Thursday, September 25, 2008
The thing is, I like my boundaries. Some books I read are weirder than others…and I’m pretty open to weirdness. It’s the reading of certain Genres (I’m reading Oscar Wao, and felt the need to capitalize Genre) that I have a hard time with. Westerns? Nope, no can do. Horror? No way. Vampires? Sure, bring ‘em on. Romance? Sure, I like the happily ever afters. Chick lit? No, thank you. Self-help? Not only no, but hell no, watch me run screaming in the other direction. Sci-fi/fantasy? I went through that phase in my teens and I’m pretty much over it.
Up until about 5 years ago, I only read fiction. You wouldn’t catch me reading anything non-fiction, with the possible exception of the back of the cereal box. And magazines. Somewhere along the way, though, I discovered I really like travelogues. But I can’t read them all the time …I get too jealous and start dreaming about moving to Mexico/Italy/England/Ireland/France/ Canada/Morocco. Rory Stewart’s The Places In Between falls into this category, although it was a bit more political and serious than I like. But I toughed it out and was glad I did.
I also tend to stick to contemporary authors. I read War in Val d’Orcia for my online book club last year and just about died of boredom. I don’t know why I equate anything pre-1970’s with stuffiness, but I do.
Have I answered the question, or am I still talking around it?