In the 12th in a series of posts from authors of 2018 books entered for The Story Prize, Ruth Joffre, author of Night Beast (Black Cat), discusses bus books and finding the right reading balance.
Working a 9-5 has made me almost fanatical about making the most out of my time. On my lunch breaks, I do language practice. Instead of taking two buses to and from work, I build exercise into my commute by walking over half a mile to catch the second bus where it stops in Downtown Seattle. And I maintain at least one (if not two) bus books at all times. In the past few years, I have made an effort to read more science fiction and comics, returning to the genres that first excited me as a child, so I’ve been doing a lot of catching up.
What I read still tends to vary greatly (last month’s reading list included Rita Bullwinkel’s Belly Up, Yoon Ha Lee’s Revenant Gun, Saladin Ahmed’s Black Bolt Vol. 2, and Kim Fu’s For Today I Am a Boy—to name a few), but when I read a book depends largely on two factors: 1) when it becomes available at my local library and 2) if I’ve bought it, which usually means that I read through the first forty or so pages and then have to set it aside for a while to work through my time-sensitive stack of library books. I never forget to finish a book, though, and I always keep a record of what I’ve read so I can buy the books I borrowed when the budget allows.
All in all, I read about fifteen to twenty books a month. This is the right amount for me, I find. If I read too few, my writing suffers. That part of my brain that feeds on narrative gets tired of waiting for something new and starts picking apart whatever I’m working on, asking moronic questions like, “What if the novel is actually supposed to be an interpretive dance and the 80,000 words you’ve written so far aren’t supposed to be read but performed on the stage?” Whereas if I read too many, that same part of my brain becomes over-gorged and just wants to take a long nap instead of writing. I try to read just enough to remain inspired and engaged (and learn new tricks) without getting distracted from my primary goal (right now, to finish my novel).
This is not to say that reading is just professional development for me. On the contrary, it is one of my greatest pleasures, second only perhaps to the texture of a really good milkshake. In my reading life, I do all the things I never do in real life. I travel to places I’ve never imagined. I encounter new word combinations that excite me more than entire relationships have. Even when I know that I’m reading a book for research, it’s not about finding those little bits of information I can then use to fuel my own work. At least part of the pleasure of reading comes from knowing that there’s someone else out who took the time to find that information. To put those two words together. To imagine the impossible. I read voraciously to be reminded that I’m not alone.
Working a 9-5 has made me almost fanatical about making the most out of my time. On my lunch breaks, I do language practice. Instead of taking two buses to and from work, I build exercise into my commute by walking over half a mile to catch the second bus where it stops in Downtown Seattle. And I maintain at least one (if not two) bus books at all times. In the past few years, I have made an effort to read more science fiction and comics, returning to the genres that first excited me as a child, so I’ve been doing a lot of catching up.
What I read still tends to vary greatly (last month’s reading list included Rita Bullwinkel’s Belly Up, Yoon Ha Lee’s Revenant Gun, Saladin Ahmed’s Black Bolt Vol. 2, and Kim Fu’s For Today I Am a Boy—to name a few), but when I read a book depends largely on two factors: 1) when it becomes available at my local library and 2) if I’ve bought it, which usually means that I read through the first forty or so pages and then have to set it aside for a while to work through my time-sensitive stack of library books. I never forget to finish a book, though, and I always keep a record of what I’ve read so I can buy the books I borrowed when the budget allows.
All in all, I read about fifteen to twenty books a month. This is the right amount for me, I find. If I read too few, my writing suffers. That part of my brain that feeds on narrative gets tired of waiting for something new and starts picking apart whatever I’m working on, asking moronic questions like, “What if the novel is actually supposed to be an interpretive dance and the 80,000 words you’ve written so far aren’t supposed to be read but performed on the stage?” Whereas if I read too many, that same part of my brain becomes over-gorged and just wants to take a long nap instead of writing. I try to read just enough to remain inspired and engaged (and learn new tricks) without getting distracted from my primary goal (right now, to finish my novel).
This is not to say that reading is just professional development for me. On the contrary, it is one of my greatest pleasures, second only perhaps to the texture of a really good milkshake. In my reading life, I do all the things I never do in real life. I travel to places I’ve never imagined. I encounter new word combinations that excite me more than entire relationships have. Even when I know that I’m reading a book for research, it’s not about finding those little bits of information I can then use to fuel my own work. At least part of the pleasure of reading comes from knowing that there’s someone else out who took the time to find that information. To put those two words together. To imagine the impossible. I read voraciously to be reminded that I’m not alone.
