these three books this year. Good luck to me.
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