Ithaca saw her first big snowfall of this winter and it was enchanting. Myrtle and Lemmy watched the windows for hours. Frankie (fearfully) beheld her first snowman. I played with a new camera. Paused on the sidewalk, I thought of David Berman’s poem “Snow” and the line:
“When it’s snowing, the outdoors seem like a room.”
“Snow” isn’t a formal sonnet, but I read that line as a volta. An emotional turn, a shift in focus. A deep inhale bookended by snow angels, gunshots, and neighbors. The volta is enclosed within both the single line and the room it describes, which is ironic for a poem set outdoors. Beauty, violence, and familiarity share a landscape here.
What’s left of my love for winter is a love of stillness, suspended hustle, the quiet that isn't quiet at all, just a different kind of noise. The urgency to lose my rush and slow down—take photos of snow or spend the day reading.
When I launched this newsletter with a January “refresh your writing” kickoff, I envisioned more lists and how-to’s, fewer feelings. As with most writing, the further I go, the more I learn. I’m finding that I don’t like listing as much as I enjoy digging into the “figure out what works, what you like, and why.” Part of it is because I don’t care for one-size-fits-all writing advice. I’m wary of “always” and “never” absolutes. After all, every rule has its exceptions.
“Should’s” don't structure my creative life as much as realistic expectations do. I expect myself to write, that’s the job; every writer finds their own rhythm, but generally writing happens in some form at some point in whichever genre we call home, whether that’s a novel, story, poem, essay, or a play composed in emoji to detail the world you see when you stare at a wall. The writing can be pure trash, but is my pure trash to refine (or abandon) as I want. The other basic expectation I set for myself is that I read. Books I love, books I struggle with, books beyond my echo chamber and deep within it. Heartbeat books. Books I didn’t love on the first go and want to try again. Contemporary work, sleeper hits, and works stretching as far back as I can find. Books set at home and as far as I can find within the limits of translation.
Ask me to commit to a single vibe and I’ll answer the question five other ways because I struggle to rigidly define my taste. During the interview for the first bookstore job I had, when asked what I like to read, I spoke mostly of poetry. When I interviewed for my current bookstore job, I raved about Leonora Carrington’s The Hearing Trumpet (my favorite novel to not shut up about), indie lit, and NYRB Classics. Sometimes I enjoy deciding what to read as much as I love reading itself; I’ll sit down with a selection from a TBR pile, leafing through on the couch or at my bed desk and making a choice. Unraveling the logic of this process is as challenging for me as tracking the perfect storm of whatever happened the last time I got up from a good day at the desk thinking, I can keep doing this. (The answer I’ve settled on is that it’s not something I can replicate. You get those good days when lightning strikes and you keep working for the next one. All you can do is keep showing up.) Sometimes parameters help me pick: “This is short enough to read before my book club selection.” Other times, I scan a few sentences, then pages, and decide, “This is *it* for the next 48 hours.” And on a good reading day that is a big part of it for the next however-many hours. Cocooned in bed, curled up with the dog, the cats, and a book. Looking up and realizing evening has arrived and I’ve read much of the day. Of course, too, there are days when I don’t have time to read until I’m climbing into bed and only a few minutes pass before I’m dropping the book on my face or staring at my dog, thinking, How perfect is she? until I fall asleep.
A quick scan of my reading journal reveals seasons, rotations, patterns. Person (usually a woman) vs. void, indie lit, translations, short story collections. These have made up my more recent reading orbits and, of course, there’s usually overlap. Here’s what’s on deck for January:
When recently asked about favorite reads from last year, my impulse was to say that everything I read is a favorite because I have impeccable taste, which is a bratty way to answer a question I don’t care for all that much. Everything I picked up last year I picked up for a reason, sometimes as simple as, “I wanted to.” I love spending time with someone else’s mind, their imagination, language, sentences, and music.
The closest I come to qualifying how I read is breadcrumb reading. Thinking about favorite books I spent time with last year, Lina Wollf’s Carnality, translated by Frank Perry, came to mind, but when I checked my reading journal I saw I’d read it toward the end of ‘22. It felt like just yesterday though. The devious nun and sinister game show as familiar as what I’d had for breakfast. So too was the framework—a story in a story, a writer’s story, which reminded me of Clarice Lispector’s The Hour of the Star, which I’d more recently read in December of ‘23. Another story in a story that directly breaks the fourth wall—the narrator details the plights of writing as he tries to set down the story of a woman named Macabéa, whose oblivion to her own misery frees her from unhappiness (sort of). From there, I could leap to writer pals who I’ve bonded with over Lispector. From there, I could leap to other writers they recommend. I can seek out reviews and interviews. I can explore other books from New Directions, the publisher keeping Lispector’s work alive. The associative constellation only keeps growing the longer I look at it.
Breadcrumb reading involves following the crumbs of your own taste and curiosity without actually knowing where you’re headed. You are E.T. following the Reese’s Pieces toward your next delicious read.
If you find yourself on a new path, all the better. The point is to leave room to take risks and embrace a stretch. If you’re seeking new spaces in your reading, here are a few ways I find them:
Genre Swap📗➡️📘
If you primarily read fiction, pick up a poetry collection. If you usually read poetry, hit a short story collection. If you’re looking for a break from essays, go read a novel. If you read five short books a month, slow down and sink into a long read.
Swipe Thine Library Card📚
Go browse your local library without any books in mind. What calls to you? Don’t fear the stacks or books published more than ten, fifteen, or fifty years ago.
Ask a Bookseller👩🏫
Of course, I’m going to tell you to stop by your favorite local bookstore in addition to visiting the library. Browse the staff picks or ask a bookseller for a recommendation, which is basically like having a literary sommelier.
A Reread🔁
Reach for a favorite. I know we have only so much time on earth, but some of my favorite reads have been rereads: The Hearing Trumpet, Beloved, Slow Days, Fast Company, Infinite Jest, Valley of the Dolls.
I’ve moved past reading challenges in the assignment sense. What I’ve added to the mix is more reflection—on the books and my approach. A few years ago, for instance, I noticed I’d often say I was “late to the party” when I talked about recently reading a not-so-new book. I recognized the phrase as a self-conscious reflex, a buffer protecting me from the embarrassment of feeling under-read. I aimed to break the habit. The more I thought about it, the phrase bothered me on a cultural level because it suggested that there’s an acceptable window of time in which readers discover books. Sure, publishing has a rhythm. The lead up to a launch and the first few months after may be the industry-engineered time for audience and art to meet. Yet “late to the party” overlooks the possibility that readers will continue to discover a book after its initial publication marathon. I didn’t feel late last summer circling back to Denis Johnson’s Angels, which I’d started and re-shelved when I was 25. This time I felt engulfed, all in, equally mesmerized and horrified by the gorgeous grit, the hopeful oddballs and their devastating fates. If I had any favorite titles from last year, they were the books that recalibrated my thinking as a reader, a writer, and a person, which was all of them in some way. The books I can’t stop thinking about and haven’t stopped handselling. The books I kicked against and the books I’ll remember in two years for a lasting impression that is eluding me now. All at the endless party for encountering art, where I hear they don’t bring out the cake until later anyways.
X