Stop What You're Doing and Read This!
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I’ve been having a bit of internal crisis lately, which I’m much too young to call mid-life. Nonetheless, when I reach that milestone in my life, I believe this is what it will feel like. A sort of purposelessness where I question all my latest decisions. One such point of contention is that I’m finding writing so hard is it really even worth it. After all, I can tell a story, but will it be better than Aladdin or Lord of the Rings or literally any piece of shoddy fanfiction?
A rope that was thrown to me was something John Green said to me the other day (on his podcast), in the form of this probably misquote. “There’s a certain hubris in writing that’s unavoidable. Who goes into a bookshop and thinks, ‘you know what this place needs? Another book.’” It’s a rope I’ve not quite grasped yet, still unsure if it’s referring to every other writer who isn’t me. What I take from this is it’s okay to write because you want to.
I was standing in the library thinking about this line (let me tell you, there are a lot more books in the library than in the average bookshop) and came to the conclusion that if I wasn’t going to write I may as well read. At least then I’d be taking half of Stephen King’s advice. I was in the journalism section, a type of writing that has always interested me, and looking along the stack for a book that called out to me. In a world full of covers, what else can you judge something by.
I like to think that this is the exact situation that Tarnisher found themselves in too – a character I’ll introduce in a moment. I imagine them starting at the aisle set with John Snow’s and war reporters’ memoirs and unable to find themselves drawn to anything. Spiralling into despair of I can’t even pick a book to read. Then, the only reason they stop looking is because they’re demanded to by a particular book.
STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND READ THIS!
It’s in a rainbow coloured, capital lettered type that’s impossible to skip. I picked it up entirely because it told me to. It gave no hint at its contents even, my only inkling based on its proximity to the topic of the aisle.
The book is a series of articles about the importance of reading. The articles have all merged together in my head now, but their messages range from how school spoiled reading for you (and you should give it another go), the science behind why reading is import, and more personal stories about how reading liberated and broadened otherwise cloistered lives (in one case literally cloistered).
I do not meet Tarnisher until the second essay and even then I don’t spot them immediately lingering between a couple of sentences. They begin wearing red, nestled amongst the black type. A single red mark which looks very much like someone was tapping their pen and accidentally hit the book. Or mark or two later and I notice that someone is taking notes.
This is a library book, I’ll remind you. But I don’t know this book’s past history nor what state it came to the library in. The marks may be old or still drying. Regardless, I’ve quite a soft spot for gorilla marginalia. One of the essayists actually goes into talking about unconventional writers who changed what they thought were the limits of storytelling. What about a book with only questions? Or a book with no vowels? For me, the chain breaking book was S by Doug Dortst and JJ Abrams. In it you get a story within a story (within a story) by way of two people talking about the book by scribbling in the margins. The Tarnisher was my muted Eric or Jen.
I’m picturing a teacher. Who else wanders around with a red pen? As we already learnt, they’re also struggling with direction. So, a teacher who feels they have more to give. Working from eight till late reading, grading, and writing class materials for the benefit of their Year 8 class – who arrive almost mournfully to each class – is not enough. They give and give, but the lacklustre energies of their students are just too hard to shift. Maybe this book, Tarnisher thinks, can give me what I need to get these kids excited about reading again.
They chose this book like I did, without realising that the writing inside may well hold the key to their problem. This, I propose, is why the first essay is unblemished: it was sinking in. By the time the second essay rolled around Tarnisher was ready to make notes, be damned the permanence of their actions. They’d plucked from their coat pocket the only pen they had on them; the red pen that after all these years now fit comfortably in their hand.
One of the first flagged passages is in Blake Morrison’s essay. “The existence of the text is silent existence, silent until the moment in which the reader reads it.” I also mentally flagged this passage – and might have been what caught my eye about the mark. I toasted my companion, our agreement immediately bonding us. Of course, later we’d both realise that Blake’s line is a cliché. I’m not entirely sure Blake realised it’s a cliché. At least three times throughout the book the text is silent is referenced, and as far as I know none of the authors knew of each other’s works for this release. From then on, neither Tarnisher nor I were impressed by the passage.
The small red dash wasn’t simply a stoic bookmark. For sure that same mark meant a clear “yaaaaas, queen!” later on. The depth of the pen, the size of the line, and urgency were all… the same, but nonetheless the flamboyance was shared.
Tarnisher and I both took a break at the same time. It’s very possible that our bus trip was the same length. Our kinship so strong that our reading speed the same. Whatever the reason they stopped, so did I. I know this because at some point the red pen was misplaced and a black one took its place. An odd and surprising moment, like the first time you see Annalise Keating in How To Get Away With Murder without her wig. This intimacy Tarnisher was showing me warmed my heart. We truly were fast friends.
There was an awkward moment wherein one essayist made a sarcastic remark which Tarnisher marked, in their eagerness to agree with the well worded author. The sarcasm was evident all the more in the next sentence, which Tarnisher instead marked and crossed out their earlier transgression. I politely ignored it but we both felt the awkwardness. Is it this brashness that drove away their students? The heartfelt eagerness to teach quickly eroded by a temper when undermined? But as I say, I did not draw attention to it. This was moments after our relationship had become closer – I’d just seen them without their pileus mask – and neither of us wanted to change that.
We skipped the same passages. At least one of the essayists comes to mind whose early bringing up sounded like bragging and began simply listing authors. I even learnt Greek, you know. I skipped this section, but not before looking for points where Tarnisher had left their mark. There were none.
I think Tarnisher and I both got what we wanted out of this book; an excitement about reading (and writing) again and an understanding of the impact that stories have on people. To bump into that earlier cliché, this book was silent until I read it. The author had no idea what the story I’d take away was, and I doubt they’d ever suspect a relationship to form out of it.
I’m glad I picked this book up. That said, I wouldn’t recommend pouring over it. Skips the essays that don’t grip you. The next one will be in a different style and tell a story a different way.