Books, books and more books

Yesterday I read a Man Repeller story that focused on Vivek Shraya, a creative “multihyphenate,” who described her writing process in quarantine. It made me reflect on my own writing process, or perhaps my nonexistent writing process within the last six months. Ironically, this story that touched so much on embracing a period of not writing and, accepting the mundanity of life in quarantine, inspired me to type away.

But the main focus of this dispatch is reading. It was the second week of March when I took the leap of faith and bought a book. One might think somebody who considers themselves a writer, would be a reader, but until six months ago this was not the case for me. I held the notion that all great writers must be great readers as a cliché. Suffice it to say there has been growth during quarantine.

The book was by one Gerard Reve, called The Evenings. I will admit that I had no knowledge, nor consideration of the contents of this book before purchasing it. All that mattered was the cover.

Suffice to say there has been growth during quarantine.

Upon finishing this book, I was underwhelmed. This led me to do some research about it. I found that The Evenings was considered by some critics as an early masterpiece of modern European literature. And here I was, considering it a book without a bass drop.

I am however grateful for the reaction I had to the book, because it led me to find more, interestingly enough. I discovered Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, then Joan Didion, Charles Baldwin, Nelson Algren and as a matter of fact, 20 more authors. In six months, I have managed to read 26 books. I say this not to boast, but to actualize the whole thing, make it more concrete for myself. I really did not think I had it in me.

All of this reading has supplied me with escapism. Whereas I used to watch movies, I can genuinely say that the picture you create in your mind when reading a book, is far better than anything you could view on a screen. The words on the page somehow become yours. The narrative belongs to you, in your head. Not only has reading supplied me with escapism, but it has fueled my creativity unlike anything else. After reading Charles Baldwins Going to Meet the Man, I was most struck by the eloquence of his words. So much to the point I took to writing poetry.

Among all this reading I could not help but notice the effect it had on my mental health. I found myself less distracted and more inspired. I found myself running more and, yearning for a version of myself that I could be proud of. Just take five seconds to Google, “reading and mental health.” You will find scientific backing to the benefits of all this.

Above anything else, reading during quarantine has opened me up to a whole new world. One that is not suffering, or perhaps if I am reading Charles Bukowski, the world is suffering. But more often than not, reading takes me to a place of serenity. So, for all two of you who are reading this, go beyond here. Go to a bookstore and find something, then another. It will pay off in droves.