Wow.
Just, wow.
I seem to have discovered something I’m more interested in that than reading. Knitting. I know – crazy, huh? My whole identity revolves around being a reader above all else, and here I am preferring yarn and needles in my hands to a book!
This may have something to do with the fact that, for most of the week, my choice was knitting or A Fine Balance. Don’t get me wrong, A Fine Balance is good (with the previously mentioned caveats). But I’m finding myself extremely anxious right now, and I’ve discovered that knitting is a really wonderful anti-anxiety mechanism. Now that I’ve added The Secret History of the Pink Carnation, the balance has returned a bit. I guess historical adventure/romance is also a great anti-anxiety mechanism.
This, of course, brings up all my feelings about genre fiction. I described myself as a “serious reader” to a pal in chorus on Wednesday night, then instantly felt bad about it. How can I be serious if 90% of what I read is mystery, historical fiction, science fiction, fantasy, and young adult? This is a constant struggle.
But here’s the thing: A few months ago, I was in Borders at State Street, picking up this and that, choosing what to buy. I was navigating the stacks with a fat mass-market paperback in each hand, and I suddenly thought, “this is my life“. Like, this is the most important thing there is. So I’m a serious reader, all right. And I’m serious about the genres, too. I love to study their history, meanings, nuances, and mysteries. I read LIS articles all about the genres, their appeal, why people read them. So this is OK, I guess. Or it has to be.
So much of my life as I get older (and a little wiser) is realizing that I am who I am, regardless of how I judge that. Not judging is going to be the work of another 30 years, I’m afraid.
I am, by the way, loving SHPC. Willing (who lives in Cambridge!) does a great job of keeping it fun and believable.
