We’ve been discussing reading choices with one of our kids. This particular child has a voracious appetite for books— one that cannot be kept up with by our meager school library or even online resources. The easy thing to revert to, for quick access and easy digesting, has been YA fantasy. Without getting into a much too long (for here) discussion on this genre and why we monitor it, this kid readily admitted that they “don’t feel great” after digesting too much of it. “It’s like eating candy all day.”
I do think that our reading diet has similarity to our food diet. If we read junk, or if we only read junk, we will feel like junk. Our thoughts will be fueled and shaped by it. We need reading diets that are sumptuous and varied, that not only taste good going down but enter our consciousness with robust sustenance just like when we eat foods rich in vitamins and minerals and not just simple sugars.
You’ve probably heard it said that to read well is to read widely; across genres, outside your ideological camp, spanning time periods. This is challenging. I find myself reading things at times that I don’t like, or that disturb me. At other times, I stumble upon stories or authors that I resonate with and want to further imbibe.
During the recent lockdown of our city, I cleaned out our bookshelves, something that has been long overdue. I saw an article somewhere that mentioned the benefits of arranging your books by color, so I tried it, and to be honest, I didn’t enjoy the results. I’m just not a lover of the rainbow spectrum aesthetic. But the sorting of books that we no longer read or want on our shelves was much needed. And I was surprised to see how much some of our thinking has changed over the years as I perused old theology books we once loved, and others that have joined the collection.
It is remarkable how powerful the sharing of our human experiences with one another is. I read a story this week that I didn’t love for certain reasons, but that still opened my eyes to a world that, while I have very little in common with, still held in the folds of the story a humanity I could relate to. And there was a kernel of empathy that grew as I sat in the place of those other bodies and souls and the way they experience life.
This is the power of reading. To find yourself growing curious about underlying motivations or cultural practices and assumptions that shape a person’s actions or words. Reading can help us see ourselves as human, as a part of something greater than ourselves, as redeemable. It can help us see others in the same light.
This is what I want my kid to experience, and what they are perhaps feeling the deficit of with their myopic genre diet.
As I work on my own writing practices— reading is a huge part of it. I feel time poor in this area as always, and try not to envy my offspring who can wile away an afternoon on the couch with a book. But when I do read, it is always surprising how much another’s world can connect with my own.
It snowed a few days ago and the Chinese New Year holiday is upon us. Our city just came out of a month-long shut down due to virus concerns, so it feels safe to say that outward circumstances have been pretty isolating. Yet in the world of shared lives and stories, it feels like I’ve flown in a thousand directions.
This week, I found myself swimming with Russian authors in 19th century villages, as well as quirky, disturbing middle-class homes. I’ve been marinating in the endearing charm and despair of the Deep American South in Sean Dietrich’s memoir of family and self-discovery I’ve been challenged by perspectives and scholarship concerning women and worship in communities of faith, and listened to conversations from across the pond that delighted and encouraged me. One late night, I read disturbing stories from the wilds of Wyoming— a place I called home for a few short years. Yes, flying like a wayward goose in a thousand different directions.
When I sit down to write, I often (every time) wonder, why does this matter? Why would anyone care about this story? Or this idea? It’s an important question. A failure to connect with the reader is every writer’s fear.
But every time I’m faced with the well-told human experience, even if it’s a million miles from my own, something inside me expands. So I have to think, to believe even, that the same is true for you.
Thanks for reading this week,
Christine