by Zibby Owens
My book club, which lasted eight years, was comprised of seven women: all mothers of children who attended a tiny preschool in the basement of a church on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. All of us, save one, lived within walking distance of the school. All, save two, went to Ivy League schools. Some of us were already friends when the club started; some of us only knew each other in passing, our children in different sections of the preschool.
As they say, some books change your life. For me, it’s the ones I didn’t read that made all the difference.
And then, after meeting for about five months, everything changed. A woman I had previously found abrasive and smug cracked open Middlemarch and attempted to read a passage. I will never forget how badly her hands shook when she held the book. Then she started to cry. My hands flew up and gripped both sides of my neck, a tell that something has resonated with me on the deepest level. I reached over and took the book from her, wanting to be reassuring, but at the same time, not wanting to do a full-on rescue, since we weren’t the best of friends. I knew by the empathetic looks on all the faces around me that someone else would quickly jump in.
She pulled her knees up to her chest on the deep sofa and admitted with more than a touch of shame that she had been laid off from her job. She had been proud of working for this company. She considered it almost as prestigious as her having gone to Harvard. And we all knew the money she earned there mattered, a lot. Everyone had a suggestion as to what might make her feel better. The advice helped, and it did not. She nodded at each reassurance, cried, nodded at the next one, cried. Nod, cry. Nod, cry. I think all of us were hoping for a more profound healing, a catharsis, but all of our efforts seemed to just acknowledge her sadness, not reduce or soften it. She did seem a bit steadier when she stood up from the couch, picked up her Middlemarch, and went to leave. It was earlier than when our book club usually broke, but we knew it would be wrong to stay after she left. She would think we were talking about her, and, of course, we would be.
We weren’t a group of women who became friends, so much as we were a tribe.
A month later, at our next meeting, we expected her (if she came at all) to be awkward and shy. It wasn’t at all like that. She arrived with the first of us, when she had usually been one of the last. She brought brownies. A first. No one ever showed up with food. The brownies were slightly burnt and impossible to get out of the glass dish, but she didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed. Someone brought a small dream catcher for her. This was also a first. No one had ever brought a gift before. I wasn’t sure how it would go over. She was not, as far as I knew, at all sentimental or craftsy. But her eyes flickered when she saw it, as if she were checking to make sure it wasn’t for someone else. When she was sure it was not, she took it with a sincere “thank you,” and tucked it in the bag she had used to bring the brownies. We were supposed to be discussing Never Let Me Go that night, but we never got around to it. We sat in the living room and ate charred brownie crumbs, sucking our fingers clean instead of washing them because we didn’t want to miss anything.
Over the eight years of our book club, some highlights of what we went through together: Fathers who passed away (cancer, heart attack). Infidelity (some divorced, some tried again). Shock treatment (one had depression that wouldn’t go away). And then, one of us died (forty-six, breast cancer). There were also a lot of great stories, laughter, celebrations, that are always harder to remember.
Then, it ended. Eventually, we all had good reasons to stop coming every month. I run into some of the women, but we rarely make plans. We weren’t a group of women who became friends, so much as we were a tribe. I’m still a compulsive reader, but it’s now a solitary pursuit, and I like it that way. As they say, some books change your life. For me, it’s the ones I didn’t read that made all the difference.
Ashley Prentice Norton is the author of novels The Chocolate Money and If You Left.
Read More Books
GRETCHEN RUBIN
We’re in the midst of an unprecedented world crisis. For many of us, the most immediate consequence is that we’re at home with our families, and we have a lot of time on our hands, and we’re worried.
What to do? Read, of course! A book can be a wonderful respite from the anxieties of today.
Of my hundreds of happiness-project resolutions, and of the dozens of habits I’ve tried to form, one of my very favorites is to read more.
Reading is an essential part of my work, and it forms an important part of my social life—I’m in three (yes, three) book groups. Far more important, reading is my favorite thing to do, by a long shot. I’m not a well-rounded person.
Here are some habits that I’ve adopted over the years to help me get more good reading done.
1. Quit reading.
I used to pride myself on finishing every book I started. I thought that’s what a “real reader” did. No more. Life is short. There are too many wonderful books to read. When I stop reading a book I’m not enjoying, I have more time to read the books I do enjoy. And speaking of that . . .
2. Read books you enjoy.
When I’m reading a book I love—for example, I’m now reading Ruth Franklin’s biography Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life—I’m astonished by how much time I find to read. Which is another reason to stop reading a book I don’t enjoy. Especially when you’re under a lot of stress, you want reading to feel like a pleasure, not a duty. (But see #9.)
3. Watch recorded TV.
It’s much more efficient to watch recorded shows, because you skip the commercials and control when you watch. Then you have more time to read. And stop watching TV shows you don’t enjoy! (See #1.)
4. Skim.
Especially when reading newspapers and magazines, often I get as much from skimming as I do from a leisurely reading. I have to remind myself to skim, but when I do, I get through material much faster. I also give myself permission to skim any part of a nonfiction book that I don’t find interesting.
A book can be a wonderful respite from the anxieties of today.
5. Get calm.
These days, with so much going on, it can be hard to turn our attention away from the news and into the world of a book—but once we do, it’s such a respite. I have a sticky note posted in our bedroom that says, “Quiet mind.” It’s sometimes hard for me to settle down with a book; I keep wanting to jump up and take care of some nagging task or check my news updates. But that’s no way to read.
6. Don’t fight my inclinations.
Sometimes I feel like I should be reading one book when I actually feel like reading something entirely different. Now I let myself read what I want, because otherwise I end up reading much less. Lately, I’ve been wanting to reread, because I find it so comforting to revisit old favorites.
7. Maintain a big stack.
I find that I read much more when I have a pile waiting for me. Right now, I have to admit, my stack is so big that it’s a bit alarming, but I’ll get it down to a more reasonable size before too long.
8. Choose my own books.
Books make wonderful gifts—both to receive and to give—but I try not to let myself feel pressured to read a book just because someone has given it to me. I always give a gift book a try, but I no longer keep reading if I don’t want to.
Maybe you don’t love to read, so finding more time to read isn’t a challenge . . . the larger point is to make sure you’re finding time to do whatever it is that you find fun.
9. Set aside time to read taxing books.
For Better than Before, my book about habit-formation, I tried a new reading habit: “Study.” Every weekend, I spend time in “study” reading, which covers books that I find fascinating, but that are demanding, and that I might put down and neglect to pick up again. The kind of book that I really do want to read, but somehow keep putting off for months, even years. Similarly, last year I had the “Summer of Proust” and finally read the novels of Remembrance of Things Past. I’d planned to hav
e the “Summer of Virginia Woolf” this year, but given the present situation, I may turn that into the “Spring of Virginia Woolf.”
And finally, three more tips from great writers and readers:
10. Randall Jarrell: “Read at whim! Read at whim!”
11. Henry David Thoreau: “Read the best books first, otherwise you’ll find you do not have time.”
12. Samuel Johnson: “What we read with inclination makes a much stronger impression. If we read without inclination, half the mind is employed in fixing the attention; so there is but one half to be employed on what we read.”
Maybe you don’t love to read, so finding more time to read isn’t a challenge for you. The larger point is to make sure you’re finding time to do whatever it is that you find fun. Having fun is important to having a happy life, yet it’s all too easy for fun to get pushed aside by other priorities. I have to be careful to make time for reading, or, even though I love to read, I might neglect it.
Also, having fun makes it easy to follow good habits; when we give more to ourselves, we can ask more of ourselves. If reading is a treat for you, it’s a good idea to make time for it.
The extraordinary events surrounding COVID-19 have given us an opportunity; it’s an opportunity that none of us wants, true, but it’s an opportunity nevertheless. By reading, we calm ourselves, expand our minds, keep ourselves engaged and mentally nimble, set a good example for any children who are around—and give ourselves utter pleasure.
Gretchen Rubin is the five-time New York Times bestselling author of The Happiness Project, Happier at Home, The Four Tendencies, Better than Before, and Outer Order Inner Calm. She is the host of award-winning podcast Happier with Gretchen Rubin.
A Technology Pioneer Shuts Down, Weekly
TIFFANY SHLAIN
Over a decade ago, I needed a drastic change. Within days of each other, my father died and my daughter was born. These life-altering events made me think about the brevity of our time here, and question how I was spending it. I didn’t like where we seemed to be headed, with everyone staring at screens instead of connecting with the people we loved right in front of us.
I needed a revolution to transform the situation, and I found it. For twenty-four hours, my family and I went screen-free. Nearly a decade later, we’ve done it almost every Saturday since. Establishing a weekly Tech Shabbat is the best decision we’ve ever made.
I needed a revolution to transform the situation, and I found it.
Living twenty-four/six feels like magic, and here’s why: it seems to defy the laws of physics, as it both slows down time and gives us more of it. I laugh a lot more on that day without screens. I notice everything in greater detail. I sleep better. It strengthens my relationships and makes me feel healthier. It allows me to read, think, be more creative, and reflect in a deeper way. Each week I get a full reset. Afterward, I’m much more productive and efficient, with positive effects that radiate out to the other six days. It even helps renew my appreciation for all that I have access to online, giving me that Wow, the Internet realization fresh each week. Who would have thought technology could be more potent in its absence?
One day a week without screens improves our children’s lives, too. Our daughters, Odessa (sixteen) and Blooma (ten), have done this practice most of their lives, and it has shaped how they interact with technology in extremely beneficial ways. They enjoy their time off screens and look forward to it. It feels like a vacation every week. We all look forward to it with the same anticipation, and it provides that same feeling of deep relaxation we get when we go away.
Because it expands your sense of time, it makes your day off feel like two days in one. Going screen-free once a week is like having a metaphysical remote control, with a pause button for the twenty-four/seven world, that turns your life back on.
I laugh a lot more on that day without screens. I notice everything in greater detail. I sleep better.
The fact that my family has practiced Tech Shabbat for so long surprises people. Ken is a UC Berkeley professor of robotics. I’ve also spent my career exploring the online world, first by establishing the Webby Awards, then as a filmmaker examining how all this connectedness is changing our lives today and will continue to do so in the future. We’re both deeply involved with technology and constantly pushing on its edge. Yet I found great meaning and power in a technology invented several millennia in the past. More than three thousand years ago, the concept of Shabbat (also known as the Sabbath) transformed the world. Before then, time had no pauses: it was day after day after day. Shabbat made it so each week ended with a day off, for everyone, of every social class. The run-on sentence of time got a period, and humankind got a chance to catch its breath and focus.
All these years later, practicing our version of Shabbat helps my family be present with one another, appreciate the small things, daydream, and get a different viewpoint on living. It encourages resourcefulness and recalls a simpler time. Doing something the same day as others all over the world are doing it also reminds us that we are connected to something larger than ourselves and offers a way to live a more meaningful life. Turning off screens and disconnecting from the online network helps us use tech in a way that prevents tech from using us.
Tiffany Shlain is the author of 24/6: Giving Up Screens One Day a Week to Get More Time, Creativity and Connection. An Internet pioneer and Emmy-nominated filmmaker, Tiffany has been honored by Newsweek as one of the “Women Shaping the 21st Century.”
Dystopian Fiction Is Made for This Moment
REEMA ZAMAN
Turning to the frightening genre for wisdom amid the madness.
I live alone in an apartment holding only what I need: sunlight, bed, desk, chair, three bookcases, two closets, a refrigerator of food. Every detail tailored to me, purposeful, beautiful, nothing superfluous. I’m told often my space is minimalist, or that I need more furniture, maybe a plant, or a pet.
One bookcase is dedicated to memoir. The second, dystopian literature. The third combines the first two, books like Jonathan Karl’s Front Row at the Trump Show.
As a young girl in Bangladesh and Thailand, I turned to dystopian fiction for the comforting intimacy of feeling seen and understood, and the Sweet Valley Twins and Baby-Sitters Club series for escapism. I loved the Twins and Babysitters for their endearing innocence courtesy of American privilege. The key was understanding that their personalities were shaped by their experiences, not mine. This served me well when I immigrated to the United States for college.
I’m now an American citizen, relying again on dystopian favorites. Some books are new, others, revisited through heightened stakes. I’m currently writing a dystopian novel myself, called Paramita, which means perfection in Sanskrit. I began writing it in April after learning that a series of lucrative speaking events had been canceled due to the coronavirus; 70 percent of my projected annual income vanished nearly overnight. Fueled by urgency, I turn to my work-in-progress every day to converse with an ensemble of characters that gives me a semblance of human connection. Since I’m quarantined alone, they fortify me. The lens of storytelling is like sunglasses. Without story, my eyes burn from the glare of the world.
The lens of storytelling is like sunglasses. Without story, my eyes burn from the glare of the world.
A few friends, concerned by my full-body immersion into dystopia, have encouraged lighter fare for comfort or escapism, reasoning that outside my apartment teems a world caught in the maw of the coronavirus pandemic, a racial reckoning, and the Trump administration.
Yet the outside world is precisely why I’ve turned now to dystopian literature. Anytime I’ve tried reading a book for escape from our present reality, I get a few lines in, and I feel the way I do when having brunch with people with far more privilege than me: I can don the costume, play the part, mimic the twinkling laughter and airy language, but it’s not my natural habitat. The entire time, I long to return home to the voices of my mother tongue.
T
hose voices are Margaret Atwood, Ursula Le Guin, and Suzanne Collins, who examine humankind’s scathing truths with an unflinching gaze: the searing opposite of escapism. I first read Collins’s The Hunger Games as an ARC in 2007, although back then, I didn’t know what an “advanced reader’s copy” was. I was twenty-four, a struggling actress in New York, living with eleven flatmates in a converted factory in Chinatown. One flatmate was an assistant publisher at Random House, hence the ARC.
Two pages in, I knew The Hunger Games would shake the planet. When the book came out, I bought copies for my family, pleading, “Read this. It’s the truth.” In 2007 it was dazzling; in 2020, the book lights my brain on fire.
The Hunger Games examines the exploitation of essential workers in the world of Panem through the story of Katniss, a sixteen-year-old girl, a reluctant warrior battling the ruthless President Snow. Katniss comes from the coal-mining District 12, the poorest in the nation. Her weaponry is her bow and arrows, courage and intelligence. The weaponry President Snow wields is his expert use of reality television and militarized government to spread fear, gain power, exert cruelty. Sound familiar?
