Hanging out along the Aqueduct...

(wrote this for Aqueduct's upcoming newsletter)

Exploring the architectural masterpiece that is Seattle’s downtown library, I emerge from a stark white hallway full of mysteriously locked doors into the blazing red insides of this great beast. Curving corners and ceilings give this level an intestinal feel. Suddenly, I’m a kid again, sneaking through secret tunnels, and I dash down the stairs to peruse the fiction section for my next journey.

Scanning these stacks I remember the pleasure of knowing shelves of books like the back of my hand. Working at a bookstore was heaven and hell – so close to so many stories yet cracking a book was only allowed as a pretext for selling it. I spent almost two years shuffling books for one of the corporate chains. Surrounded by the shining worlds of authors like China Miéville and the inane drivel of Anne Coulter (often obliged to sell more of the latter), I still reveled in the opportunity to spend all day discussing books. This hyper-capitalist context was my first encounter with books treated as pure product. Sometimes I found this intriguing: the size, shape, color, even texture of a book were significant factors in whether or not it would sell. Though these accoutrements are peripherally important to the story or ideas contained within, I began to see books in more complex light.

Yet many booksellers and even our general manager never really read books. And sometimes being someone who did could be a detriment. Why waste time talking to a coworker or customer about your latest favorite when you could be organizing the displays into corporate-designed pyramids or replacing stale books (those that haven’t sold in a week or two) with fresh new ones? Although bookseller recommendations, particularly of titles from smaller presses, do play an important role, it felt like the majority of people followed a predictable pattern in their book purchasing: Was the author on Oprah? Has it recently been made into a movie? Has it stirred up controversy? Has the publisher paid our bookstore to place their book front and center on the table? In corporate bookstores, these questions hold much more sway than, say, what would the bookseller recommend? Luckily, my move to Seattle introduced me to the rich, if not lucrative, world of local bookstores with staff that will spend time sharing their latest find.

The stories spun in books hold a special place in my life. Sometimes they can be healing journeys that will shed new light on my life and experiences. Sometimes they are innocent escapes where I can dwell in the heads of others, instead of my own, for a while. And sometimes they take over, sucking me away from friends and family, seeping into my dreams. Books are my security blanket – when there’s not a person occupying it, a pile of books takes up the empty space in my bed. They have the power to lull me to sleep and captivate my consciousness. Some tales so strongly demand my attention that my daily routines shift to accommodate the story that must be told: holding the book in my left hand while I brush my teeth with my right, trying not to splash soup on the pages as I eat dinner, tilting my body at odd angles to catch the beams from streetlamps as I walk home in the dark, nose in a book. I bemoan the tasks that cannot incorporate my book: bathing, chopping vegetables, riding my bike.

As the pages trickle from my right hand to left and I near the anticipated yet dreaded end, my next book is often waiting in the wings. This time, however, I'm in limbo between books, hoping something will pop out at me from these library shelves. My eyes fall on Francesca Lia Block's Weetzie Bat tales and I remember my childhood obsession with anything that came in a series. The unambiguous order made the selection of the following book so simple. Hence, The Boxcar Children, Laura Ingalls Wilder, The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew – I always knew what came next. The perpetual decision of what to read next is more complicated these days, with the dearth of series for adults and the abundance of tempting solitary novels. Though, like a series, my subsequent choice often depends on what came before. After reading too many fluffy texts, for example, I’ll need a hearty dose of something along the lines of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell or House of Leaves. When I’m distracted by life and prefer less of a commitment, short stories are in order. Unlike the predictable sequence of my childhood choices, there is not much consistency or logic to these decisions. Sometimes I will jump right in and read a book that someone hands me, regardless of what’s on my proverbial “to read” list. Other times I will approach all books with trepidation, knowing that once I crack the spine, it could be a while before I reenter the real world.

What about you – how do you decide what to read next? Do you have an actual “to read” list and do you stick to it? Do you read multiple books at once? Mix fiction and non-fiction? Do you seek recommendations from librarians and booksellers?