Bibliophile

I have something rather unsettling to report.

Something truly awful—heinous even—to admit. Something that pains me down to the very depths of my soul. Something that I pray, with time, will get better and will become a laughable memory in years to come. Because I’m not sure how much more I can take without losing the very essence of myself.

Okay…here goes:

I haven’t opened and finished a book in nearly six months.

*The audible gasps resound around the crowded auditorium. Hands instinctively fly to the faces of the audience members, trying to hide the shock painted across their faces. Utter disbelief is the mutual emotion felt by all. Surely it could not be true?*

Yes…my dear readers, it is true. I haven’t picked up a book, cracked its spine, and finished its story in six whole months.

Yes, this is me. The girl who will only buy a new purse if she can fit two novels inside—and a notebook, of course. Me, the girl who always brings three books when she goes on vacation—and usually finishes the first before the plane hits the tarmac. Me, the girl who in college took a job at Barnes & Noble simply for the discount—I was a barista in their cafe, and funnily enough HATED coffee. Me, the girl who frequently got kicked out of her middle school Spanish class for stashing novels in her textbook and reading when I was supposed to be translating verbs—six years of Spanish and I can’t speak a lick of it. Me, the girl who secretly loved the summer reading assignments—I’d have the list finished by July. Me, the girl who can’t read just one book at a time, but rather three simultaneously—a trait that helped me get through college and complete my English degree. Me, the girl who’d lock herself in her bedroom with the latest release from her favorite series, only to emerge once complete—a true Potterhead. Me, the girl whose favorite summer time activity were the days her mother loaded all four kids into the car and took them to the local library for the afternoon—the only drawback was the max 4-book check-out policy. Me, the girl who has legit anxiety if she doesn’t have a book waiting in the wings for when she finishes her current read—a problem I haven’t run into lately.

Hello, my name is Jena and I am a professed and dedicated bibliophile.

*Hello, Jena!*

So with my love of the written word and storytelling laid bare, it shouldn’t be surprising that I feel the utmost shame and anxiety in my inability to follow through on something that has been a huge mainstay of my thirty-four years. Especially now, during a time when the world has slowed down and picking up a book is the easiest and most fulfilling form of entertainment. The quarantine book clubs that I’ve seen pop up over the last few months have me green with envy. I’ve had to stop myself from disliking the social media posts I’ve seen, proclaiming ALL the books you’ve read during lockdown—you know who you are and I hate you.

And yes, I realize I have a pretty good reason for not diving into a new book every week.

HELLO BABY!

GOODBYE FREE TIME!

Over the last four and 1/2 months—the total time my son has been on this earth—I’ve tried to squeeze a few precious minutes of speed reading into my day. Reading has always been my favorite before-bed activity and I’ve tried continuing this after putting my son to bed each night. But time and time again, I’ve gotten two paragraphs in and have fallen asleep—another new trait. My husband, who typically goes to bed well after I do, has had to pry the book out of my lifeless hands and remove my glasses each time this has happened. And that is disappointing on a whole other level because everything I had read is now a waste; if I dropped off to sleep mid-sentence, there’s no way I’ll remember what just happened AND I know my husband isn’t placing my book mark in the right spot. So, I end up reading the same passage 2 or 3 times.

Well…now that I think of it, I have finished a book! In fact, I open and finish THREE once a night. The subject matter isn’t too advanced, but a book is a book, right? And Wyatt seems to love them!

I’m really thinking about taking a stab at writing a children’s book one day. Stay tuned :)

Gotta teach them early!

For me, reading has always served a dual purpose. First, escapism; a good book should transport you to a new world. With the first two sentences, a book should change your dull night into something adventurous and broaden your horizons with every new chapter. A good book should always challenge your way of thinking and teach you a lesson. To learn is the second purpose of reading. I’m a firm believer that writers are not made, they are born. To write is an innate ability of expression that everyone does not possess. It’s almost like a predisposition to learn different languages or athletic ability. Sure, you can always become better but the innate skill cannot be taught. For a writer, the only way to become better is by reading. Reading A LOT. The works of others can help mold and influence your own style; you pick up word and sentence formations, or different ways to break up a paragraph. For instance, when I was writing my first book (Codename: Sob Story, available now at Amazon) I inhaled everything Tim O’Brien. His memoir, If I Die in a Combat Zone, tells of his own experience during the Vietnam War. Stylistically, I wanted to emulate his work; his writing was raw, simple, true to his voice, and not overly poetic. I wanted to capture what it felt like to be in the line of fire; the soldier’s fear and self doubt when they are asked to make the ultimate sacrifice. His entire catalog of work was my biggest inspiration.

On top of style influence, writers are ALWAYS asked to compare their work to one of their predecessors. This comparison is crucial when trying to sell your book to a publisher or enlist an agent (something I am all to familiar with ;/ ) You can’t just say, “My book stands on its own. Nothing can compare!” That response is bullshit. Inspiration is the cornerstone of writing and other books are the main source. So authors needs to do their homework and due diligence in their chosen field. Without taking a beat, I can name my influences for my second novel—one of which is Geraldine Brooks.

So, now it feels like I’m slacking on two fronts; reading AND writing.

Which is unbelievably frustrating. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to multitask, and there’s no easy solution to this. It’s either pursue my passions or spend time with my family. I’ve never been okay with my writing taking a back seat to my personal life—while I was completing my second novel, I literally did nothing but work and write during the week. But obviously my life is a bit different now and concessions need to be made—my son and family will always come first, that’s for sure. Writing this monthly blog—sort of monthly—has helped fulfill me in one way, but it doesn’t help with my reading dilemma.

I guess I can just stop sleeping…

Sleeping’s not THAT important, right?