If you are attempting to write (fiction or otherwise) and you are not an avid* reader, you are experiencing all sorts of problems. You are plagued with writer’s block, you have little energy for your writing, you lack visibility to the options available to construct a story (you are in and out of ruts), and you don’t understand how the reader and writer collaborate. You are a painter who never goes to an art museum. You are a music composer who doesn’t have an iTunes account.

I find myself reading many books that are not new. They’ve been out for years (or decades) and I am always trying to play catch-up. So, in an attempt to stay current in my reading I have made a commitment to try to read both the National Book Award and Pulitzer Prize winning novels, as they are announced. One of the books I am reading is this year’s Pulitzer winner, “The Goldfinch” by Donna Tartt. I am on page 242 of 771. What do I like about the book so far?
A lot.
First of all it is an American novel. It doesn’t attempt to give the reader a dose of cultural awareness. (Nothing wrong with novels set in foreign lands, I’m just an American lit guy.) It is about a character, a boy, and the adverse reality that is thrust upon him, and how not taking action is action. So far, this book is all I wish for in a novel. The sense of place is strong and the characters carry the conflict forward at the right pace. Along the way you get insights into sailing, antique furniture restoration, and art history, as well as tidbits of French and Spanish – all of which give the story depth and texture.

So what’s the benefit to me as a writer?
Having my nose in this book keeps an example in front of me of how scenes can be filled with (the right) detail, the mechanics of how characters are described from the perspective of a unique protagonist, and a variety of examples of how transitions can work. I used to read purely for pleasure, for entertainment – which I still get. But I am also reading to become a better writer, for I am what I read, or don’t.

*Let’s define avid as having one book going all the time and spending at least a couple of hours a week reading it.

I have to read a piece twice to get the full weight of it*. When I was a younger man I could read things once and they would hit me between the eyes like a charging raccoon. (Perhaps not my best metaphor ever.) Now, though, I have to read things twice before they break though my thickened skull.

The first time I read it, the piece grazes me like a just-off-target snowball. The second time through, the skill I’ve developed as a reader and a writer kicks in and I find my zone and…blamo…wham…I see the piece like a photo and I can speak to it and throw my arm around my fellow writer and help him see where the focus is just off, where the color needs tweaked, and where the tone is not quite fully buffed.

And it only works like this if I read the piece one day and draw conclusions the next.

Choose not to obey this law and I nearly might as well have not bothered.

Oh…and it doesn’t work at all on my own stuff.

*a realization I had this week while reading a grad-school peer’s packet of three flash fictions.

I haven’t read a lot of fiction (of my choosing) since the beginning of the year, so one recent evening was rare. I sat down on the couch and read for almost an hour. I allowed time to pass unnoticed as I waded in, giving lamplight to the words of Dan Barden’s first novel, “John Wayne”. I like to read one novel with at least one other lying close by. There is something comforting – it is a sort of company to have more than one book gathered close about you. It is like a litter of puppies. One is nice, more than one is simply a delight. So while I was reading Barden I had a collection of short stories by Chris Offutt lying in my lap.

So why was this reading such an oasis? I have heard one theory which I think is true.

We skim though life, mostly reading only closely packed snippets and bits. The constant barrage of information requires that we become proficient at making decisions and forming opinions on barely enough information to coat the head of a pin.

What novels do is allow us to dive deep. They are the only printed medium available to us where we can allow ourselves to get lost. Their value cannot be overstated. They are utterly unique. They are all that is left of the great foundational oral traditions on which our cultures were formed. They are the only medium keeping interactive story-telling alive in our mainstream culture. What will come of those of us who never read for more than 2 minutes at a time? Whatever the fate, I think I was starting to feel it until one recent evening. dm