I Had Stopped Reading Fiction
Being enough with never enough time
Hello, and Happy New Year! Yay—I have, for now, figured out my audio issues. If you are new here, my essays are read by me and can be found in the podcast feed or by clicking above.
I tried to sit down and write a “New Year” essay several times. I was going to write about time and how we think we should use it. My theory was that this was going to pair so nicely with all the usual New Year’s topics—resolutions and behavior change. As a psychologist who wholeheartedly believes in change, growth, and the benefits of goals and data, I’ve rejected the cultural tradition of New Year’s resolutions in recent years. The “need to change” and there is always room to “be better” discourse is what needs to change, in my opinion. But I kept coming up short. Perhaps watching all those Hallmark holiday movies dulled the sharpness of my writing skills. So I sat for a bit and I was reminded of a personal experience that was a good snapshot of the use of time. When we choose one direction (sometimes rather unconsciously), it means we don’t choose something else. This is not a story of a resolution gone wrong but more of getting pulled toward one belief and away from another. And when we don’t pay attention we may find ourselves far away from things that give us joy.
Fiction Fracture
I don't know when it happened. Somewhere between the fog of motherhood, growing a career, and “being an adult,” I stopped reading fiction. I can’t remember the exact book when I stopped. Much like when a relationship ends, you likely don’t know that the last encounter was the last. One moment that person was your present, and then they were your past. There was no specific breakup with this form of prose or defining pivot to name. I occasionally revisited it, but there was a definite absence for years. I rationalized this. I only had so much time for reading, so it needed to count.
It felt like non-fiction was more suited to my life’s needs. And yet, reading fictional stories had always been a delight and pleasure. I had many past treasured moments much too late into the night reading and that can be a divine experience. And yet there was something else demanding my attention, and it wasn’t just the kids.
It was the persistent belief that my time was so rare that it must be used in a way to benefit something. It needed to be optimized. The first part of this belief is true. Time is finite. There will never be enough. And motherhood only gives you less. But that pesky idea about making the most of the little time available was planted long ago, well before children. It’s something so many of us hold inside. The narrative of always needing to be more, do more, and constantly improve. It manifests in people in many different ways. For myself, it wasn’t enough to pursue knowledge through my education and professional endeavors. It needed to be during my commute, while working out, and before bed each night, too. The general idea is that if I just studied enough, I would be the best human I could be. It sounds silly to write it out but this belief was lingering off-stage pushing the show forward for a long time.
I was a mother. I was a psychologist. I had people to think about. I read parenting books for my children and the families I worked with. I read books about leadership and the motivation for my colleagues. I read about learning, well-being, and the brain all the people around me. I read about mindfulness for myself but really for others, too(because if you are mindful, you are a better parent, partner, and friend). Where was the time to read a book for pleasure? A book for delight? Was that really a good use of my time?
I know that for others, struggling to read fiction is a signal or symptom. They see the change in behavior as telling them something about their external or internal world. For some, the weight of the pandemic produced this change. For others, experiences of depression or burnout may lead to the inability to embrace a story. But there was no singular weight upon me. In pursuing reading for others, I somehow forgot to read for myself.
Before I go further, I feel the need to say I have read many great titles in the non-fiction category. I have found knowledge, guidance, and wisdom. Some books have brought true value to me and, by extension, those in my orbit. The problem lies in the hidden belief that we need to know more, need to do more, and need to be a good fill-in-the-blank (mother, therapist, leader, human), not in the bookstore section you shop in. And that need for more left no room for other things—like the delight of a well-told story. Stories have much to offer us. They can offer us the opportunity to witness, to rest, to experience a whole spectrum of emotions, to be seen, to escape and so much more.
So, last year, I decided to read fiction. I had a whole plan. It was all very orderly and, dare I say, optimal. And then I quickly remembered that I love stories. And so, eventually, the order was dismissed. I started reading more and more fiction. I still read non-fiction but less, and I am picky about where I spend that brain time. I will never stop being curious about people, the world, and how things work. But one can argue that you get some of those things in fiction, too. There is a balance to be found. Balance does not come in an ideal formula. It’s about trusting yourself that you are spending time in a way that is valuable to you. It may be for pleasure, distraction, curiosity, a mental workout, or to learn something new. But use that precious time for you and what you deem as needed, not what other forces may tell you.
This is not to say that everyone needs to read fiction. And no, this newsletter is not becoming exclusively reading-focused; I know there have been a lot of reading-related posts lately. This is about doing whatever it is that brings you joy just because. I read for joy. Re-claim, re-visit, or find your joy, and just do it for the hell of it. Not because it will make you “better” in any way. Do it because it makes this one life of yours better for you.
What book was the first fiction book I returned to?
It was Lessons in Chemistry* by Bonnie Garmus.
And even though I have just spent a whole essay telling you about how reading only non-fiction was a problem for me. I am now going to recommend a non-fiction book to you.
Meditations for Mortals: Four Weeks to Embrace Your Limitations and Make Time for What Counts* by Oliver Burkeman is an excellent (and time-friendly) exploration of how to embrace imperfection and get over the idea that we can do it all. It is written in a daily chapter format for a month and each chapter is only a few pages.
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This is such an important reminder!
Last year I joined a three month “weird moms book club” organized by Elisha Bidwell and I learned about bibliotherapy, a name for the way that books helped me learn about myself and from the experience of characters in books. Even if it is a made up story, it is written by a person who is sharing experiences, beliefs, and perspectives that can be delightful, thought provoking, and illuminating. We can just enjoy fiction but there is also so much we can learn from stories.
It's always good to be reminded to make space for the things we enjoy, even when it means we are choosing joy over things we "should" do.