Even harder than writing this past year has been reading, or reading for substance, the kind of voracious, immersive research or world-building I remember once making up so much of my writing process. When I had some new idea, I would sit on the floor at used bookstores in vaguely relevant sections, looking for vaguely relevant material that might trick some subconscious idea or detail. It’s not what I mean now when I say deep dive, which is frankly usually more a google/youtube spiral followed by a thousand-word exhalation. (I wrote vomit there first, which might be more honest.)
I have not carried with me through the years all that many books, in part because I stopped buying many print editions — not that anyone needs an excuse for how or in what format they read, but I have shitty elbows that make holding a hard copy physically uncomfortable within minutes. And so while I still sometimes accumulate books (especially at the office) it’s rare for me to read if not on my Kindle. As I’ve cleaned out and organized our guest room into a proper work and writing space, I took another pass through the small number of books on the shelf, culling further.
What I keep: absolute favorites I know I’m going to read again. Books authored by friends or people I dream might become friends on day. Clusters of esoteric titles about a certain subject (usually acquired in exactly the used book binge described above), most of which are queer-related. A handful of dog-eared paperbacks of popular prestige literature from my late grandparents’ collection (I also have their 1941 unabridged dictionary). A couple bizarre reference books I almost certainly bought at the Strand in the early 2000s that I recall are good thought-starters when stuck for ideas or looking for literary stage business to give a character.
Like everyone else with a home office set-up during quar, I’m also using select books to prop up my laptop. Right now:
The Story of Jane: The legendary underground feminist abortion service, by Laura Kaplan. Per the price tag inside I did in fact buy this at the Strand, circa late 2004. A good reminder that we have always found a way to provide urgent health services to our own communities, whether legal or not, whether easy or not.
Winners Take All, by Anand Giridharadas, which truthfully I have not finished reading but expands on the work of his I’d read outlining the excellent case for why rich people should stop assuming they know how to fix big problems. (He also has a substack, which I only just found last week.)
Andrew Ridgeley’s memoir, WHAM!, George Michael and Me, which is an exceedingly mediocre autobiography, I’m sorry to say, though it did have some notable and new-to-me stories about him and George and Elton. (Elton’s memoir, on the other hand, is absolutely outstanding — I wrote about how it makes R-rated Rocketman look tame in comparison here last fall.)
Fallout, by Gwenda Bond, a Lois Lane YA novelization that Misha gave me at some point when I was in New York and I believe I read on the plane home. Delightful CW-ish capers.
And then, under the monitor, the official companion book for Hamilton, which I believe I acquired during a family holiday Costco run, and which I definitely read cover-to-cover during that break. And Larry Kramer’s Reports From the Holocaust, a collection of his essays and speeches and screeds.
These books are, first and foremost, the right size and shape for their respective propping up of devices. They’re not necessarily what I would have picked out to answer a questionnaire or a prompt to find six books within arm’s reach that define who you are as a writer or reader, but they wouldn’t be so terribly far off for that, either.
There are a couple movies that I’m trying to figure out how to incorporate into the essay that among many ideas I’ve moved to the front of the line, and I found today at least one book I want to read first. Just thinking of an essay as an undertaking — as a more substantial and structured piece that should or might take some time to research and then draft and then still longer to refine and revise and edit several times over — is new to me, which feels a little embarrassing, but I’m doing my best to shrug that off. I can write a thousand words on nearly any subject with some mix of personal recollection and cultural commentary without breaking a sweat — I have trained for and done that exercise itself a thousand times over probably in the last 20 years.
But I want to dive a little deeper, to dig in to the hard parts. I haven’t in the past found it hard to be emotionally honest in what I write and share — if anything, it’s been the best and most necessary way to exorcise those feelings. Maybe I’m just finding it more difficult the past few years to write honestly about the subjects that need it most. Or that I need most. I spent the better part of a year poking at the open wound that was a piece that started with: I have been thinking a lot about silence: the price of it, and the cost of it. I have swallowed more words than I have spilled.
Thank you to everyone who reached out after last week’s post to say hello or just that you were reading. I have always tried not to think too much of an audience when I write but there are some of you whose welcome faces I can see in the front row and you always help keep me going.
Thrilled to be reading your always-thought-provoking musings, dear one. I have been lost in back-to-guitar immersion and just got to both today. Your writing has amazed me for it’s far-reaching connections ever since you began writing - I’m looking forward to reading this new endeavor. I rise to my best when you do! ❤️
Love this! Your writing inspires me to get back into writing more! Also, I LOVE this line: “I have swallowed more words than I have spilled.” It really made me consider where I have been doing the same!