I belong to a bookclub and I love to read. The book we’re reading now got wonderful reviews. It’s an “extraordinary academic comic novel … that bursts with imagination” — so there must be something wrong with me — I think it was just, well, okay.
Dunno. I have about 50 pages to go and I don’t feel like picking it up tonight. I will finish it though — I’ve read all the books we’ve selected — but I have felt this way about many of them.
It’s gotta be me. We choose good books. Interesting books. Well-reviewed books. This is not to say I haven’t enjoyed any of them — I liked about half of them. Perhaps this is normal. But it seems to me the other members like more of them than I do.
I think it’s because — while I am a big reader — I don’t read a lot of fiction and I think one needs to take the time to learn to enjoy it. Kinda like the way I grew to love coffee.
My friend J. made a excellent point recently that reading fiction is more rewarding than reading nonfiction because good fiction lets us explore human issues without the burden of too much real life information. Stories somehow allow us to get to a deeper truth.
Okay. I believe this. This is why I am in the bookclub — in addition to the fact that I like the people and the food is always tasty. Yet, I have not embraced fiction in my regular reading.
I’m still reading about issues, things and places. Hard and unbending things — coupled with David Sedaris’ stuff, which makes me very happy.
I also enjoy reading about workplace issues and the world of work stuff like: Hello Laziness!: Why Hard Work Doesn’t Pay, Your Call Is Important to Us: The Truth About Bullshit and I Can’t Believe She Did That! Why Women Betray Other Women at Work. (I think I like very long titles involving colons.)
Oh, and decor magazines … home fashion makes me almost as warm inside as crimes and crack heads.