READING AND WRITING AND

Signs went up on my street about a new neighborhood book club. The flyer’s QR code opens a survey asking questions like “What meeting times work for you?” that sound invasively type-A on a google survey. It’s unclear who put up the invitational signs, and an anonymous in-home meeting is stranger danger. I shamefully don’t know many neighbors, despite living in the same building for the past decade. My  lack of identifying dog/kid/car makes me unidentifiable to neighbors, though going blond has upped my recognition by 3.6%. In any case, signing up for a nascent book club is intimidating. Is reading books in groups even a good idea? Book reading is an inherently solo venture. A book club says “I want to converse and connect” louder than “I want to read.” The reality is that books contain challenging and personal topics. Am I ready to discuss these with strangers? What if we have to have an eye-opening debate where we exchange views and learn about one another’s experience of being on this planet at the same time??

I am already a friend who tries to spread my current read like wildfire around my friend groups. At this moment, fully 18 years late to the party, I find myself under the obliterating spell of the Neopolitan Series by Elena Ferrante- whoever she is!! I have since done everything short of distributing the books on the street to find and create people to discuss it with. My mom, who self describes as “shallow”, is now powerless to stop reading these emotional and complex tomes. I manage to steer every conversation toward the impeccable quartet, as it is nearly always applicable. This weekend I ran into a friend’s grown child who is going to Berlin for college. He is one of the most entertaining, deservedly attention-getting, talented and imaginative people I’ve met, and I was curious about what he might study. I nearly clapped my hands to hear he is pursuing creative writing and working with the life story of his grandmother. The question out of everyone’s mouth next is “Fiction or nonfiction?”

He hedges. My grandmother wasn’t famous enough to have a ton of source material to work with. 

Understood. Is it possible to use what you have to tell a story even if it isn’t her story?

That’s what I’m leaning toward.

Have you read the Elena Ferrante books?

Yes, the first two.

There you have it. 

A few days after our talk, still marveling at how brilliant his career is sure to be, I wondered to myself, Why have I never written even a word of fiction? Haven’t I  learned something after gobbling up hundreds of books in my life? What if inside me is a great or even mediocre story teller? What if I were to just try? I have plenty of critiques, edits and suggestions to make while reading most books. Surely that means I’m capable of greatness!

Or maybe I’m just a reader.

Our friend’s wife, an editor, read like no other. She read with every spare moment and created “spare moments” where there were none so she could read more. In an anecdote from her celebratory memorial, the two had gone on vacation (their honeymoon?) to a beautiful tropical place. When they arrived, she pulled out an unreasonably tall stack of books and set to work.

Do you want to go check out the pool?

I’m reading.

We could sign up for a native species sightseeing tour?

I’m reading.

Learn to snorkel?Reading.

Swim with dolphins?

Rea-

Luau?Ding.

I admire the hell out of her unflinching prioritization of reading. While both my parents are avid readers, even more now bc of my dad’s hearing loss, every page read is a reward for doing some amount of labor first. For my mom, the domestic zone must be righted before she can read. I think it’s because she was a stay-at-home mom (do we say that anymore?) and never wanted to be perceived as not earning her keep/putting in her hours. Separately, she also has a vast quantity of energy that needs to burn off before she can properly acquiesce to a reading spell. At nearly 77, she feels she must earn her reading hours, texting me at 10am her time that she has gone through “a couple of shelves in the hall closet and eliminated a few items that will NEVER be used again. That counts as enough work for the day, right? So I can get back to my book {adorbs smiley face emoji}”

I’ve been asking my dad for years to write about the tales of mischief he, his brothers, father and uncles got into. He melds great comedic timing with an airtight memory for details and characters, whether they be “wrapping a car around a telephone pole,” aborting bar fights, or mouthing off to sergeants. His gift for writing matches his wit. The anniversary cards he’s written my mom over the past 54 years alone deserve a volume. However, barring forcibly sitting him down with a couple of beers and a tape recorder, we might not see that book. Leaving me to get the Quillin family name onto the library shelf. I’ll give it a try, to write, to write for others, to make something worth a laugh or a tear or a share. I can’t be that bad if you’ve read this far.