Here it goes again…

when I was enchanted by books. I’d get lost in the prose and find myself in a place that even the author couldn’t have imagined. Characters half formed themselves in the sleepy shadows of my mind and sceneries melted in the watercolours of the inside of my eye.

But then I started reading for sport. You know, speed reading. I’d read a page as fast as I could and test myself on its content. Due to this I have the innate ability to see only a mere flash of a road sign and know every which direction it was pointing to, but I’m not one to brag.

(Although, once, I read the entirety of Lord of the rings in under one week and received full marks on a test my teacher gave me as a little extra study. I even picked up the names of sub-characters that were only restricted to a few paragraphs of text and the underlying themes of racism and borderline sexism).

But now it’s different. A lot different. I read solely for pleasure. I see a good book or I hear about a good book, and I read it. But I’m so utterly selective in my readings that coming across a truly unique book is a rare occurrence. I’m extremely judgmental about what I read, damning it to the three categories of Worthy, Easy, and Shit. If a book is exceptional, thought provoking, maybe a little bit weird, it’s Worthy. If it’s a good read but nothing too hard or stressful, it’s Easy. Lacking any of the features above, and it’s Shit. Naturally I see most books littering the front doors of major bookshops as Shit before I even read them.

This mostly came about due to my awakening into the writing world, when I became a writer. Now, I use the term “writer” loosely here as I am in fact not a writer. I just write. Sure, what I write are masterpieces of our era, but I still just write. If anything I’m more of a hack than a writer since my works usually consist of pulp satire and I insist on wearing a fedora hat when I type.

But I digress.

Whenever I see a book displayed in the window of a bookstore, I automatically assume that it is generic, available, ordinary, simple… Shit. It’s mainstream and I don’t do mainstream. This may eventually be one of my greatest downfalls as a writer/hack/human being, but I don’t. do. mainstream. Sure, I’ll listen to a popular band, I’ll watch the latest block-buster, but I’ll be damned if you ever find a chick-lit or serial crime thriller on my bookshelf. The books I like are obscure, random, maybe even hard to find, possibly no longer in print; anything but mainstream.

And before you ask; no, classic pieces of literature, cult-mainstream, and books studied at schools do not count as mainstream.

The whole idea of mainstream annoys me. Sure, there’s the chance of picking up a book that says things that no other mainstream book has touched on, that says something different compared to the endless lines of racism, sexism, terrorism, love, relationships, historically accurate characters or mishaps in taxis. Maybe there’s a gem somewhere out there in the front row along with all the other colourfully decorated front covers where the name of the author is bigger than the title itself (another factor that’s always bugged me), but really, I cannot be arsed playing Russian Roulette with books that I know will offend me and everything I love about this manipulative little language of ours.

And it’s not just because of my smug, pompous attitude when I regale you with the stories of an obscure Canadian/African/Russian/Czech author, there’s a wholly deeper level to this altogether. You see, when it comes to reading books, I have a nasty habit of becoming the books. The florid writing and intriguing characters are absorbed into my mind and ebb out through my skin as the story unfolds. This is why when I read a depressing book, I feel depressed. Or when I read an anarchistic book, I want to create anarchy. Some of it passes, true, and I return to normal, but some of it stays with me and lingers in the cavity of my chest where it very well becomes a part of me as much as my organs.

And, as such, I don’t want some twenty-something secretary polluting what may very well be my soul with musings over boyfriends. I don’t want some shit little story that works itself out in the end with charming, happy little coincidences. I want tragedy. I want epiphanies. I want intriguing characters that develop in my mind and become me as much as I become them. I want to feel the world from my couch. I’m too cowardly to have these feelings for myself, so I read books to grasp every nurturing drop of emotion that inflames my senses to a feeling I never knew I could experience.

So please, I beg you, if you recommend a book for God’s sake make it memorable. Otherwise there is a very good chance that I will move myself away from you for your poor taste in life.

(Also, on a completely separate note, when the hell will I write a post that stays on bloody topic?)