My to-read pile was anemic. For years, my to-read pile was overwhelming and, instead of generating excitement, created dread. I’ve recently enjoyed only having 1-2 books at the ready but this became a problem as I finished books and the queue had unexpected stinkers (novels I gave up on).

Off to my local BN for an emergency search. I beelined to the sci-fi section, where I had previously considered Neal Stephenson’s most recent two books. I knew they were a commitment having read six of his older books. Neal likes to go into incredible depth on, well, everything. This can be enjoyable when in the right mood. As someone who is trying to write concise short stories, his books read long.

But desperate times call for desperate measures. I picked up Termination Shock, at a (for Stephenson) a svelte 700 pages. And, halfway through, it’s deep, technical, and well-written. Immediate problem solved, but the to-read pile was empty.

Enter a road trip to Portland. First stop was Powells with friends. One of them, another reader, recommended a few books while we were perusing the shelves. And now my to-read pile is seven deep. The only problem is they look more interesting than Termination Shock.

I’m reading 2 books going at once (following my fiction/non-fiction scheme). I might pause Termination Shock to read a book about a Tokyo bookstore that interests me. But I’ve not fully engrossed myself in TS and worry if I drop now won’t return… paradoxically, I have to get myself invested and interested in TS before I can safely put it down.

I’ve often referenced After the Second Wave, an in-progress collection of post-apocalyptic short stories. The project is moving along, albeit slowly with a writing coach and editor. Progress is slow because my original versions of these stories weren’t very good. The feedback process, combined with a full workload and family, takes time.

I’m not only getting feedback on the individual stories. Not only am I getting feedback on the individual stories, but I am also being challenged to consider how the collection should present as an overall piece. I’ve thought of it as a bunch of stories held together by a common world and common characters, with callbacks and references. But there should be more; the collection needs a through-line. There is a loose through-line as a function of the genre. Any post-apocalyptic story is about our modern world and how we’re destroying it, the true nature of man when confronted with a new world, overcoming hardships, etc.

Ghostwritten by David Mitchell is my guiding light on this project. In his first novel, he assembled a collection of seemingly independent stories interrelated by characters and the world. The stories hang together loosely on first read; each subsequent read reveals tighter and tighter cause and effect. Any reference to an event or character outside of the current story is invariably a callback or reference. But I can’t find a through-line. The last two stories directly reference the Iraq war and an almost global nuclear war controlled by an out-of-control AI (developed by a character from a previous story, of course).

There are a cluster of themes within Ghostwritten; stories about love and isolation and overcoming. And I need to consider the same; readers need a sense of an arc. The initial stories could focus on the shock of a new word, causing pain and suffering. Then, the middle stories reflect change to the new world. The final set could offer a glimpse into successfully, or unsuccessfully, overcoming obstacles and finding a better way.

It’s helpful to consider through lines after most of the stories have first drafts. Much the same way, applying the classic story structures is more effective after the first draft. Starting with a story structure first or set of themes would hinder the natural progression and feel forced (more on this in a future post). Now is the time for me to see the through-line.

In a previous post I mentioned a Netflix documentary on Tom Wolfe , an author I’d heard of but never read. Shortly after watching the doc, I was in B&N and The Bonfire of the Vanities was on display. I knew little about Bonfire other than a Tom Hank’s movie based on the book and it was set in the 1980s.

I enjoyed the first third of the book. It’s always fun to read about rich bankers doing rich banker things, like living in extravagant Park Avenue apartments, attending exclusive parties, wearing $1200 (1980’s money) shoes. Sherman McCoy, the protagonist, is a bonds guy who considers himself a Master of the Universe, a term Wolfe either created or popularized. We also meet a struggling assistant DA, a failed reporter, politically minded preachers and DAs, wives and girlfriends, and cops. It’s a fun introduction, save long-winded.

Once the main plot gets rolling, though, Bonfire becomes a slog. Scenes go on forever; I lost count of how many times I thought “I get it, let’s move on,” From a style standpoint, reading Sherman’s internal dialogue was brutal; literally pages of him just repeating he was worried. I had to skip the long paragraphs… luckily the worried thoughts were italicized and easy to pick out.

The other major flaw the lack of anyone to root for. Not one character, certainly not the selfish, cheating, MOTU Sherman, the scheming political DA’s or clergy, the perpetually drunk and lucky reporter, the socialite wives only concerned with status and becoming skeletally thin, nor the cops and defense lawyers who exist in a corrupted and broken system. Assumedly this is the point; all these groups are self-motivated and grind on each other to everyone’s detriment. But as a reader, I’m not interested.

Overall, I was disappointed in Bonfire, especially after a strong start. Wolfe was talented but needed a stronger editor to reign in the rambling inner dialogues and never-ending scenes. I’d like to read his feature articles from Vogue or GQ as a comparative as the constraints of a magazine could help him.

On this site, I’ve discussed how to find new reads, my pile of unread books and libraries. But not bookstores.

Most of my purchases (for everything) are on Amazon for price, convenience, and selection. When I get a recommendation, nothing is easier than ordering on Amazon. But there is a discovery problem. Sure, Amazon recommends books based on purchase and browsing history. But these recommendations are simplistic and favor popular titles. New books have to prove themselves before I invest the time and energy; the millions of titles from the last few hundred years deserve equal consideration.

Which brings me to bookstores. Touching books, the smell of coffee and binding, racks full of speciality magazines. Whenever I travel, I stop at local, independent stores. Powell’s in Portland, Oregon, was a religious experience. Locally, I was limited to an old-school Barnes and Noble. Spending time in that store wasn’t appealing; it was loud and focused as much on selling toys and trinkets as books.

But our local BN left their classic building last year and took a smaller space. And the redesign is great. Very book centric. This is part of a trend from BN.

This re-thinking of BN works. I enjoy picking up a coffee and wandering through the stacks. The layout is much airier and inviting.

It’s not perfect. They desperately need a used-book section. And the new store still dedicates too much shelf space to crappy celebrity cookbooks and current events titles with flashy titles. But these are small things.

On my most recent visit, I experienced the magic of the in-person bookstore. I needed a new read so I wandered the fiction section. And one name jumped out: Tom Wolfe. The day before, I watched a short documentary on Netflix called Radical Wolfe. I didn’t know (before the movie) he wrote The Right Stuff or Bonfire of the Vanities. And there it was, a gold-covered copy of Bonfire smiling up at me, eye-level. This wouldn’t have happened via Amazon (yes, cookies and tracking, but I am so jaded by any sort of ads online I ignore the recs).

The new BN format is a welcome change. I’ll still order from Amazon for quick, definitive purchases, but I’m in BN at least monthly now.

Is reading part of the writing process? I wouldn’t write if not for my lifelong love of books and reading. I have more than a dozen books on writing, from the technical to the philosophical and countless works of fiction. But how useful is reading?

Consensus is writers must read. Stephen King, in On Writing, wrote at length about how critical reading is for a writer.

“I don’t read in order to study the craft; I read because I like to read… Yet there is a learning process going on. Every book you pick up has its own lesson or lessons, and quite often the bad books have more to teach than the good ones.” (On Writing, p 145)

Neil Gamain, in his Masterclass, said to write genre fiction, you must be intimate with said fiction (to understand, deliver and/or subvert expectations).

The flip side is time spent reading is not time spent writing. You know, actually doing the work. But it seems like progress. I can read a book on the craft, the technical aspects of constructing stories, author’s biographies… and it feels like I’m learning. I can picture taking the advice and turning out better work. Same with great fiction. Reading exceptional writing allows me to analyze the story and the writing style, sparking fantasies of doing the same.

I’ve noticed this same behavior with people trying to start a workout habit. Buying new sneakers and other workout gear, watching a video about nutrition, signing up for a gym membership all feel productive. But it’s not doing the work. And, sadly for me, neither is reading about writing. In triathlon, there’s an idea called the law of specificity… sure, cross training is great and helpful. If you want to swim better, you need to swim more. Probably a lot more. I feel the same about writing.

Of course, there is a place for books on writing and consuming literature. It’s useful, necessary, and spending time with art is worthwhile. There must be a balance, however. And the balance must favor the work.

Since embarking on this circuitous and bumpy writing path, I’ve tried to read quality writing. Doubled down on Hemingway, read the Russian Masters (Dostoevsky, Gogol, Nabokov), Morrison, etc.

Books aren’t the only writing I consume. I’ve watched shows I’ve heard Koppelman call out as examples of good writing, like The Crown. I found it hard to care about English Royalty and stopped after two seasons. But I gave it another chance on Koppelman’s recommendation. The writing, acting and dialogue are top-notch. Makes it hard to watch lesser shows on Netflix that feel like they put them together over a weekend. I still don’t care about the Royals, but I care about the characters in The Crown.

Similar story with The Bear. It was a critical darling when released. I watched the first two episodes… and couldn’t watch anymore. They did such a great job of creating a tense kitchen that I felt like I was on edge… and I had to stop watching. I don’t want to feel tense when watching at night before bed. Similar to the Crown, I recently gave it another chance and watched two episodes on a weekend afternoon. And got hooked. They do family conversation (talking over each other) better than anyone else. I just watched the infamous episode 6 of season 2, which was referred to as one of the best single episodes of TV ever.

If watching good writing (defined by realistic, relatable characters, interesting story arcs, thinking about the show when it’s over) immerses one in helpful content, does bad writing do the opposite? Do my skills get worse each time I watch a Jason Statham movie (I hope not, JS movies are a guilty pleasure).

Same with bad writing. And I don’t mean this website, but the cavalcade of sites geared toward SEO, and the rambling, say-nothing sentences and taking five paragraphs to say what only requires one. Does reading such low-quality stuff rot the brain? Probably not, although unconsciously it may give an excuse to write worser sentences (:))

Is it possible to only read and watch quality stuff? Not practically, but reducing the consumption of low-quality free writing online could be helpful. I’ve made this change already with my reading of books; the Russian masters, best short stories of the century, etc. And when I pick up a non-capital-“L”-literature book, the difference jumps off the page.