Village Books Blog

What Makes a Reader?

This morning I read this essay at The Millions called In Our Parents' Bookshelves. I started thinking about the bookshelves at my parents' house, then I started thinking about what books were on those shelves, then I started thinking about the books that my parents read, THEN I began thinking about the books that everyone else in my family reads--my brother, sister, niece, nephew, brother-in-law, sister-in-law. And I began wondering: What the heck makes a reader?

I didn't grow up in a family of readers. We weren't a family of non-readers either, but we weren't avid readers. I take that back--I was an avid reader, but everyone else was an occasional reader. My dad read the Sunday paper religiously, my mom read the random inspirational guide. If I give my dad a book (any Tom Clancy, Lone Survivor, or those books like Why Do Men Have Nipples), we won't see him until he's finished the last page. So although he doesn't read often, he reads fast and voraciously. My mom's reading habits have grown, although she's turned off by all the swearing in books (which she is realizing is more often than not).

I don't ever remember my sister reading when I was younger, but she does read more now. My brother is the one who introduced me to Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle, which forever changed my reading world, but his reading habits were, and still are, few and far between.

I remember summers rolling around and my mom taking me to the library so I could check out a stack of books at a time. When I was able to drive to the library, I remember barreling my way through every Vonnegut novel the Zelienople Public Library had on hand and going through interlibrary loan to get the ones they didn't have. 

My brother-in-law reads a book here and there, my sister-in-law, on the other hand, easily glides through 3 or 4 books a week. She and I essentially have an exchange program going between us. My niece also plows through books like they're going out of style (she recently discovered Harry Potter), but my nephew doesn't have time to read--he's too busy defending us from pirates.

Ok, maybe listing my family's reading habits is boring, but I guess I'm trying to figure out the rhyme or reason of what has made some of us hungry readers and some of us readers of convenience? Is it a personality type? Is it a factor of upbringing? An influential person in our lives? Is it having crappy books shoved down our throats throughout high school and college? Or perhaps just the opposite? I mean, I would have never batted an eyelash at Barabbas or Darkness at Noon if a couple professors didn't assign them.

What do you think? Are you a reader or not? And either way, why do you think that is? What has made you take one road over the other?

--Lindsey

The Need for Literary Speed

I’ve been reading some amazing books lately. Big Machine, Await Your Reply, The Unnamed, The Prince of Mist. I love when I get into these wam-bam phases of reading where every book I read is fantastic and compels me to quickly move to the next. Like rapid fire, I fly through one book and directly into the next where I then fly through that one and seamlessly move into another. I’m not a fast reader. It can easily take me a month to finish a novel. I’m not one of those folks who can brag about getting into the triple digits when recounting the number of books they’ve read in a year. So when I find myself reading four books in one month, I know big things are happening in my literary life.

Last night, having just finished The Prince of Mist, I looked at the books sitting on my nightstand to see who was next at bat. The Stoner by John Williams was the one I initially grabbed. I’d recently read an amazing review of this book and, serendipitously, that same day a friend’s boyfriend pulled the book off his shelf and said, “Ever heard of this book? A friend just gave it to me.” But within the first few pages, I was so incredibly bored that I threw the book down, cursing its slow pace. I mean, I’d just finished books with cult members going on killing rampages, internet hijackers luring naïve and vulnerable people into their identity theft schemes, an undiagnosable disease that forces a man to walk until his body finally lets him stop and an extremely creepy supernatural being who is practically a blood brother to the devil—I have no patience right now with reading about some guy who leaves his family farm to go to agriculture school.  My heart rate is pumping and I had an ugly realization last night—I’m addicted to literary speed. I need suspense. I need something that has me begging to find out what the heck is going on. If I were faced with Mrs. Dalloway right now (a book I actually enjoy), I’d probably throw the book to the ground, stomp on it and curse its lethargic pace. When did this happen? When did I develop the need for the high speed read? And most importantly, will I be able to jump track at some point? I don’t know that my body can keep up with all the intensity, the constant gasping at a character’s actions, the stun of disbelief that someone would actually write such a terrifying scene. I’m sure it’ll pass, right? I can’t remain on this high forever, can I? There’s got to be a point where I’m content to pick up The Stoner again, isn’t there?  I can only hope. For now, though, I’ve got to get home to see what the heck is going on in Emily St. John Mandel’s The Singer’s Gun. Because, let me tell you, some crazy stuff is about to happen in this book and I need to find out what it is.

-Lindsey

Guest Post: J.A. Jance

J.A. Jance has become a Village Books favorite and we are fortunate enough to be an ongoing host for her readings. She will be appearing at VB on Monday, December 14, 7:00pm for her latest book, Trial by Fire.

 For the first time in many years, I’ll be coming to Village Books to do an event on a weekday evening in December.  For the past several years and more books than I can remember, I’ve come there on late Sunday afternoons and enjoyed seeing the people out in the park listening to music, dancing, and generally enjoying themselves.

 

But this time around the signing will be on a week night.  Since it’s winter, it will also be dark, and that reminds me of the first time I did an event at Village Books.  It was for my first hardback, Hour of the Hunter.  Since my husband was still working (outside the home) at that time, I drove to Bellingham by myself.  It was an amazing drive.  It was dark and cold.  On the radio that afternoon, I was listening to news reports from a hotel in Bagdad where bombs were falling because that happened to be the day the first Gulf War was starting in dead earnest.

 

So as I drove along, I wondered if anyone would show up for the event, or would they all stay at home, glued to their television sets much the same way the whole nation stayed glued to the tube on those long days in November of 1963 when President Kennedy was assassinated and buried?

 

And my concern wasn’t far from wrong.  The bookstore had plenty of chairs set up, but only six people showed for the signing.

 

In twenty five plus years of doing book signings, I’ve come to understand that this is a free country.  Bookstores aren’t able to REQUIRE that their customers show up for events.  My philosophy of doing book signings was already established by the time I got to Bellingham that night, and it continues to be my philosophy:  DO THE BEST YOU CAN WITH WHAT YOU’VE GOT!

 

For some reason, those six people didn’t WANT to stay home and watch the news.  They didn’t need to see bombs falling or hear the resulting explosions.  They needed to be entertained.  They needed to lose themselves in a story that WASN’T a looming war, and my job was to give them what they wanted. 

 

Coming to Bellingham this late in the busy holiday season isn’t exactly like doing an event at the beginning of a war.  But the holidays are similar to that in they are engrossing; they demand attention; they consume energy and time and effort.

 

So we’ll see who comes to a book event on a precious week night in the middle of a very busy season.  Whoever comes, we’ll be glad to see you.  And for those of you who have to take a pass?  Happy Hanukah.  Merry Christmas.  Happy New Year. 

 

See you next time around.

 

I Simply Don't Care...Unless I Win

The National Book Awards were announced last night and the winners are:

Fiction: Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann (Woo-hoo!)

Nonfiction: The First Tycoon: The Epic Life of Cornelius Vanderbilt by T. J. Stiles

Young people's literature: Claudette Colvin: Twice Toward Justice by Phillip Hoose

Poetry: Transcendental Studies: A Trilogy by Keith Waldrop

I don't know how much book awards dictate your book selections. I know for me that book awards don't dictate my book selections. If I want to read a book, I'm going to read a book. And if I don't want to read a book, I don't care who is telling me I should read it, I'm simply not going to read it (unless I suddenly end up back in college where my grade in Practical Criticism pends on my knowledge of and ability to interpret Mrs. Dalloway in at least three different literary analyses ranging from Marxist crit to feminist crit). Even though I don't read what the awards committees tell me to read, I'm still intrigued enough to follow their selections and find out who the winners are. The Man Booker Prize, the National Book Awards, the Newbery, the Caldecott, the list goes on and on. Rarely have I read any of the finalists for these awards, let alone the winners. So what does that mean? Is my taste in books not refined enough? Is my eye for good writing not discerning enough? I mean, I'm apparently pompous enough to think that House of Leaves is a mind-blowing interactive read (if you ever want to hear about my creepy experience reading this book, stop in and I'll tell you), but also lowbrow enough to think Bitter with Baggage Seeks Same is one of the funniest things since Peanut Butter Jelly Time. All that being said, when a book I have read appears on an awards list, I suddenly become the proud parent--"That's my baby! I always knew she'd go places!" Suddenly I feel like I'm in the know--"Oh that old book? Yeah, I read it, like, 6 months ago. Oh? You haven't read it yet? Well, you are absolutely missing out." So when I saw that Colum McCann's Let the Great World Spin won for fiction, I was elated. It's such an underrated book. Great concept: It's 1974 and Philippe Petit is walking the tightrope between the Twin Towers. While the crowds gather below, we are told the stories of a handful of characters who are either hearing about or witnessing this feat. I've been plugging this book for months and maybe now will be its time to shine. My little baby has been given the recognition she deserves. Oh? You haven't read it yet? Well, you are absolutely missing out.

-Lindsey

When the Words Won't Come Out Right

This week, Village Books welcomes guest blogger and author Amy Foster. Amy's debut novel is When Autumn Leaves, which is now available. Her first foray into writing was as a lyricist for songs by Josh Grobin, Michael Buble, and Andrea Bocelli. She will be at Village Books on Friday, November 13, 7:00pm.

I really used to think that I had it down when it came to words. Before I started writing seriously, I did some serious reading. And then after I became a lyricist, I was able to manipulate the language to such a degree that it often felt like I was playing Sudoku with words. You have 14 syllables to say "I really miss you" (in an interesting way) and it has to rhyme with "eh." Plug it in. When I started writing fiction, I learned that writing without context, as one must with lyrics, served me well. I could say more in a single sentence, then some writers say in a page. Basically I thought I was pretty darn clever.

Then, I began to do publicity for When Autumn Leaves, my first novel. My trial by fire began with Canada AM (Canada's version of the Today Show). I did a lot of hair flipping and nervous laughter, but the words did not come as easily as they used to. In fact, many of them literally flew out of my mouth without even passing my brain first. My book is not complicated. It's easy to read, and meant to be fun and escapist. But I still have yet to master the perfect pitch for it. After I end up explaining the premise, it sounds a lot more complex than it really is. And more than a couple times, I accidentally implied my father was illiterate. Oops.

And then there are the radio tours. You begin at 4 a.m. and do literally 20 in a row. Half the time I have no clue what I'm saying. Am I even speaking English? I went back and listened to the last one I did, the last after 15 before. I go from being this smart, interesting, fairly articulate person to a someone whose air time is filled with "Ummmms," "I means," "I feel likes" and "I guess." 

Being able to write, even under pressure is one thing, being articulate at a dinner party or a fancy function is another. But being articulate after a 12 hour press day, or on your 25th interview--that is a whole different bag. I don't know if I'll ever master that one. People in the press and elsewhere have said my ditziness is charming. Ditzy? I'm not ditzy! I'm nervous and tired. So just when I believed I had the whole word thing down, I have to start all over again. I want people to find me interesting and accessible, but I don't want to come off as stupid. Now I find I need an entirely new language to deal with this entirely new set of parameters. More words, but a different arrangement. I'm hoping it's just practice and a question of getting used to it. Fingers crossed.

But Does It Contain Wizards?

I recently told a friend that I had begun reading The Magicians by Lev Grossman and he replied "Do let me know what you think of the book, from your perspective not steeped in sf/fantasy." He's right. I typically . . . mostly . . . alright 98% of the time cannot stand sci-fi/fantasy. That's most evident when sheer panic arises when I'm approached by a customer and asked to recommend something from that section. I tried reading the first Harry Potter. I really did. It just wasn't for me. Actually, I'm so resistant to those genres (they are two separate ones, correct? Kidding! I'm kidding! I think.) that when my friend introduced even the possibility of The Magicians being fantasy, my opinion changed. Do I really want to read this? Even as I carry on through the book, I find myself asking, "Is this too much fantasy for me? Am I getting my usual sci-fi/fantasy heebie-jeebies?" To be fair, though (perhaps I need to whisper this): I am enjoying the book. There, I said it. I AM ENJOYING THE MAGICIANS!  Actually, I'm finding myself as intrigued with the story as I was while reading The Secret History (now THERE'S an amazing book!) This inner conflict ("I hate this genre, but I like this book") has me thinking--what have I missed out on by closing myself off from certain types of books? What amazing pieces of writing exist that, simply because of a dragon or perhaps a robot alien thingy on the cover, I have overlooked? I mean, perhaps I don't need to delve into The Wheel of Time series, but maybe it wouldn't hurt to check out American Gods. Don't hold me to that, though. I'm not ready to commit. I mean, I love zombie reads. That counts for something, right? But my endeavor with The Magicians does beg the question: What have I been missing? And really, I suppose, the same could be asked of you.

--Lindsey