Thoughts on reading (87)

I have been feeling restless lately, unable to focus. Some of that is being played out in my reading (or my attempts at such). As the half dozen of you who actually follow this blog (thank you!) know, I keep track of what I read here with modest “book reports.” I also use GoodReads to keep track—no reports there, just star ratings with “date completed” noted. It gives me satisfaction to see titles rack up, and to remember the pleasure (usually) I got from certain books. This collage, courtesy of GoodReads, shows the books I read in 2022.

This year I have decided—because I enjoy constraints for the unexpected opportunities they create—to read in alphabetical order, by title. So far, All Systems Red (Martha Wells, sci-fi), The Book of My Lives (Aleksandar Hemon, memoir/essays), and Cloud Cuckoo Land (Anthony Doerr, fiction). For B, I picked up a few books, all fiction—Brooklyn (Colm Tóibín), Bone Fire (Mark Spragg), and The Blazing World (Siri Huvstedt)—but, for whatever reason—mood, that restlessness—I couldn't get into them. They are now on a stack that will be going to the library book store. It’s one way to start getting rid of books! 

For D, I had a similarly stuttering start, dismissing Defining the World, about the dictionary compiler Samuel Johnson, and Michael Crichton’s Disclosure, a dated (1993) thriller about the computer industry and sexual harassment. Although thrillers are often my default if I’m finding it hard to dive into a book—simple plot can suffice—by page 37 I wasn't feeling compelled to continue. 

And so I picked up Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process, by John McPhee. And was immediately drawn in. There is something so reassuring and calming about McPhee: his elegant yet approachable language, his themes and rhythms, his eclecticism, his attentiveness to detail, his patience. I have enjoyed some of his books in the past (and as you can see here, he has written a few!), and I am reexperiencing that feeling of trust. 

Also, the mere fact that it’s nonfiction, after the flights of Cuckoo Land fantasy: this tells me that, perhaps, what I crave when I pick up something new is that a different part of my brain is stimulated. I have a couple of friends who refuse to read fiction. Their loss. I love to get sucked into a good tale, maybe simply for the adventure, maybe for the morality or history that’s explored, maybe for the depth of feeling, or simply the characters and situations. But I also crave insight into what makes the real pieces of this world fall into place, and sometimes nonfiction is best for that. In any case, today that’s true. It’s settling and centering to have found my focus for the next week or so. Bring it on, Mr. McPhee.