The Ghosts of the Unread

I started writing this post Wednesday, but then I set it aside, because its heart remained buried, hidden in the gaps between all the wrong words. Yesterday, during my weekly chat with my crit partner, I stumbled down the right passage and finally found my way. Gather round, gentle readers, and I shall tell you a tale brought to you by insomnia, good friends, gchat, Twitter, goodreads queues, expectations, readers, reading and, most importantly, identity. And the letter Y and the number 13.

So, in 2011, my friend Barry sent me a few books, as Barry is wont to do. One of those books was The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer, the debut novel of his new client, Michelle Hodkin. I tipped it open and read the jacket copy and the first few pages. The voice hooked me, but I had other books in my queue demanding I honor their spot on my dance card, so Mara Dyer went into the queue and onto a shelf. 

As I worked my way through the books I felt I ought to read, in order to give myself a professional knowledge of today’s influential fantasists, Mara Dyer stuck with me, tugging at my attention. Because I also felt I ought to read Mara Dyer, since it came with Barry’s professional and personal stamp of approval. Then in 2012 I signed with the agency and met the delightfully spectacular Michelle at Camp BGL last summer. My compulsion to read The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer grew in strength and urgency. For Michelle is fantastic, and I wanted to see what stories crawl beneath her skin and charge her soul. Wait. That sounds all it-puts-the-lotion-on-its-skin-or-it-gets-the-hose-again creepy. I JUST WANTED TO READ MY FRIEND’S STORIES. STOP BEING WEIRD, INTERNET. 

Ahem.

Several weeks ago, I finished reading Michelle’s second book, The Evolution of Mara Dyer, and barely set the book down before setting upon its author to gush about my deep love for her series. At length. In the course of my effervescing, Michelle recommended I read Lev Grossman’s The Magicians. If you follow me on Twitter, you know that I took her recommendation. Immediately. That night. At 2 am.

Now, to say Michelle “recommended” this book is an understatement of the anglo-saxon variety, a litotes to define litotes. The word “proselytize” jumps to mind. As Michelle quoted from John Green’s The Fault In Our Stars, 
“Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book.” 
As a fellow book-pusher, I understand that peculiar zeal all too well and responded, seeing its like. (And in case inquiring minds want to know, I’m in the middle of book two, The Magician King, and am a gleeful convert.) 

If you’ve noticed, there’s a recurring pattern in this chain of literary happenings. Threads of obligation color my relationship with books. My queue of books contains not just what I’d like to read, but what I believe I ought to read. These competing normative voices clamor to steer the direction my reading should go. Only a few lost, whispering voices chronicle where I've been.

Several days ago, I discussed this very issue on Twitter with some of my writerly friends (@MichelleHodkin, @KatWithSword, and @ChristieYant if you want to track our conversation), catalyzed by Michelle’s post on tumblr: A rare, stupid bird*. We talked about the gaps in our personal reading histories, why we think some of those gaps exist, and our posture toward gaps themselves. We expressed embarrassment or shame for not having read certain expected classics from the canon of Literature or from the foundational authors within our genres. We discussed how these gaps contribute to impostor syndrome. These unread books transform into ghosts mutely condemning us, confirming that we’re just faking it. We don’t really belong. We failed to complete the assigned reading. We also ran down and vanquished these pernicious lies.

Kat Howard already wrote a post on the subject: Our Unread Libraries. As always, Kat speaks of true things in beautiful ways. Read it. Share it.

I won’t retread the ground Kat covered so thoughtfully in her post. Instead, I will reclaim something good from the wreckage often left by these phantom voices.

When you discover that someone you know, love, respect, consider the bee’s knees or the duck’s quack has never read a beloved book, you recoil, shocked as your understanding of life shifts. It’s hard to hide. And this uninitiated reader can’t help but feel judged, as though they’ve failed in some way. Now, the person hasn’t failed at anything. 

There are a lot of books out there. I mean, a LOT. By necessity, every person has gaps in his or her reading histories, because, inconvenient as it might be, we all have to sleep at some point. Even in the infinite multiverse, there will be books you’ve read that someone you know hasn’t.

But, with a hubristic ardor, we want the people who matter in our lives to know the books we know, and in knowing those books, know us better. Because as the reader, we bring ourselves and our experiences to each story. In doing so, we complete the circuit. We collaborate with the author to create the final story. So, we want others to love the books we love, because parts of ourselves reside in their pages. 

When we realize that those important to us haven’t read our beloved books, we want to share these indelible, shaping stories. We want others to collect and cherish these scattered pieces of our souls. (Insert horcrux joke here.) Sometimes these stories aren’t, objectively speaking, of the highest quality. But the eloquence of a story, or the lack thereof, doesn’t change how it impacts our lives. Some of my most beloved books aren’t the best written books out there. But they mattered to me, at a time when I needed something to matter, and, for that, stories like Mercedes Lackey’s Queen’s Own trilogy will always stay tucked close to my heart.

So when someone gets that evangelical glint in their eyes about a book I haven’t read, I brace myself for their horrified shock, and I remember they aren’t judging me. They simply desire for others to share those pieces of their soul. And when I read their beloved book, I always keep in mind the person who recommended it. I look for their silhouette, shaped by these words, and I follow their footprints that will lead me to the story’s end.

So the next time you feel embarrassed or judged for the gaps in your reading history or you stagger beneath the weight of various canons, remember that stories help shape our identities and no one has the right to tell you who are or who you should be except for you. Read what you love. Love what you read. Share what you love. And never stop.




*Personal Confession: I've never read To Kill a Mockingbird or American Gods or the Bronte sisters or any Terry Pratchett.

What gaps do you have in your reading history?