On Reading Lots of Books In Toronto
I've been in Toronto for a week and a half. In that time, in addition to various bits of writing and lots of work, I've read six books. This is mainly due to the fact that I've finally figured out the relative location of my hotel to the subway, not to mention the amount of time it generally takes to get from said hotel, through the mall-shaped maze outside College Station, and over to the Lansdowne stop so that I don't feel compelled to hail a cab in blind oh-Jesus-don't-let'me-be-late-because-of-strange-Canadian-subway-customs panic.
Also, I keep losing the tokens I buy. Tiny little things, they are. Like Twoonies that someone turned Reducto's shrink ray on.
But I digress. Lots of train time means lots of reading time. And since the last few packages of review books I've been sent have largely been anthologies, that means I largely packed anthos with me. All of which means that I've probably read more ARCs on the platform at Yonge and Bloor than any man living has a right to, one story at a time.
It's been a while since I've been able to do this much concentrated reading. Work's been particularly ravenous of my time this year, and the uptick in book reviews I'm writing means a downtick in the number of books I actually get to read. Yes, careful reading and re-reading takes longer. It was a surprise to me, too.
But all of this concentrated reading has led me to some thoughts about, well, writing. And about writing, too, as regards reading. And first and foremost among those thoughts is this: God help you if you've got a short story in an anthology with something that is genuinely, certifiably brilliant, because "good" and "elegant" and "clever" just ain't going to cut it. Next to transcendence, mere superb craft is pitifully exposed, which is worse than it deserves.
I read the Joe R. Lansdale-edited Horror Hall of Fame collection, chock full of Stoker winners, and after I read Jack Cady's "The Night We Buried Road Dog", I had to put it down for three days. Not because the story was disturbing, not because I didn't like the book. It was because I was so thoroughly blown away by that story that I knew that I wouldn't be able to give anything else in that book a fair shake until my brain had been given enough time to cleanse its palate.
Which, I suppose, leads to the other thought I had, which is that sometimes the best way to read a book is to not read it. To let it sit until you can appreciate everything in it, instead of having one story or one chapter reflexively outshine the rest. It's slower, yes. But it makes for a better and more generous reading experience. And besides, there's something right and proper about giving greatness its space, and its due.
Also, I keep losing the tokens I buy. Tiny little things, they are. Like Twoonies that someone turned Reducto's shrink ray on.
But I digress. Lots of train time means lots of reading time. And since the last few packages of review books I've been sent have largely been anthologies, that means I largely packed anthos with me. All of which means that I've probably read more ARCs on the platform at Yonge and Bloor than any man living has a right to, one story at a time.
It's been a while since I've been able to do this much concentrated reading. Work's been particularly ravenous of my time this year, and the uptick in book reviews I'm writing means a downtick in the number of books I actually get to read. Yes, careful reading and re-reading takes longer. It was a surprise to me, too.
But all of this concentrated reading has led me to some thoughts about, well, writing. And about writing, too, as regards reading. And first and foremost among those thoughts is this: God help you if you've got a short story in an anthology with something that is genuinely, certifiably brilliant, because "good" and "elegant" and "clever" just ain't going to cut it. Next to transcendence, mere superb craft is pitifully exposed, which is worse than it deserves.
I read the Joe R. Lansdale-edited Horror Hall of Fame collection, chock full of Stoker winners, and after I read Jack Cady's "The Night We Buried Road Dog", I had to put it down for three days. Not because the story was disturbing, not because I didn't like the book. It was because I was so thoroughly blown away by that story that I knew that I wouldn't be able to give anything else in that book a fair shake until my brain had been given enough time to cleanse its palate.
Which, I suppose, leads to the other thought I had, which is that sometimes the best way to read a book is to not read it. To let it sit until you can appreciate everything in it, instead of having one story or one chapter reflexively outshine the rest. It's slower, yes. But it makes for a better and more generous reading experience. And besides, there's something right and proper about giving greatness its space, and its due.