Are you a 'You're Dead to Me' Reader?
Your monthly invitation to chat all things reading and writing.
Earlier this spring, I did that thing. That thing those of us saddled with a certain affliction do. I vowed to buy no more new books. You might think this next bit unnecessarily harsh but even, for a time, not even second hand ones. I decided instead to meet my past purchases head on. Discover those books bought on a whim and forgotten; those I’d been gifted and left unread. The ones that had, in some cases, been shelved in previous living rooms then dusted off, boxed, stored and eventually re-shelved only to be forgotten all over again. Poor, neglected words!
There was a certain freedom in making this decision. A sense that perhaps for a while, I might be able to step off the treadmill of newness. After all, it’s exhausting, keeping up.
I went first to the office, where the non-fiction lives. OK, it’s not actually called the office. It’s actually a multi-functioning room we call The Cave. It does serve as my husband’s ‘office’ by day (less frequently now he’s decided the free coffee in the actual office is worth going in for); but also the kids’ gaming room and the easier-to-heat telly-watching room in the winter. Overnight guests have been known to wax lyrical over the fold-out Ikea sofa bed and the conspicuous absence of curtains when they come to stay. Form an orderly queue…
I stood on a stool I’d brought through from the kitchen and perused the selection on the ‘people’ shelf. Yes, there’s a ‘people’ shelf. I make no apologies. There were books I’d read (Alasdair Gray: A Secretary's Biography by Rodge Glass). Books I’d never read (God Only Knows: Brian Wilson, The Beach Boys and the California Myth). Books that a version of me with a better attention span might read (A Vindication on the Rights of Women by Mary Wollstonecraft).
I moved on to the self-help section, which in numbers-terms, appeared the healthiest. So much choice. There was Couch Fiction by Philippa and Flo Perry; front-facing to offer maximum enjoyment of its bright pink beautifully illustrated cover. I loved that book. A brilliantly-told graphic window into the world of therapy. Along from it was Vagina by Naomi Wolf, which I remember educated and enraged me in equal measure.
Still, I told myself, there’s never any time for re-reading when there are so many unexplored gems in the world (begging the question for another day: what are we doing hanging on to all these books after we’ve read them?!)
But, in truth, I was non-fictioned OUT. I’ve long kept a book from these shelves (or their audio equivalent) on the go for daytime consumption alongside the Saturday supplements and a page-turner for bedtime, but I was in need of a break. One narrative to follow. A chance to slow my brain down and challenge the compulsion I have to stuff as many books through my brain at once.
I went to the living room in search of salve.