I remember why I quit my podcast about books. In case you’re not one of the 700 people who listened to it, the show was called Two-Book Minimum. It featured two guests: a comedian who doesn’t read much and an author whose work I’d only recently been introduced to by my friend Michelle whom I paid to pick the literary guests. Every Wednesday after work, I’d ride the train to the Creek and the Cave in Long Island City and head for the basement which was often full of familiar faces. It had a certain musk that naturally accompanies a space made for open-mic comics who spend their days walking dogs for money. It was ideal for a certain kind of comedian hangout, but less ideal for trying to impress someone who had won the National Book Award days earlier at Cipriani.
I love reading. I love connecting with other human beings who’ve read the same book, especially if the same amount of time has passed since I and the other person have finished the book. If we both read a novel two days ago, we can recite events that moved us, even point out pages of prose we enjoyed if we have a copy on hand. If we both read it 10 years ago and can barely remember anything but a shadow of the prose therein, even better. That’s when shared nostalgia kicks in. The Remains Of The Day, if I recall correctly, is one of the best books ever written, but please don’t quiz me on any of the characters’ names. I feel a genuine thrill when I see someone reading it or find out someone else has read it in the past.
I also love talking to authors of books. Reading for pleasure, however, is much easier and (obviously) pleasurable than reading for the “work” of interviewing someone on a public forum. We made money on the book-themed podcast, enough to keep it going for a year. The joy I felt when I connected with a guest kept me warm for the weeks that didn’t necessarily provide a spark. Still, I was exhausted by the show.
In Brooklyn, you can’t take the train without seeing at least one author. As a result, my list of “great reads” that I “absolutely have to read” grew by roughly ten books a day. On average, I finish reading 45 books a year if a new Zelda isn’t released in the same time frame. Imagine how insane I felt when everyone I knew was talking about a book they loved while I spent 52 weeks a year speed-reading a new book that might or might not be to my taste. I chose this schedule for myself. It was a prison of my own making. Well, that’s not fair. In real prison, you have way more time to read what you want. My point is that I had to read what was put in front of me. Often, the publisher wouldn’t get the book to me until Tuesday, the day before we were supposed to record. A courier would come to my midtown office where I spent the day writing for a humor site, and place the book on top of the stack to the right of my mousepad. I’d start skimming the novel during my afternoon coffee break. When the book was bad, I often came up with questions faster and felt more relaxed. When the book was good, I wanted to slow down and enjoy the reading experience like I would anything I’d chosen in a store or the library myself. Those weeks were much worse because as I read the novel, I found myself already grieving. By Thursday, I’d have to start next week’s book, leaving the last 200 pages of the current good unread.
My real problem with the podcast, however, wasn’t scheduling but the content we were producing. Instead of an hour of intellectual debate and connection, it felt like a mess of voices to me. The comedians wanted to sound smart in front of the writers and the writers wanted to sound funny for the comics. It was the opposite of what I intended though fans of the show did tell me they enjoyed listening. Between my full-time job and reading schedule, I didn’t spend a ton of time messing with the format, and if I hadn’t had a superstar producer Marcus Parks helping me do everything but the talking, I probably would have quit much sooner.
This weekend I hosted a panel with three mystery novelists for the first Gold Coast Book Fair on Long Island. All three writers were funny, engaging, and had written great books. I know because I read (most of) them! I felt an all too familiar anxiety, however, when, moments after I agreed to moderate the discussion (with two weeks’ notice instead of one), an email thread immediately appeared in my inbox wherein the publishers and event staff coordinated how to get the books in my hands quickly. One arrived in the mail a week before and strangely, it was the one I finished first.
Thrillers are meant to be quick reads. I should have been able to eat up the books in a day or two, but I felt myself bristle each time I looked at the small stack in my office. “I don’t have time for that,” I thought, “I have my own writing to do!” Then, I rewatched the movie Drive.
Two weeks of required reading time pulled me away from my own writing. When I was done with my day job, I had homework I had to get to so that I didn’t embarrass myself or the writers at the talk. Just like in high school, I also needed to set time aside to procrastinate. I watched a movie a night and played video games after dinner, then got to researching my guests and reading their books from about 10 PM-1 AM each night.
In retrospect, I could have easily gotten away with not reading any of the books, and had a less stressful week. I know that from the old podcasting days. But why learn anything from past experience when I could stubbornly do what I always do and get the exact same result each time? Why not deal with the same anxieties I felt as a teenager by leaving my homework until midnight and eating my weight in Twizzlers while I do it? Why grow? Why change?
My mother used to pick out short stories for me to read in the car on the way to tedious activities in the hopes I might start reading on my own. I’m shocked it worked. At 12, I didn’t think my mom was cool enough to know about literature that appealed to me, a boy who had only read half a Michael Crichton book since he left Roald Dahl behind. The most successful instance of these short story suggestions was the day she gave me Tobias Wolff’s “Bullet In the Brain.” The story follows a smart-ass writing professor who winds up dead for mouthing off during a bank robbery. His life does not flash before his eyes, but rather, the narrator describes all the moments in his life that he likely could have remembered instead of what he did: a small moment from his adolescence. It’s a good short story, one I loved instantly. I had no idea reading could involve violence, quips, a touch of ballistics and physics, cinematic depictions of memories, and a little sex. I was sheltered. I thought every book was Where The Red Fern Grows. The only violence I’d read in book form was in Goosebumps and that violence was often incidental. Cameras that show car accidents in the future, dummies that scare you to death, some kind of toxic ooze making people mutant superheroes. Not a lot of direct murder, especially not from grizzled robbers who want a character to shut up. I felt both excited and betrayed. Why had my mom been keeping this kind of reading from me? Obviously, they couldn’t tell me to skip Tom Sawyer and fail a test on it in class and instead read an Updike novel they liked. So I was stuck with required reading until the day I read that story.
Now, I have so many books I’d like to read for pleasure that when someone recommends something interesting, I wince. When will I have the time? What if the mood I need to be in to enjoy the book my friend pitched is not the mood I’ll be in six months from now when I finally sit down with the book?
Stressing about not reading everything is a privileged concern, sure. But the sheer number of activities I must do besides reading and writing is daunting. I have to eat and exercise and clean up after myself. I have to sleep. I have to go to at least show up at work. I have to watch seven movies a week. I have to listen to hours of the worst comedy ever recorded… and those are just the clips of me! I have to write this blog. I have to — I’m not joking — continue preparations for the new podcast I’m starting very soon.
In short, I have a life to live and work to do. Whenever a friend reads a book and says they thought of me when they read it I think that’s the highest (or least shallow) compliment someone can give. Unfortunately, I have 246 books on my to-be-read pile. I promise that your suggestion went to the top of the stack though.
Unfortunately, I don’t have much time to read much anymore.
I'm feeling all of this very much. My TBR is also in the high 200s and I haven't touched my writing in a couple of weeks. 🫠