Magic and religion are difficult to tell apart.Scholars have known this for some time, but don’t often say anything about it for fear of offending.A few days ago Religion News Service ran a story headlined “How the ‘Harry Potter’ books are replacing the Bible as millennials’ foundational text.”While many reacted with shock, to me the fact that a foundational text can be identified at all is a relief.You see, reading is good for you.Really, really good for you.One of the most hopeful things I observed as a parent was the increased quality and volume of young adult literature available.Of course it’s produced to make a profit, but the fact is it showed that reading is alive and thriving.If the young make a habit of it, well, let’s hope that habit’s hard to kick.
My own reading doesn’t always keep pace with my desire to do more of it.I go for a couple of weeks sometimes without finishing a book.I begin to feel depleted.There’s something spiritual about reading, and fiction can reach parts of your soul that are on guard when non-fiction’s your subject.And that’s like magic.It took a couple years for me to catch on to the Harry Potter craze.Eventually my wife and I broke down and bought book one and read it together.As millions of readers can attest, that first book was a fishhook.We all really hope the world does contain some magic.Many people find that solace met with religion.Either way, fiction can enhance the experience.We read the original series, hanging tensely until the final volume came out.
Many of those who believe in a magical religion protested the sale of magical fiction.We were still in Wisconsin at the time, but we saw the protestors outside a local bookstore the release day for one of the later volumes.Like Death-Eaters the protestors opposed Harry Potter.The root of the problem seems to have been unique truth claims.Whenever a religion declares itself the sole harbinger of “the” truth, every other way of looking at things becomes evil.Even if it expressly declares itself to be fantasy fiction for young adults.Years have passed, and Harry Potter, like other forms of pop culture, has grown to the status of a religion.Even Nones want to believe in something.Magic and religion are, after all, very difficult to tell apart.
Musing while munching a bowl of Wheaties, a thought came to me.Not only do we owe the practice of eating breakfast cereal to an evangelical strain of Christianity, but we also encounter the early morning ideas that stay with us through the day. Cereal boxes start our day.Advertisers and marketers know that images are important.If successfully done they stay with us and may influence future purchasing choices.In the case of Wheaties (which I’ve always liked) the box shows some athlete or other, implying that we’ll be champions too if we partake.We are what we wheat.Now, I don’t follow sports.I can tell a football from a basketball, but watching grown men (usually) chasing one about really has no appeal to me.I don’t eat Wheaties to become big and strong.(At my age you don’t want to get bigger.)
As I ponder my fodder, I wonder what it would be like if we put pictures of people reading on our cereal boxes.Would we experience a massive renaissance of literacy if cool people were shown with a book instead of a ball?Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for exercise.I’m a fidgety sort of guy who doesn’t sit still well.I like to get out and jog or walk.I don’t mind doing household repairs.I like to move about.But reading is one of the great rewards I allow myself.When work becomes dull, I look forward to an evening of reading (I tend to do my writing in the morning, before the mental exhaustion of the day kicks in.Wheaties are, after all, a morning food).It’s kind of like living in pre-television times, I suspect.
Among the publishing industry the fate of book reading is a constant topic of discussion.Or, not to put too fine a point on it, book buying.Reading itself is doing fine.If, for example, you are reading this you are probably doing so on a screen but you’re still reading.You don’t have to pay for reading, and it passes the time.No, the crises is getting people to buy books.People like yours truly buy books even when many are available free online.I spend at least eight hours a workday in front of a computer screen, and by the end of it, nervous and twitchy, I need a break.I need a physical book.And maybe a physical constitutional walk.If only my breakfast cereal encouraged others to explore the joys of the literary life—but then, I’ve got to get going; my Wheaties are getting soggy.
One of my anxieties about moving is that commuting time was my reading time.Enforced sitting for over three hours a day meant consuming book after book.Now I have to carve out time to read.Life has a way of filling the time you have.I say the following fully aware that you’re on the internet now, but one of the biggest time drains is the worldwide web.Humans are curious creatures and the web offers to answer any and all queries.(It still hasn’t come up with a satisfactory answer to the meaning of life, however, IMHO.)Even when I’m working on my current book, a simple fact-check can lead to surfing and before I know it, I’m out to sea.That’s why books—paper books—are such a good option.A footnoted source meant another trip to the library, and libraries led to more reading.
I’m a Goodreads author.I like Goodreads quite a lot, and I actively accept new friends there.In the past I set goals of reading 100+ books per year.Aware back in January that a move might take place, I lowered my expectations.I figured, even without commuting, that 65 books would be attainable in a year.Of course, Goodreads doesn’t count the books you write, only those you read.I had to tell even Amazon Author Central that Holy Horror was my book.Moving, however, is a liminal time.Every spare minute is spent packing.And you still owe “the man” eight hours of your day.That rumble that you feel is the moving truck growing closer.Reading time has become scarce.I fear I’m becoming illiterate.
And Goodreads makes me think of Twitter.I’ll just click over there a while and wonder why I can’t seem to grow a following.Ah, it turns out that you have to tweet often and incessantly, with erudite and trenchant things to say.The birds chirping once a second outside my window can’t even keep up.Problem is, I have a 9-to-5 job, and I’m trying to write Nightmares with the Bible.And there’s just one more fact I have to check.Wait, what’s the weather going to be like today?Gosh, is that the time?I have to get packing!That moving van will be here only hours from now.I need to calm down.The way to do that, in my case, is to read a book.
Although a year can seem like a long sentence, holidays are the punctuation marks that help us make sense of and organize it. Ordinary time, such as time at work, or commuting, can be endlessly tedious. Holidays, some personal, some local, others national or international, help us break up the time. Give us something to look forward to. My pity goes out to those religions that recognize no holidays and face time with a grim, Presbyterian determination to get to judgment day. The rest of us like to celebrate once in a while. So what’s today? It’s Independent Bookstore Day! Anyone who reads more than a post or two on this blog knows that I’m a lover of books. I first started taking solace in reading when things were difficult in my younger years, and reading has never let me down. In fact, I’ve often told myself that I could put up with just about any job as long as I could write.
It’s because of being in publishing that I learned about Independent Bookstore Day. Yes, it’s a promotional holiday, but it’s also a genuine celebration. As the outside world daily reminds us, those of us who read are a minority. The realistic author knows that the reading public is a small fraction of the whole. The number of people, percentage-wise, who spend their money on books is minuscule compared to those who fling their lucre elsewhere. But those of us who read appreciate the depth and reflection of each other. We may read different things, but we read. And that’s why I don’t mind going to an indie bookstore today and buying something.
One of the simple pleasures in life—call it a punctuation mark, a comma maybe—is being surrounded by unfamiliar books. Oh, I often worry what happens when we decide to move; we have lots of books at home. The last time the movers actually complained in our hearing that we had too many boxes of books. Talk about me at the bar afterwards, but don’t castigate my simple pleasures to my face, please. Books are the rare opportunity to commune with others on a deep level. How often have you put down a book and felt that you knew the author? Their soul was revealed in their writing and you had touched it. Just being in a bookstore is cause for celebration. If you have no plans for today, why not make your way to your local indie? Stand up and be counted as the literate resistance. It’s our silent Bastille Day, after all.
The electrician recently stopped by. We’re renters and although I don’t mind doing minor household repairs to benefit the landlord, I draw the line at electricity. It’s a scary thing. I’ve been shocked too many times to want a jolt bigger than I can handle. I even once accidentally grabbed the metal prongs when unplugging something as a child (it was a microscope light, I remember) and that helpless feeling of being unable to drop the plug even while my body jerked uncontrollably left me with a healthy respect for those who actually understand insulation, capacitors, and those impossible electrical diagrams. So when the pull chain came out of the ceiling light I wasn’t going to try to fix it.
The electrician, like most people who see our apartment, commented on the books. “You like to read,” he said. I can’t help but feel guilty about that. It’s almost as if you should apologize for requiring the stimulation of so many tomes. I confessed that I did, but I wanted to justify it. “I work in publishing,” I feebly offered as an excuse. Concentrating on the fixture above his head, he said, “I don’t ever read a book unless I have to.” He fixed the pull chain and left. I couldn’t have fixed the thing so quickly, or safely. He even had a metal ladder. I was grateful for the light, but once again felt somewhat freakish for my bibliophilia.
Those of us who write books must read books. You can’t learn how to do one without the other. Because of movies and television, we picture writers as people with large houses and separate rooms as libraries where they can sit surrounded by books as they type away at their next bestseller. Those of us who work for a living seldom have such luxury. A separate room just for books? I like letting my books reside in whatever room they feel like. Most affordable apartments don’t come with a study. There are living room books that you want people to see, and kitchen books that suggest good things to eat. There are bedroom books that you might not want others to see. What I don’t have is a library. A book zoo. My books roam freely about my home. It occurs to me that one area lacking in my collection is one about household wiring. Maybe instead of feeling weird I should get wired. I’m sure there are books out there that will tell me how. Or at least that will let me know that a wooden ladder makes a poor conductor.
Now that 2016 is safely behind us, it’s time to start looking ahead to a year of peaceful protest and renewed social activism. When you reach a certain point in your life you’d like to think your country will represent your best interest but the crooked electoral college system with which we’re shackled has lived up to unthinking obedience to convention. Now we all will pay the price. Not all protest has to be highly visible, however. Education has a way of improving things even if done subtly. The key is not to let up. The moment we do, the evil Borg will assimilate us. I’m beginning my new year with a literary protest against ignorance. I mentioned Modern Mrs. Darcy’s reading challenge yesterday. It doesn’t have to be that one, but taking on a reading challenge—any educational imperative will do—is a way of saying that the darkness can’t last forever.
2016 was a busy year, in spite of its many challenges. I wrote two books during the course of the year. Don’t go rushing to Amazon, because neither has been published. One likely never will be, although I have high hopes for my most recent effort. I write this not to draw attention to myself, but to suggest yet another form of social protest. Writing is a powerful tool. Long ago one of the most influential people in my life, a high school English teacher, told our creative writing club to write at least 15 minutes a day. There have been times when I’ve slipped, but by far the majority of my days since then have included spells of writing at least that long. This blog is only one outlet, in addition to the fiction and non-fiction I also write. Write your protest! Your thoughts can’t be known if you don’t share them!
Most important of all, we can’t give up hope. The end of the story hasn’t been written yet. We know that Trump lost the popular vote by an historic landslide of almost 3 million. Many, many, many, many, many people are unhappy with the results of this election. The mistake is to think that so many citizens are powerless. We’re not. Even before last year ended I committed to the peaceful march on Washington the day after the “inauguration.” We need to stand up and be counted. We need to say we’re just as American as the bullies who’ve taken over the schoolyard. And we need to continue to educate this country, no matter how reluctant it may be to pre-post-truth.
This may sound strange, considering the source, but I fear I don’t read enough. An article by Sarah Begley in a recent issue of Time, reinforces what we’ve known all along—reading is incredibly good for you. Even fiction. Especially fiction. For the most part, as I’m commuting, I read non-fiction. There’s nothing wrong with this, of course, but it doesn’t always help with literacy issues that might call for a bibliotherapist. You see, literacy builds a kind of psychological strength that helps with real-world issues. Part of it is because many books go through a rigorous process of approval. Still, it’s important to realize that this kind of reading may not be the popular fiction that can be found in grocery stores and airports—although even that is fine—but the level of writing that really helps is somewhat mysteriously labeled “literary fiction.” The kind of book an author writes, rewrites, and rewrites. Deep thought and care go into such books, and they can be a help to their readers. Reading isn’t just fundamental, it is transformative.
I remember my school years well. Kids are amazing in their level of energy. They crave activity and experience. Getting them to read can be difficult. You need to sit still. And concentrate. Concentration isn’t easy. You have to train a child to read, and, at least where I grew up, that was a struggle. The fact that it’s possible to graduate from high school and be functionally illiterate is one of the signs that learning to enjoy reading doesn’t always take hold. I knew guys in middle school who would rather do just about anything other than read. I often wondered what anyone could do to make them realize what they were missing. I read books and stories that took my breath away. There was something incredible going on between the covers—but how to convince others?
Recently a colleague pointed out to me that those of us in publishing are, statistically speaking, a very small number of people. We work in an industry that serves a small number of people. We are an odd lot. We read books, and some of us write books, and we do so for a small sector of society. Signs are hopeful that interest in reading is growing. Leading by example may help. At any one time I have at least one, generally two or more, fiction books going at the same time. On the bus I read through non-fiction at a faster rate. Maybe the mix is actually right. Fiction reading takes more time. It could be because I’m getting more out of it than I realize. I just wish I had more time to do it. More time for reading health. I may need to see a bibliotherapist.