by Anne Bogel
21
I’d Rather Be Reading
Have you had the experience of browsing through a good photo album? Maybe it was one with photos of you as a kid, or from a trip you took to Paris or Prague or Pittsburgh. You didn’t remember that restaurant, or that haircut, or that sunset over the river, or those sunglasses that made your two-year-old look like a mini movie star—but when you see the photo, it all comes flooding back.
When I go on vacation, I prefer to live in the moment instead of recording the moment. Taking photos to memorialize the experience isn’t as fun as actually experiencing it. But I feel like taking those photos is a gift to my future self. They’ll let me continue to remember and enjoy the moment months, years, even decades from now.
That’s how I feel about my reading journal. Show me a cover of any book I’ve read, and it will take me right back to where I was when I read it. Books are portals to all kinds of memories—but only if I can remember that I read them. Ask me the best books I’ve read this year and a half-dozen titles might spring to mind—but no more. If I can’t see it, I can’t remember it: off the top of my head, I’d be lucky to recall a quarter of what I’ve read. Last month is hard enough, but last year, or five or ten years ago? My memory lets me down. But paging through my book journal brings it all roaring back.
I would rather be reading than memorializing what I’m reading; I’d rather experience the thing than record the thing. But I’ve grudgingly learned to do it anyway, inspired, I’m sorry to say, by pure envy.
A friend has been diligently tracking every book she’s read for the past twenty-plus years, since she was a kid. Her book journal is in a cheap spiral notebook—nothing special to look at—but when I first learned of it, I was inordinately (or maybe entirely appropriately) flooded with envy.
Some readers meticulously record the dates they read each title and where they were when they read it. They note favorite quotes, memorable scenes, and key insights. My friend’s log was just a list of titles and the dates she read them, but the quantity of data—the sheer number of books read over more than two decades—served as a travelogue for her reading life. I didn’t have my own, but I wanted one, badly enough that I began.
Mine is nothing special, just a simple log noting what I read, and when, with a little star to mark my favorites. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine.
Since my conversion, I’ve become excessively interested in how other readers document their reading life. Some keep simple logs like mine. Some assign star ratings or grades or percentage scores. Some log pages and pages of character studies and quotes to remember and the ideas that made them stop and think.
Some readers are loyal to certain websites, or apps, or social media platforms—a Goodreads list, a Pinterest board, a personalized Instagram hashtag. Some couldn’t live without a thick-papered journal and a fountain pen, or their trusty spreadsheets, easily searched and sorted. One friend keeps a line-a-day journal, the five-year kind more typically used for traditional memory keeping, to record her book memories. They necessarily remind her of all her other memories, because, like many readers, that’s how her brain functions. Another takes a photograph of every book she reads and binds those photos into scrapbooks, creating her own book of books, suitable for the coffee table. (Want.)
Every reader’s journal is its own sort of amazing. What reader wouldn’t want their own? And yet I sometimes find myself relapsing, not recording my books for a week or two, when my preference for living in the moment wins out over my desire to document for my future self. When this happens, a quick review of the benefits of journaling—the reasons I do it, the rewards that come if I do—provides the kick in the pants I need to pull out my journal and pen again, reigniting my zeal of the convert.
It’s embarrassing to admit, but without logging what I read, I forget all about it. I retain the ideas, and remember them when they’re triggered, but without referring to my journal, I can barely remember what I’ve been reading.
With my personal log, however, the title alone can serve the same purpose as that photo in the vacation scrapbook. My journal doesn’t hold a pretty photo to admire, but my brain is eager to fill in the book’s details. It conjures a mental image of where I was when I read it, where I got it, and—most of the time—why I picked it up in the first place, as well as what I thought about it. Did I like it or not, and how did it make me feel? All this from one line of a reading log.
Interestingly, I’ve noticed that when I record what I read, I’m not an impartial documenter. When I started logging my books, I was surprised to discover that the very act of documenting my reading life changes what I choose to read. “You get what you measure,” a wise friend once told me. The act of tracking something changes the way we think about it. My reading log turned into an unexpected vehicle for self-discovery.
I believe in reading at whim, and I generally choose books that I’m in the mood for, trusting that my reading life will balance out in the end, that I’ll rack up a nice variety of books read without too much conscious effort.
But with the clear data about my reading life in hand, I could see what my reading habits were truly like. Sometimes they disappointed me. I may have had a feeling I was veering in a certain direction, but there’s nothing like seeing it confirmed on the page. With the actual data before me, I could no longer fool myself that I was reading more than I really was, or reading a wide variety of genres or plenty of diverse books when I wasn’t. On the page, I might notice a lack of perceived substance, or an excess of fluff, or a bunch of dead white males, or a string of underwhelming titles. I couldn’t argue with my reading log, and seeing the truth of my reading life inspires me to change it.
Logging my books changed my reading life in another way. The act of writing things down inspires me to read more. Sure, it’s fun to add another completed title to my list. But my log also helps me notice when I’m in a busy period and reading takes a backseat, nudging me to do something about it before too many days go by without adding a book to my list.
Remembering what I’ve read doesn’t just help me; my log also helps me give better book recommendations to other readers. When a friend asks for a solid book recommendation and nothing springs to mind, or I’m heading off to book club to discuss my loves and hates with fellow readers, or I’m gearing up for a literary matchmaking session with a friend or stranger, I always begin by flipping through my book journal.
Reader, if you’d rather live in your reading moment than document it, I totally get it. I’d rather be reading too. But learn from my bookish regret: I don’t care what system you use (and I use the word system loosely) as long as you use one. Start today, because as soon as you begin, you’re going to wish you’d begun sooner. Record your books as a gift to your future self, a travelogue you’ll be able to pull off the shelf years from now, to remember the journey.
We are readers. Books grace our shelves and fill our homes with beauty; they dwell in our minds and occupy our thoughts. Books prompt us to spend pleasant hours alone and connect us with fellow readers. They invite us to escape into their pages for an afternoon, and they inspire us to reimagine our lives. Good reading journals provide glimpses of how we’ve spent our days, and they tell the story of our lives.
Acknowledgments
In a book about the reading life, it might seem silly to thank blog readers and podcast listeners, but endless thanks to the communities that have gathered around Modern Mrs Darcy and What Should I Read Next? We know the value of making books part of our lives. Thanks for being part of mine, and for inspiring this collection. Ah, how good it is . . .
To Holland Saltsman, for answering all my bookstore questions (and we both know how many there were), for commiserating when I’m in a reading slump, for freely sharing the amazing books you’ve been reading lately, and for graciously hosting me at your store—the fabulous The Novel Neighbor in Webster Groves, St. Louis—so I could live out my dreams of being a bookseller for a day. When young readers
dream of growing up and one day becoming booksellers themselves, it’s because they experienced the wonders of a store like yours.
To indie bookstore owners extraordinaire Annie Jones (The Bookshelf, Thomasville, Georgia), Andrea Griffith (Browsers Books, Olympia, Washington), and Adah Fitzgerald (Main Street Books, Davidson, North Carolina)—thanks for carrying the bookseller torch, for answering all my nosy questions, for showing me the heart of indie bookselling, and for your all-around, overflowing enthusiasm for books and bookselling. I’m fortunate to know you, and I fervently wish you could be my local booksellers.
Annie Spence, Joshilyn Jackson, Kathleen Grissom, Sarah Mackenzie, Jane Mount, and Ariel Lawhon graciously read early copies and provided words of endorsement for this collection. I can’t thank you enough for your kindness and generosity, and I’m so happy the love of books and reading (and writing!) brought us together.
To the wonderful staff of the St. Matthews Eline Library in Louisville, Kentucky. We’re lucky you were ours all those years. We miss you.
To my agent, Bill Jensen, for getting this idea from the beginning.
To my editor, Rebekah Guzman, for assuring me this collection was better than I thought, and then for making it much better than it was, and for talking me down a time or two in between.
Thanks to Dave Lewis, for casting the vision; Wendy Wetzel, for making things happen and making it look easy; art director Patti Brinks, for exquisite taste and solid judgment, and for turning my books into things of beauty; Brianna DeWitt, for smartly spreading the word; and the whole team at Baker. It’s been a pleasure.
To my parents, who made sure I never wanted for books, among other things. Mom, thanks for taking me to the library all those years. Dad, thanks for taking me to the bookstore countless times, of course, and for all the happy reading memories. A man in a striped suit was walking past a fruit store . . .
To Ginger Horton, thanks for being my first reader. To Katie Earley, for tending to Pemberley so I could write. To Melissa Klassen, for your friendship, and for helping me pull it all together (or, let’s be honest, for pulling it together for me).
To Will, for everything, and specifically this time for helping me find the thread.
To Jackson, Sarah, Lucy, and Silas, for being such delightful humans, and readers besides, and for putting up with me when I try to play it cool about your reading lives and utterly fail. I love you, and I think you’re great. On to the next.
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About the Author
When it comes to approaching her writing and life, Anne Bogel takes a line from Emily Dickinson: “I dwell in possibility.” She is adept at viewing old ideas from a fresh perspective and presenting them to the reader in such a way that they experience them as if for the first time.
In 2011, Anne launched her blog Modern Mrs Darcy, which derives its name from a Jane Austen book. It didn’t slot neatly into the existing blog niches (although she’s been pleased to hear it described as “a lifestyle blog for nerds”), yet it quickly gained a cult following of smart, thoughtful readers who love Anne’s modus operandi of approaching old, familiar ideas from new and fresh angles.
Anne’s readers like to read. While Modern Mrs Darcy isn’t strictly a book blog, Anne writes frequently about books and reading. Her book lists are among her most popular posts. She is well known by readers, authors, and publishers as a tastemaker. In 2016, she launched her podcast What Should I Read Next?—a popular show devoted to literary matchmaking, bibliotherapy, and all things books and reading.
Anne lives in Louisville, Kentucky, with her husband and four children.
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