Finding A Good Book

 As much as I write, you would think I read a lot. That is not the case (unless you count me reading my own journals. Shame on me).

I have a hard time finding books i wanna read. I used to go to the library frequently and I was reading much then, but it was hard to find the books. There’s a certain genre I’m into, like autobiography/memoir/ addiction and recovery/humor/basically anything creative nonfiction. It does exist. Like Love Warrior or Pour Me a Life or Sex Cult Nun (yeah I had to read that, the title was too intriguing). However, I could spend a good hour browsing spines and still leave empty handed. 

Other good titles are Drinking: A Love Story and My Lovely Wife in the Psych Ward. Give me the hard stuff.

For a while I was really into my religious and spiritual books.  I found all of them at thrift stores, and I had a nice collection, but after I absorbed their wisdom I donated them (except for Love Wins. Im hoarding that). The hardest one to read was an exegesis of The Book of John. As you can tell, I like nonfiction. That is my problem. 

My neighbor gave me these books she swore were great and had herself hooked reading them. She likes Colleen Hoover. She gave me Shark River and Fever Beach. I read some passages out of Shark River and the writing was stellar. But if anything says “A Novel”, I’m out; I won’t even try. Another neighbor gifted me a book with the same sentiment: this is awesome, you should read it. Supposedly That’s Not My Name is a killer read. I’ll never know. I guess I’m just plain mean.

Nah, I’m just a picky reader. And I’m not ashamed of that. Ive never claimed to be a voracious reader. I hardly consider reading one of my hobbies. I don’t take books to the beach. I go in streaks. I ordered a trilogy of Annie Dillard from Amazon a year ago and I still haven’t finished it. Except for The Writing Life, because it is relatively short. 

I’ve tried internet and blog reading, and I discovered an author I like: Maggie May Etheridge. She’s good. You’ll find her on Substack.

I know frequent reading contributes to better writing. 

If you can think of a good book I’d like, let me know.

PS. Italicizing all these titles was hard work.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

I Love This (Trailer) Park

 This is my version of Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar : We got dumpsters, we got motherf*****s Good ol’ boys and fronters We got Dollar General and A Convenience Store The Boat Bar and The (First) Turn All walking distance So you don’t need a car You can get drunk just right where you are Ooh ooh oh I love this park We got night owls, we got fishermen, Three docks and one fire pit We get hurricanes And we don’t give a shit The cops come by for welfare checks And the Mexican drives his white van in the dark Ooh ooh oh I love this park It’s in my kind of state (Florida) Living in a real house would be such a waste It’s not too hard To fall from grace  You can stay inside and hide  but it won’t save you face Ooh ooh oh I love this park I’ve seen possums, I’ve seen raccoons Like Forest Gump said “My mama just chase em off with a broom” But we give em food We got stray cats by the dozens  Fighting and humping each other And we got ladies, they’re real  nice They drink ...
Read more

Recovery

 I didn’t write when I was actively drinking, focused on more immediate sources of pleasure. Plus, the way I drank didn’t permit introspection; noticing the flowers, commenting on the taste of beer. Anne Lamott was different, going to writing retreats with her own stash of liquor, getting drunk off her ass ( my forte as well). Anyways, I didn’t (drink in moderation) imbibe just enough to get in the writing spirit, but enough to obscure my thoughts and my handwriting to slurred letters. I liked to consume: music. It was all about the music, what song could evoke the most emotional of emotions: “Free Bird,” “The Crow Chasing the Butterfly,” “Closer to the Heart,” “More than a Feeling.” But it was feel good music too: Sugar Ray, Chicago, Rush (I like the alliteration there). I would work YouTube until I was blurry-eyed and spent, when John would take burning cigarette out of my hand and put me to bed. He bought a new speaker set, sensing my enthusiasm for loud tunes. I tried to look u...
Read more

Thanks Whatever: Spruce Creek Park

 We went for a walk in Spruce Creek Park. It’s down the road from our house, heading south towards New Smyrna Beach. We walked through the woods, over several wooden planks, to the treehouse. I prayed we didn’t see a snake! We didn’t (why do I go on these adventures?). Just the small holes of fiddler crabs. We walked up the two levels of stairs to the top (I need to stop smoking (I did not bring cigarettes with me)).  What a view (and I’m not talking about the various graffiti inscribed on the wood). Then we walked past the treehouse, down a dirt road to a worn grassy trail that leads to a picnic shelter (tightly packed with picnic tables), and farther yet, past the “END OF TRAIL” sign (says who?), where there must have been water once, according a myriad of mangrove sprouts. “Is that poop?” No, it’s just small balls of dirt that small creatures move to dig holes. We could walk no further: the non-trail ended. My back was sweaty and I yearned for a cold water. The flies were c...
Read more