Why I Read, What I Read
I wasn’t a big reader as a kid. I was a good student and diligent worker, but never much of a pleasure reader. I more or less viewed reading as a means to an end. If there was something specific I needed to know, or a school assignment I had to prepare for, sure, I’d read. But, outside of that, reading wasn’t high on my list of things to do in my free time. The seminal work in my elementary school career remains my book report on Bo Jackson. Candidly, this probably held true though college and beyond. I was more reading/writing inclined than I was math/science, but virtually all of the reading I did was assigned to me.
I’m grateful that, somewhere along the way, that changed. I’m an avid reader now. Much to my neat-freak wife’s chagrin, I prefer the old-fashioned hard copies to audiobooks or e-readers. I find I don’t retain the information as well when listening to an audiobook, and while I recognize the convenience and portability of reading books on a tablet, there’s something about the ritual of cracking open a physical book that makes the experience more enjoyable for me. Similar to my morning coffee, where I’d rather sit and savor a piping hot cup of dark roast than mainline espresso and head out the door, the physical act is part of the joy of reading for me. Like an old baseball glove, I’ll often put my face up to a book and take a big inhale, almost like I’m trying to learn the secrets that lie beyond the surface. You don’t get the same sensation sniffing a Kindle.
I generally read a lot of non-fiction, with the occasional biography sprinkled in. I think this is a function of two things in particular: 1) I embrace the notion that our time is our most important asset—one that we should value above all else. 2) I’ve grown into a bit of a self-improvement novice, embracing how little I know and how much there is out there to learn. So, when I find myself with some leisure time, I want to make the most of it. I want to grow, to improve myself in some way. My proclivity for non-fiction is really me trying to be efficient and productive with every waking moment (not exactly the picture of leisure, I know). I’ve found it harder to just “be” as I’ve gotten older, feeling a near compulsion to accomplish something when I have the opportunity—become more mindful, get smarter, get stronger, learn something new, try something new. While I don’t necessarily think this is a bad thing (in moderation), I do need to acknowledge the idea that I-know-best-about-what-I-don’t-know-and-need-to-know is farcical. The notion that I get to choose how and where I’ll grow as a human being is both naïve and counter-productive. We come to some incredible realizations when we aren’t trying to (think: lightbulb moment while in the shower). So, why am I trying so hard? I’m essentially limiting my own growth by being so intentional about it.
Maybe I need to stop forcing it let things come to me a little more. Some of the greatest authors in the history of the written word produced exclusively works of fiction. Yet, I think my time is best suited reading a trendy new non-fiction work because I might learn something “real”? C’mon dude. With that in mind, as we close the books on 2022, I’m going to make a conscious effort to read more fiction in 2023.
Feels like an opportunity.
Here are the books I read in 2022. If you have recommendations for 2023, let me know!