And that’s only the books that are here with me in Portland.
There are still many thousands more taking up residence in my parent’s house.
When I moved back home after college at UC Berkeley I boxed up all my books
very carefully (bankers boxes lined with plastic) – 16 boxes total. These were
stored in our barn for one year until it became apparent that they would not
soon make the trip to Oregon with me when I began law school and so I moved
them out of the barn and into our house. My father’s books, which were
scattered around the numerous bookshelves in our home, were shoved aside into a
single bookcase upstairs and out of sight to make way for the more important
books – mine. My books took over the shelving in our entertainment room (aka
where the TV lives), my bedroom closet (which also contained all the books I
had left behind when I went to Berkeley), and our basement.
But these words can’t do it justice. I clearly have a problem.
But I’m really ok with that. And if occasionally my family and friends hold an
intervention and try to convince me to sell some of my beautiful books, I’ll
just deal with it and continue on my merry way (which is an express route to
the nearest used bookstore or Barnes & Noble).
This post, however, isn’t really about my books, but rather
about a recent epiphany. I’ve grown up in a generation that hasn’t taken time
to smell the roses because, frankly, in this economy, we can’t. I started
school at 4 years old and just recently graduated at 26 years old from what
will (probably and hopefully) be the very last schooling I undergo. Yup, I’ve
been in school for 22 years. I started college immediately after high school,
took one semester off after graduation and continued on to law school. It’s
been a long journey. And it was a great one. I have no regrets about the path I
have taken. But there is no denying that while I’ve learned a lot on a variety
of topics and subjects during those 22 years, what I’ve really learned is how
to be a student. If there was a career titled “Professional Student” I would be
a lock for the position.
Now, back to reading. If you love reading, school is a great
thing. School is full of reading (unless you’re a *shudder* math student). But
school really teaches you to read in a certain way. Basically, pick up the
book, begin reading and, even if you hate it, don’t stop until you’re done. 22
years of having this system of reading pounded into me means that I find it
near impossible to stop reading a book once I’ve started. If I’ve begun a book,
I have to finish the book. But do I really? I’m no longer a student. There isn’t
going to be a pop quiz on the book at the end of the day or an essay to write
on my final. No one is keeping track. In fact, no one really cares. Now that I’m
done with school I’m reading whatever I want to read, whenever I want to read
it. Of course I’ve been picking my own books to read outside of school for
years, but somehow the school rule of “finish the book” permeated even my pleasure
reading. In the first 26 years of my life I consciously failed to finish two
books. (I say consciously failed because I am sure that there are other books still
sitting on my shelves half read, but since I have every intention of finishing
them “someday,” they don’t count.) The
first is Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte (Jane is utterly ridiculous and I
absolutely hate her) and The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton (there are no
words to describe how stupid every character is in this book).
Other than that, I’ve always finished what I’ve started.
After law school, however, some friends and I started a book club as a means of
staying in touch post school and I found myself facing the prospect of reading
some really great books and some really atrocious books. Obviously I had no
problem finishing the really amazing books (all of you should read “The Night
Circus” by Erin Morgenstern, you won’t regret it), but there were some books
that were simply torturous to read. One such book was “1Q84” by Haruki
Murakami, a truly monstrous 1100+page behemoth that should have been a 150 page
novella. I began reading this book during a Christmas visit home with my
parents. I read and I read and I read and then, I read some more. This was the
book that just wouldn’t end (or go anywhere narratively speaking) and I’m sorry
to say that I didn’t handle the irritation this caused well. I complained
vociferously. At page 750 my parents just couldn’t take it anymore and my
mother turned to me and said, “Lauren, why don’t you just stop reading it?”
What? What is this woman suggesting? Stop reading a book? I’ve started reading
it and that means I must finish it. Right? With this simple statement my mother
opened up a whole new world to me. I could
stop reading this book. I had given “1Q84” 750 pages of my life and it clearly
wasn’t going to get any better. I had nothing to lose by stopping and
everything to gain (such as life – I could feel this book sucking it right out
of me – and the love of my parents – which I could feel waning the more I
carried on about how much I hated reading this book).
I am proud to say that since that day I have taken ownership
of my own reading adventures and have voluntarily stopped reading two books
that I started, but hated. “1Q84” and “Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific
Crest Trail” by Cheryl Strayed will never grace my bookshelves again and will
forever be unfinished. And I’ve learned to be ok with that. Not every book is
going to resonate with me or you as a reader. Sometimes you just can’t stand a
book, even if it is on a bestseller list. As adult, non-students we don’t have
to torture ourselves by reading a book we just can’t stand.
This year I joined the ranks of employed adulthood. I
finally got my first real law job after law school in February after months and
months of applications and job searching. I am now a judicial clerk at the
Multnomah County Circuit Court in Portland, Oregon and I couldn’t be happier.
(Nothing makes you appreciate the 8 to 5 grind like months of unemployment and
looming school debt.) But being gainfully employed certainly puts a damper on my
reading time. Pleasure reading is limited to bus rides, evenings, and weekends
– squeezed between all the other life chores that must take place in those
times as well. Reading time is now precious and not to be wasted. There are too
many good books out there to waste my time reading the bad ones.
So stand up with me and own your reading. Read what brings
you joy, entertainment, escape, pleasure, emotion, truth, or laughter. Because
that’s why people write. We all just want to connect and if that connection is
missing, hang up and try again. There are more books out there.
