I’ve been reading a lot lately. I was going to write, “I’ve been reading a lot lately about…” and lead into the real meat of this piece, but I have a word count1 to fill, so I may as well give you the full back story.
Around October of last year, I decided that I really, really wanted to hit my Goodreads target, the one I set for myself way back in January of 2023. I was aiming to read 100 books, but by the end of September I was a mere 24 titles in.
You would think that I might, therefore, throw in the towel, maybe assure myself that I could set a lower, more achievable target, in 2024, and forget about the whole thing. But no: I had failed too many times before (2020: 50/100 books; 2021: 16/50; 2022: 5/100, which seems unbelievable but I suppose I did have the baby and spent most of the year watching And Just Like That and staring into the abyss).
So, between October 3rd and December 31st, 2023, I read 76 books. That’s only slightly less than one book a day, and among them, I read Iron Flame (640 pages). I was determined.
The key, I found, was to go for books that didn’t involve too much… well, for want of a better term, too much brain power. I went for the Indian takeaway of books: convenient, goes down easily, tastes delicious, not incredibly valuable, nutritionally, but, y’know, moderately nutritious all the same (fats? tick! carbs? tick! protein? tick! micronutrients be damned).
Us takeaway addicts might not be great at seeing in the dark, and I mean, is it any wonder I take a B vitamin, but we’re unlikely to starve to death any time soon.
It’s weird, how admitting that I’ve been reading contemporary women’s fiction – a lot of romance, a bit of fantasy, a smattering of romantasy2 – feels like something I should make excuses or apologise for. “I have an English degree,” I told someone just the other day. “I’m making up for all of that worthy literature with some smut.”
That implies, though, doesn’t it? that the books I’m reading now are somehow unworthy. But unworthy of what? My time? My effort? My brain power? LOL! My brain is currently 23% Paw Patrol theme tune, which won an Emmy, I’ll have you know, 27% Vanderpump Rules (I’ve thoroughly gone off Katie Maloney, and went so far as to unfollow her on Instagram today, such is the conviction behind my gone-offed-ness) and 50% those tiny marshmallow cuties from Ghosbusters: Frozen Empire, on which I bestow a solid three stars, although a curse on both of its houses for finally turning me off Paul Rudd.
Just look at them! These little marshmallow babies are the ghost equivalent of contemporary women’s fiction. Cute! Entertaining! Kind of make you want to bite them! Easy on the eyes! And would anyone dare call them unworthy?!
(Now seems like as good a time as any to tell you that I’ve spent the morning figuratively gnawing on my fingernails and literally crying into my keyboard for a variety of reasons I’m sure I’ll overshare with you eventually and am, as a result, feeling quite unhinged.)
Anyway. This might surprise you, but I have not come to any deep and meaningful conclusions about myself, as a result of this light reading I’ve been doing. I don’t feel as though I somehow needed a period of rest, relaxation and romantasy in order to process some major, unrecognised trauma or other (my therapist may say otherwise).
But it’s just been… nice! It’s been relaxing! It’s been like what I imagine it would be like to be an elite athlete, and to come home from the Olympics and take time off and then decide that you really miss… curling, or whatever it is you’re busy being the best in the world at, but that you don’t want to compete any more so, instead of training at your sport you just start playing it.
You’re still doing the same thing, but now, instead of its being work, it’s play.
For years now – I did an English degree, then a Master’s in Journalism, then was a working journalist for over a decade (I don’t quite consider myself not a working journalist, I still do the odd freelance piece but I’m just exceptionally lucky in that it’s no longer my bread and butter and I get to pick and choose when to dabble), now am a working writer – I’ve been approaching reading as a major part of my work. And that’s because it is.
“Read!” is the number one piece of advice I give everyone and anyone who asks how to become a journalist, or a writer, or how to improve their writing in either (both!) of the above. I suppose “write” is also good advice, but I truly believe you could write all day, every day, and never get any better or gain any more insight into your craft if you don’t accompany that writing with reading.
It’s just that I’ve long been going on the assumption that the reading I was doing needed to be somehow worthy and valuable, above and beyond its being worthy and valuable just for being a book that someone else had written and put out in the world (a staggering feat in and of itself, honestly).
It needed to teach me something profound and life-changing; it had to be written in a way that changed, utterly, the way I thought about prose; it was a requirement that it be worth recommending to a friend, something I wouldn’t feel embarrassed to tell a colleague about.
The obvious truth is – and though it may be obvious, it was not a truth that I really accepted – books don’t need to teach us anything. They don’t need to be amazing or mind-blowing or even memorable, honestly, in order to be enjoyable. We don’t need to take anything away from them except the knowledge that we just had a cosy little time with a cosy little book and now we get to move on to the next one.
But in case you think books do, in fact, need to teach lessons, I’m going to pick, at random, five books I read in the past few months (full disclosure: they’re not all smut), and tell you something each one taught me, with absolutely zero context. You are welcome.
Chase Me (Dragons Love Curves #1) by Aidy Award
The summary: “She’s stolen a priceless relic from his treasure, and his heart.”
The lesson: Turns out Prague is a very short flight from America (unspecified city) if you’re a dragon.
The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2) by Stephanie Archer
The summary: “The best way to get back at my horrible ex? Fake date Rory Miller – my ex’s rival, the top scorer in pro hockey, and the arrogant, flirtatious hockey player I tutored in high school.”
The lesson: Physiotherapy is a dangerous job.
Twisted Love (Twisted, #1) by Ana Huang
The summary: “He has a heart of ice… but for her, he’d burn the world.”
The lesson: You can’t always trust #Booktok.
Leave the World Behind by Rumaan Alam
The summary: “Amanda and Clay head to a remote corner of Long Island expecting a quiet reprieve from life in New York City, quality time with their teenage son and daughter and a taste of the good life in the luxurious home they’ve rented for the week. But with a late-night knock at the door, the spell is broken.”
The lesson: I should probably stop relying so much on the Maps app.
Fourth Wing (The Empyrean, #1) by Rebecca Yarros
The summary: “Twenty-year-old Violet Sorrengail was supposed to enter the Scribe Quadrant, living a quiet life among books and history. Now, the commanding general – also known as her tough-as-talons mother – has ordered Violet to join the hundreds of candidates striving to become the elite of Navarre: dragon riders.”
The lesson: Sometimes #Booktok does get it right. (All is forgiven.)
This word count is entirely self-imposed. This is the joy of being one’s own editor. It’s the only joy; I truly wish I had someone here (someone I’m not related to, sorry Bea but you know I get touchy when you try to improve my writing) to hone and finesse my work, but I don’t. Newsletters will never replace newspapers and the editing is why, if you ask me. Which you didn’t. Again, I ask myself all the questions. A never-ending cycle. I’m tired of myself.
This episode of The Rest is Entertainment is very, er, entertaining, on the romantasy genre.