For bad books.
I love my friends. They are the best bullshit detectors money can’t buy. Whenever I selling myself short, kidding myself on or getting in my own way they tell me. Quickly, loudly and firmly.
I was struggling through Zadie Smith’s Swing Time. I wanted to love it. I love Zadie Smith’s essays, I love her attitude and intelligence on podcasts. I wanted to love her fiction.
Jesus! It was a slog. A slog. I told myself that the writing was wonderful so I should just knuckle down and get on with. I was reading like I was wading through glue in wellies filled with rocks. The low point came when a man stopped me
About a week later my friend Sam said something that emphasised the issue. She’s about to turn 50 and plans to live until 90. If she reads a book a week, with some feet up time at Christmas, she has 2,000 books left to read in her life. Why would she take up one of those precious slots with something she didn’t love? 2,000 books and no duty reads, boring reads, makes me look more intelligent reads. Can you imagine the life affirming joy of it? Can you imagine if you applied this to your entire life? “I’m sorry but I only have 48 slots for a monthly coffee with an old work colleague left so I’d rather spend it roaring my head off with laughter than commiserating about your uncle’s hamster having a colostomy bag fitted.” What a life that would be!
So, Swing Time went dancing to the station book exchange with 83 pages to go. I hope someone else reads it and loves it. I am moving on to things that ignite the fizzy.