Awhile back, I started what I thought to be a regular feature of my newsletter: Books of Winter, Books of Spring, Books of…, etc.
“Books of Summer 2022” was preempted by my Kickstarter announcements, so I thought I’d return at the end of November with “Books of Autumn 2022.” Except… I have no books to recommend. It’s not that I haven’t been reading, it’s that I haven’t been reading much fantasy. I’m in a bit of a funk.
I’ve started (but not finished) quite a few novels recently, and the one novel I did finish (The House in the Cerulean Sea) was okay for what it was but not something I’m keen to recommend. It was perfectly fine, just not something I have much to say about, nor something I think needs my recommendation. It has plenty of positive buzz already. My somewhat tepid praise won’t add anything new to the pile.
And the other two books I’ve started (but not finished) are also perfectly fine. I’m sure I’ll finish them eventually. But neither book is keeping me up at night to finish a chapter, neither is tugging at my sleeve and cajoling me to read when I should be washing dishes. I have to force myself, like I’m forcing myself to take my vitamins.
This is no way for a reader to live.
I know one of the recipes for a reading funk is to read an old favorite, something that you love. For me that would be The Lord of the Rings, or The Hobbit, or maybe the Narnia series or the Prydain Chronicles, or the delightful Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell. Maybe I should go back to my old standbys. Maybe that will bring me out of the funk.
The problem is, I don’t really want to read any of these old favorites. I want something new. I started Cerulean Sea with high hopes that it would be enrapture me, excite me, stir my imagination. It was mildly diverting, but alas, it was not transcendent.
I don’t want the same old thing, I want something surprising. A love for fantasy is driven, on some level, with a love for the unusual, for exploration and discovery. I’ve been to Middle-Earth oftener than any other imaginary world, and while I love it the best, I want to see new vistas too, if I can.
I think part of my difficulty is that I’m trying to read too many things at once. I have my book club book, and my nonfiction books, and my fantasy fiction books, and my collection of Chesterton essays, and my Bradbury short story collection, and my poetry anthology, and on and on.
This approach can work if I stick to the poetry and the essays and the nonfiction. But if I want to read a novel and really enjoy it, I need to COMMIT. That means reading the novel — and only the novel — for large chunks of time. It means pushing through even when the story hasn’t grabbed me yet. It means staying faithful until the end, or until I decide the book isn’t for me and DNF it. I can’t play the field when I’m reading fiction. I need to be monogamous. Fiction is an immersive experience, so I need to dive into the depths and not come up for air.
This means making a choice. Do I go with the dark fantasy indie or the classic fantasy from the 1990s? Or do I dump them both and return to Sanderson’s Stormlight Archives, a series in which I’m two books behind? Or do I totally zag and read that Appendix N book my husband got me for my birthday?
To get out of a funk I have to make a difficult choice. I have to say “yes” to one book and “no” to many others. I have to commit, and that means I might make a bad choice. But it must be done. It’s the only way to push through. At least for me.
