Reading and Writing

Brett and I do lots of reading. Mostly we look for ways to not wind up in front of the tv at night. Post-dinner activities range from reading, musical expression, card games, toolbox tinkering, and long form discussions about other people.

Brett and I recently got a subscription to The New Yorker. We feel smug and embarrassed by this notion but that's no reason not to exercise your ability to be smug. While Brett reads literature ranging in topics from history to politics to philosophical looks at humankind, I consume words written purely to entertain, mostly in the form of humorist essays and weighty moments from the childhoods of people I'll never meet. I tend to read mostly narrative non-fiction while Brett delves to depths of religious influences and metaphysics. Though Brett loves me and the fact that I like to write, he always reads a Lu story, chuckles at my comedic genius, and then asks, "But what did I learn?" (He's always hung up on learning.) He started the subscription to the New Yorker for the intellectual articles and "purposeful writing." He thought I might benefit from being exposed to different writing styles and I scoffed at him. "You're not a writer. You don't know what I need!"

Reading the New Yorker has opened my eyes. When you read news from fast-paced, constantly updated news outlets, you're reading hurried reports. Breaking news doesn't have to be well written. It just has to be written. Reading the thought-through and researched articles in the New Yorker has made me realize how rarely I read good writing outside of books and how extra rarely I read something written in a style differently from my preferred genre. There's a lot of different types of good writing out there -which seems obvious but like my order at Chic-fil-a, I find something I like and I stick with it every time, never experiencing anything new.

Every Friday a new issue comes in and Brett and I have become frantic about reading them quickly. It's a race against time.
"It's Wednesday and I haven't finished that article about the healthcare whistleblowers!" he'll squeal.
"I read it. It was great. I'll just tell you about it and you can skip ahead to read the one about prison reform!" I'll shriek, flinging the latest issue at him while I finish up the last week's. We are stressed and delighted by the presence of the New Yorker in our home.

With all the new writing knowledge that I've come upon, I've taken a different route with my recreational writing. Brett is proud of this practice workshop I've embarked on. I also partook in a free online seminar about memoir writing where I got some great ideas and determined that I need to write practice books because no one saunters on out to the baseball field and hits home run with out a "swingandamiss" a few times first.
"I need to write a couple of bad books!" I declared to Brett. He peered up at me over the top of his History of Humankind book.
"What?"
"I've got to self-publish some bad books so I can have something of a past to present to a real publisher when I want them to publish my real book. My 'mem-wahs': the trials of my young privileged life, the torture society inflicted upon me!"

Last month I finished a book about a gay man who was traveling the world to avoid confronting his feelings about his ex-boyfriend who was marring someone else. This is not what I typically read but it won many literary awards for writing style, uniqueness, and vivid imagery. Since I'm unofficially trying to better myself, I thought it would be worthwhile to read. Turns out, I hadn't been that bored reading a book since fighting my way through the summer reading list in middle school. Brett watched me struggle through it.
"Just move on if you don't like it. You don't have to finish every book you start."
I glanced at the stack of unfinished books I pretend I'm still reading.
"I'm not against that," I suggested as though it's a new concept, "but I'm convinced this has to get better. I'm waiting for the award-winning moment."

I finished that book. I read that last chapter, closed the cover and looked over at Brett.
"Nothing?" he asked without looking up from his book on the Cosmos.
"Nothing. I don't get why that was good at all!"
This set forth lots of big thinking about what qualifies as good writing and good ideas. Is it because the protagonist was gay and everyone trying to be all inclusive and cool with it? Do I have to push the bounds of politically correctness? Should I start my writing career with an erotic novel? That's the highest selling book genre you know. How difficult could that be?

"I'm going to write an erotic novel!" I proclaimed a few days later.
Brett closed his book on President Grant.
"All I've got do is come up with a ridiculous but mundane scenario and string it together with fleshed-colored imagery and breathy proclamations!"
"Have you read an erotic novel before?"
"No."
"Don't you think you should read one first?"
"I don't really care to do that."

I have since moved on from that idea and invented a new genre; the Neurotic Novel - which features prose from only the most unhinged minds.
"I wholeheartedly believe you could write a neurotic novel." Brett assured me. "There's no one better for the job." I beamed at him, flattered by his supportive words.

I looked off into the distance. "It all began in the first grade when I caught Cassandra squeezing a packet of mayonnaise into her left shoe..."

Brett went back to his book and I pulled out my laptop.