Most years I read several novels, but over the last year or so, not so much. Most of my reading has been of the non-fiction variety. Maybe this is because I’ve been making a feeble attempt at writing some fiction, I don’t know. I’m plodding along with that. Actually, I wrote a section of it, stopped myself from going further, and stepped back to consider what I wrote. Now I’m going in for a re-write.
Meanwhile, the other day, I was near a bookstore and early for an appointment so I wandered in and roamed the fiction aisles. There are lots of ways to find books to read. There is the book list, and the big plan to knock them off one by one. There is the recommendation. Sometimes I read books that are recommended to me. Other times, I sniff around those titles and opt for something else instead. Then there is the roam the aisles of the bookstore approach. It’s all about going in without a plan and letting the Force take care of business. That’s what I did the other day.
A display of several copies of True Grit by Charles Portis caught my eye. I knew that True Grit was written by Charles Portis but I hadn’t read it (I did see two movie versions) and knew nothing of the author or his other books. The one I found myself immediately attracted to was The Dog of the South. I flipped it open:
“I’ve got a hundred ideas better than that but Mama won’t answer my letters. What about a Christian boys’ ranch? It’s an ideal setting. You’d think that would appeal to her wouldn’t you? Well, you’d be wrong. How about a theme park? Jefferson Davis Land. It’s not far from the old Davis plantation. Listen to this. I would dress up like Davis in a frock coat and greet the tourists as they stepped off the ferry. I would glow at them and clutch their mothers’ hands and then-here’s the payoff-they would see the twinkle in my clear eye.”
I couldn’t wait to get back on the subway and start reading. I’ll write a post about this book when I’m finished reading it. How about you? What are you reading these days?
27th Street 
I love that feeling of passion to read. Sometimes I can’t wait to get to the skytrain station so I can open the book I’m reading and continue on with the story be it fiction or non-fiction.
Right now I’m reading Born to Run, which is a book I’ve been resisting for some time because the barefoot running trend/theory seemed to be everywhere and the last thing I wanted to do was read a book that generated much of the interest around this trend. I’m so glad I picked it up. It’s been such a great read, and it is one of those books that I can’t wait to open each day when I start my morning commute.
I used to read much more fiction as well, but have recently realized that I am now reading more non-fiction. I’m not sure why, perhaps it’s just that the subjects are ones that really appeal to me.
I’m currently reading Les Stroud’s (Survivorman) book Will to Live, in which he deconstructs stories of survival. He’s quite judgmental, but it’s an absolutely fascinating read.
I’m currently reading Jack Weatherford’s The Secret History of the Mongol Queens: How the Daughters of Genghis Khan Rescued His Empire. I had read his previous book on GK and loved the way he wrote (not to mention the subject matter).
I really wish I read more though. Like Azahar, I used to read a book a week when I was younger. Now? Once a month on average.
That sounds like a good read. I know hardly anything about Genghis except one line in an old Bob Dylan tune that goes, “Genghis Khan and his brother Don, could not keep on keepin’ on…”
I think reading and writing are so linked that if one dries up for me the other is sure to follow. At the best of times they feed off each other. I also know if I don’t finish a book in a week, I’m unlikely to ever finish it (except with a great effort of will) – if it has not gripped me within a few days then my concentration fails. So many books, so little time to give to ones that matter; gotta be ruthless sometimes and just pull the marker out and put it back on the shelf, go find something else.
I do that sometimes too. Also, sometimes I’ll abandon a book and then go back to it months or even years later. Sometimes that pays off and I realize I just wasn’t ready for that particular book. Other times I wonder why I ever decided to go back to it. An example of that is Foucault’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco. I’ve started that one three or four times over the years and each time have abandoned it at around the same spot. Enough’s enough. For whatever reason, I can’t read that book and I won’t be going back to it.
I used to read a book a week. Then I don’t know what happened, but in the past two years I think I’ve only read about five books. Almost picked up Year of the Flood by Margaret Atwood the other day, but suddenly lost enthusiasm.
Perhaps if I get an iPad…
Maybe reading on a tablet is OK, I don’t know. I do know that when books become obsolete, I’ll miss them.
I haven’t read a Margaret Atwood book in years.