Multi-tasking, Two-timing, Reading Around
The art of choosing to read more than one book at a time
Currently, there are 8 books on my 9-year-old’s nightstand. On most good days, when we reach the part of the evening we call “family reading time,” she will sit on the floor in the middle of her room, pick up one of the books on the stack, read one chapter, set that book aside, pick up the next book, read one chapter from that one, set it aside, pick up the next book and so on and so forth until she has read one chapter of each. Sometimes, when she has reached that critical moment in a book at which she just has to know how it ends, she’ll stick with that one until she is finished. More often though, she . . . multi-tasks? Multi-reads? Reads around?
Is there a way to refer to the choice to read multiple books at once? One that doesn’t suggest doing so is like cheating in a relationship?
Is reading multiple books at once like cheating in a relationship? Do we owe every book we read our undivided attention?
When I was a student taking multiple English classes in college and graduate school, reading multiple books at once was the norm. That was out of necessity, though. Since then, it has been nice to get to dive deep into a story and its characters, live with them, within them, for a while until it’s time for the next. There have been exceptions, like when a book is so long that I need a break, or when I just can’t get into it and I pause to read another (usually a shorter, easier one) before getting back to the first one and finishing it. But mostly I read one book at a time because . . well, why wouldn’t you?
Funnily enough, that was more or less my kid’s response when I asked her why she reads multiple chapter books at a time. Specifically, she said, “Because I like to!” Shrugging and looking at me like I was crazy and her answer was the most obvious thing in the world.
One of the mindfucks of being a parent is learning, through your children’s choices and independence, that things that felt like strict rules to you are just preferences. There was a time in my early parenthood that I wondered whether my kids would even like reading. In this old blog post, I noted that I would never censor my kids’ reading choices. Contextualize and explain some things, certainly, including why some books are better off not read, but not explicitly censor. So if I’m going to try not to judge or stress about what they read, I’m not going to judge or stress about how they read either. The truth is I am a bit in awe of my daughter’s ability and willingness to read all kinds of things all at once. To hold all those stories and ideas in her head and not be intimidated by the big pile sitting there next to her lamp night after night the way I would be.
I have found inspiration in that awe. Recently, I have tried multi-reading(?) (there has to be a word for this), but ultimately, I just end up picking one book and sticking with it. Maybe it’s my age, my tired brain wanting to pace itself, or just old, unbreakable habit. In any case, it’s nice to know it doesn’t have to be this way.
Devotion to books doesn’t have to be singular. For my daughter, it can be infinite.
Further Reading
In re-reading the blog post I mention above, “Raising a reader,” which I wrote in 2011, my blind spots about texts with racist depictions scream out to me. I considered not re-posting here, but I didn’t like the idea of glossing over my own ignorance. I’ve learned a lot in the last decade but often still feel, like most parents do, that I am just making it up as I go along. Whenever a controversy pops up about a literary classic or its author—most recently, Dr. Seuss—many of us react defensively, as if the word “racist,” when applied to something or someone meaningful to us, is the kind of playground taunt against which we must push back. The knee-jerk reactions are a nauseating melange of shame, denial, anger and defiance, none of which are helpful. Instead, we should see the recognition of racism in something we love for what it is: using the words of Ibram Kendi, a diagnosis for which treatment is available.
In the case of books, there is no solution in pretending old books or old attitudes don’t exist or in pretending they are not problematic or harmful. But, again, there is treatment. For me, at least, I see an opportunity to broaden mine and my kids’ horizons. To read more and learn more. I have found the website The Conscious Kid to be a great resource not just for inclusive books, but also for how to do better at parenting good small humans. We remain a work in progress.
Speaking of diagnosing, with the arrival of the one-year anniversary of the coronavirus pandemic, I found this Washington Post collection of information on previous plagues morbidly fascinating.
And speaking of the pandemic, one of its less important but still noticeable effects on my life is that I have watched almost no new movies in the last year. One of the few I have seen was Nomadland, which was based on this excellent Harper’s article from 2014.
Book Reviews
I mentioned last month that mystery thrillers aren’t my preferred reading material, but I recently finished a mystery novel about mystery novels. Too meta? For you, maybe. Mysteries about mysteries are my preferred genre within the genre, I guess.
Eight Perfect Murders by Peter Swanson - This is a murder mystery about the owner of a bookstore that specializes in mystery novels. Obviously a connoisseur of the genre, Malcolm, the main character, once wrote a blog post about his favorite fictional murders, a list of eight deaths that has apparently inspired an unknown someone to bring them to life, so to speak. The book draws deep from the well of mystery novel lore and toys with one of its most common tropes: the unreliable narrator. I often think of these types of books as revolving around people who deal in real crime—think cops and private eyes, not booksellers—so the bookish-ness of the protagonist and the setting drew me in. Swanson sprinkles surprising twists throughout the book, which was entertaining but also made for a jerky pace. The detailed writing sets a nicely spooky mood, though, and raises some thought provoking questions about what killing and death can do to a person, and whether getting away with it is ever really possible.
If the idea of a mystery within mystery sounds good to you, also try this one, which I read and reviewed back in 2017.
Magpie Murders by Anthony Horowitz - I'm not a big reader of mysteries. Those who are may love this book more than I did. Or maybe this homage is actually not a particularly good one and they'll hate it? I honestly don't know. I did enjoy the reading of it. The story drags on a bit in the middle, but I felt sufficiently duped/surprised by both the larger mystery and the one within to make it an enjoyable read.
Of course, if you want to go to “the source,” as it were, for every mystery trope ever referenced, I would recommend The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie. I don’t have a review of this book, which I read in high school, other than to say that I remember that when I read it, my young mind was genuinely blown.
I mentioned blind spots above, and reading and learning more. One of the gaping holes in my reading has been books and stories by Muslim or Middle Eastern writers. This collection of stories genuinely felt like stepping into a brand new universe.
Him, Me and Muhammad Ali by Randa Jarrar - I devoured these stories about Muslim women and men in their homeland of Egypt or Palestine and in the United States. Jarrar's writing offers a familiar balance of the cynicism and magical thinking that most immigration or diaspora narratives can't help but dwell in. What was new (to me) was the world of Muslim America and the parts of the world that my narrow, Western-focused education ignored. There is a richness of detail, specificity that brings an unknown place into sharp focus, but also an emotional longing, an understanding from the author that ultimately the place is unknowable. That the very idea of home is unknowable. My favorite was the second to last, about a Palestinian architect. It ended at the bottom of the page and when I turned and saw that was the end, I cried. Not all the stories were perfect, but not a single word was wasted.
Lastly, having also mentioned the pandemic above, I should note that at some point, I plan to write about the books that will emerge from it, both fiction and non-fiction. In the meantime, as we consider the many books that will published about this plague, here’s my take on one about a plague of a different nature (cancer) that humans have dealt with for centuries. An outstanding work against which all texts about medicine and disease should be measured.
Emperor of All Maladies by Siddhartha Mukherjee - I haven't enjoyed a nonfiction read this much in a long time. Hard to explain how one can "enjoy" a book about cancer and its relentless devastation on humanity. But Mukherjee takes the notion that who our enemies are says a lot of about who we are and takes it to a philosophical as well as a molecular level. Cancer and how we have chosen to fight tell us a lot about our biological and genetic architecture but also about who we are as a society, what we value and how we approach a war that ultimately we cannot win. Very few scientists have such a wonderfully lyrical voice. Easily among the best books I've ever read.