I’ve been thinking a lot about vampires over the last week.
I’m a reader. I love to read. In fact, I’ve told my husband many times that I’m planning to quit my day job so I can read full time. I think he thinks I’m kidding.
Over the years, I’ve gone through more than a few different genre-jags. I didn’t discover reading for pleasure until I was about 25. Initially, I read a lot of books about true crime, serial killers, and courtroom drama. Likely not good for the psyche to read too much of that stuff, but read it I did. A year or so later, some friends and I decided to form a little “book club” to give us a chance to read and discuss books. It’s always fun to chat about a book you’ve just read, to compare thoughts, and discuss characters. This turned out to be an interesting experience for me. I was so stuck in my ways I couldn’t conceive of taking a chance on anything else. What if I didn’t like it? What if I didn’t understand it? What if it was boring? The obvious answer, of course, would be, “stop reading, if you don’t like it.” I struggled with not finishing any book I started, however. Once I didn’t read for an entire year, simply because I was struggling with the book I was reading and didn’t seem capable of giving myself permission to just quit reading it. It was as if it were homework or something. Crazy, considering: a) I was an adult; b) nobody would know I’d quit; and c) this was supposed to be for “fun”. Not very fun to plug through a book you don’t enjoy!
Anyway, the book club forced me outside of my little literary box and taught me the perennial “don’t judge a book by its cover” rule, one more time. Over the course of several months, we read a wide variety of books, from lighter, fluffy reads, to heavier, award-winning novels. Each was interesting in its own way, perhaps most notably by the wide range of depth and appreciation for different types of books each person in the group brought to the discussion.
Eventually, the book club began to feel like a chore for me. While I thoroughly enjoyed discussing whatever I was currently reading, I began to experience that same old feeling that I was doing homework; assigned reading, not just reading for the shear joy of it. When I found myself slipping into high school habits of “if I read 23 pages a day, I’ll finish in time.” Soon to become, “if I read 46 pages a day, I’ll finish in time.” It was at this point I knew it was time for me to bow out of the book club, and explore the books I wanted to read.
Departing from the book club I took a new appreciation of historical fiction with me. Wilbur Smith was the first historical fiction author I read with fervour, and many have followed in his place. Who knew you could learn about history AND be thoroughly entertained at the same time?! In the ten or so years that have past since the book club, I’ve held fast to my love of historical fiction, but have remembered the lessons I learned, and have a much more open mind when it comes to other types of books. Mystery, romance, medical thrillers, fantasy, and general literary fiction—I’ve read a sampling of many, yet resolutely return to historical fiction and, now, fantasy whenever I’m yearning for a truly wonderful reading experience. One genre ensconced in fact and solidity, another in the realm of unrestricted imagination where anything is possible.
One style I’ve never been into, however, is “vampire” books. I know this is a very popular sub-genre all in itself, and know many people who voraciously devour these novels. Maybe it’s the gore factor, or maybe they’re just too scary, but I’ve never been even remotely interested in anything further than the classic, Dracula. Over the last couple of years I’ve been hearing talk of the Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer. Many people told me I had to read these books and guaranteed I would love them. I shied away from them however, since they’re vampire books and, as stated, I’m completely disinterested in them. Enough people harped on about them however, that I started thinking I should just read the first one, if only so I could say I’d read it and didn’t like it. The situation sort of reminded me of another series I was pressured into reading several years ago. My mom, my aunt, and a good friend all pushed me into reading the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon, claiming I’d “love it”. I sat on the first four books of that series for over a year, debating whether to read them or not. I knew I’d feel bad if I didn’t love them, and was worried they couldn’t possibly live up to the rave reviews I’d heard. Boy, was I wrong. Outlander turned into one of those frantic reading sessions: no housework got done, the family had to scrounge their own meals, and I sat up half the night, for several nights, reading and reading. I thought about the book while I wasn’t reading it, and plotted ways to fit in more reading time than I had. How could have hesitated for a moment before reading these books?!
It was with this in mind that I picked up the first book, Twilight, and cracked it open one Monday night at bedtime. By Thursday of that week, I’d read the first two books and was scrambling to find the third and fourth. I’m not sure what it is about these books, or the characters, but I’m finding myself thinking about them when I’m not reading, staying up too late reading, and debating skipping work to stay home and read.
I’m trying to slow my pace as I race through the third book, knowing that with each page I read, I come closer to the end of what is written so far in the series. The torture of waiting for an author to write and publish another in a series is almost more than I can take. This morning saw me reading while I ate and reading while I was blow-drying my hair—I’ve never done that before.
After reading Outlander, I was worried I’d never again find a series I could so totally and thoroughly fall in love with. How pleased I am to have been proven wrong. I wonder how many other wonders await my eager eyes?
When Bill gets home from work tonight, we’re going to have a serious talk about my working life.
I’m a reader. I love to read. In fact, I’ve told my husband many times that I’m planning to quit my day job so I can read full time. I think he thinks I’m kidding.
Over the years, I’ve gone through more than a few different genre-jags. I didn’t discover reading for pleasure until I was about 25. Initially, I read a lot of books about true crime, serial killers, and courtroom drama. Likely not good for the psyche to read too much of that stuff, but read it I did. A year or so later, some friends and I decided to form a little “book club” to give us a chance to read and discuss books. It’s always fun to chat about a book you’ve just read, to compare thoughts, and discuss characters. This turned out to be an interesting experience for me. I was so stuck in my ways I couldn’t conceive of taking a chance on anything else. What if I didn’t like it? What if I didn’t understand it? What if it was boring? The obvious answer, of course, would be, “stop reading, if you don’t like it.” I struggled with not finishing any book I started, however. Once I didn’t read for an entire year, simply because I was struggling with the book I was reading and didn’t seem capable of giving myself permission to just quit reading it. It was as if it were homework or something. Crazy, considering: a) I was an adult; b) nobody would know I’d quit; and c) this was supposed to be for “fun”. Not very fun to plug through a book you don’t enjoy!
Anyway, the book club forced me outside of my little literary box and taught me the perennial “don’t judge a book by its cover” rule, one more time. Over the course of several months, we read a wide variety of books, from lighter, fluffy reads, to heavier, award-winning novels. Each was interesting in its own way, perhaps most notably by the wide range of depth and appreciation for different types of books each person in the group brought to the discussion.
Eventually, the book club began to feel like a chore for me. While I thoroughly enjoyed discussing whatever I was currently reading, I began to experience that same old feeling that I was doing homework; assigned reading, not just reading for the shear joy of it. When I found myself slipping into high school habits of “if I read 23 pages a day, I’ll finish in time.” Soon to become, “if I read 46 pages a day, I’ll finish in time.” It was at this point I knew it was time for me to bow out of the book club, and explore the books I wanted to read.
Departing from the book club I took a new appreciation of historical fiction with me. Wilbur Smith was the first historical fiction author I read with fervour, and many have followed in his place. Who knew you could learn about history AND be thoroughly entertained at the same time?! In the ten or so years that have past since the book club, I’ve held fast to my love of historical fiction, but have remembered the lessons I learned, and have a much more open mind when it comes to other types of books. Mystery, romance, medical thrillers, fantasy, and general literary fiction—I’ve read a sampling of many, yet resolutely return to historical fiction and, now, fantasy whenever I’m yearning for a truly wonderful reading experience. One genre ensconced in fact and solidity, another in the realm of unrestricted imagination where anything is possible.
One style I’ve never been into, however, is “vampire” books. I know this is a very popular sub-genre all in itself, and know many people who voraciously devour these novels. Maybe it’s the gore factor, or maybe they’re just too scary, but I’ve never been even remotely interested in anything further than the classic, Dracula. Over the last couple of years I’ve been hearing talk of the Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer. Many people told me I had to read these books and guaranteed I would love them. I shied away from them however, since they’re vampire books and, as stated, I’m completely disinterested in them. Enough people harped on about them however, that I started thinking I should just read the first one, if only so I could say I’d read it and didn’t like it. The situation sort of reminded me of another series I was pressured into reading several years ago. My mom, my aunt, and a good friend all pushed me into reading the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon, claiming I’d “love it”. I sat on the first four books of that series for over a year, debating whether to read them or not. I knew I’d feel bad if I didn’t love them, and was worried they couldn’t possibly live up to the rave reviews I’d heard. Boy, was I wrong. Outlander turned into one of those frantic reading sessions: no housework got done, the family had to scrounge their own meals, and I sat up half the night, for several nights, reading and reading. I thought about the book while I wasn’t reading it, and plotted ways to fit in more reading time than I had. How could have hesitated for a moment before reading these books?!
It was with this in mind that I picked up the first book, Twilight, and cracked it open one Monday night at bedtime. By Thursday of that week, I’d read the first two books and was scrambling to find the third and fourth. I’m not sure what it is about these books, or the characters, but I’m finding myself thinking about them when I’m not reading, staying up too late reading, and debating skipping work to stay home and read.
I’m trying to slow my pace as I race through the third book, knowing that with each page I read, I come closer to the end of what is written so far in the series. The torture of waiting for an author to write and publish another in a series is almost more than I can take. This morning saw me reading while I ate and reading while I was blow-drying my hair—I’ve never done that before.
After reading Outlander, I was worried I’d never again find a series I could so totally and thoroughly fall in love with. How pleased I am to have been proven wrong. I wonder how many other wonders await my eager eyes?
When Bill gets home from work tonight, we’re going to have a serious talk about my working life.
1 comment:
May I borrow them when you're ready to let them out of your sight for a while?
"your mother"
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