About a year ago I wrote about the paradox of journaling. I had read about Thoreau’s journal. One commenter pointed to a guy who’d been keeping a diary on paper for 66 years. Not long after the post, I read Walter Isaacson’s biography of Leonardo Da Vinci. There, I discovered that more than 7,000 pages of Da Vinci’s notebooks have survived the 500 years since his death. I wondered, as did Isaacson, how many of my blog posts, tweets, and text files would exist 500 years from now.
A New Journal
So I started keeping a journal on paper again. My notebook of choice was the Moleskine Art Plus Sketchbook, A4 sized, hardcover. I optimistically ordered four of them. One of the challenges of journaling on paper is going back and searching for something. Given that I expected to index my journals, I decided that each entry would get a unique number, and I’d key my index to the entry number, rather than the page number. A year later, I have filled 2-1/2 of the Moleskine notebooks (about 241 pages) for a total of 823 distinct entries.
One thing I love about these journals is that they are multimedia. Read the post about the British diarist made me realize that what I put into the journal doesn’t have to be exclusively writing. So there are many pages with photos I’ve taken, pasted in. For instance, here’s an early page a few days after I started when I was attending a conference in Atlanta.
Another thing I started doing is writing short entries about books that I just finished reading. In these entries, I usually include a photo of the cover. Here is an example of one such entry after I read Essays of E. B. White.Other times, I might find some interesting picture that I really like in a magazine. This one might be from Outside magazine, I can’t remember. But bears, especially grizzlies, fascinate me.
In order to make things easier to find, I decided to index each volume after completing it. This was time consuming, and I ended filling something like 300 index cards.
So I opted, somewhat reluctantly, for an alternative: I actually type up each volume into a text file. I wrote a series of scripts to parse the text file and I now have at my fingertips, a set of commands I can run which will lead me to just about anything I am looking for in a few seconds. This isn’t the most efficient use of my time, but it is better than creating the index cards. And while the text files may get lost over time, I have a feeling the notebooks themselves will last.
Field Notes, redux
At the same time, I still keep my Field Notes notebook in my back pocket at all times. This is my repository of short term information, observations, and random notes, many of which get transposed to the Moleskine journal at the end of the day. I’ve gotten better at pulling my notebook out to write down observations, regardless of who might be standing around. (I used to feel self-conscious doing this.)
Moreover, I now keep two Field Notes notebooks in my pocket. One is for the same thing I’ve always used it for. The other is for jotting down books, articles, and other things that I might want to read someday. I used the Field Notes checklist notebook for this purpose.
Remember those old school Compositions books? Target has them in back-to-school sales for 50-cents each and I’ve bought dozens of them. I use them at work for everything I do. In the last year or so I’ve filled 4 of these 200-pages notebooks. Meeting notes go in them, but they also act as lab books for things I am working on. If I am writing code, or installing some software, the steps I followed get entered here, the error messages I encounters and how I worked around them. All of it goes into these notebooks. They have made a real difference in how prepared I feel.
I still use Evernote, but it is mostly automated these days. I pull in various statements automatically using FileThis. I still scan important paper that I get in the mail.
But I have to say that if my Going Paperless experiment taught me anything, it’s that my heart is with paper. There is something about a Field Notes notebook that Evernote simply can’t replicate. There is something about a Moleskine journal that Day One can’t touch.
Besides, I enjoy seeing the jumble of notebooks askew on the shelve above my desk at home. There is something remarkably comforting about that.
When it comes to discussion of books the three words I most dread are, “You should read….” I have developed a process for discovering books I want to read and I put my entire trust in that process. I call it the Butterfly Effect of Reading. I believe it is a result of the freedom I have had since I was very young to read pretty much whatever I wanted. I’ve gained a trust in my ability to know what will interest me far better than anyone else.
Before discussing the Butterfly Effect of Reading, I want to touch on two other reasons why I dread those three words. In both cases, it’s not that I don’t think I’d like the recommendation being offered. Instead, it’s that I know that it will likely be a very long time, if ever, before I read the recommended book and that fills me with guilt. After all, someone has gone out of their way to make a recommendation. It seems the least I could do to read what it is they are recommending–or at least give it a try. But there are two problems:
Call the first “typecasting.” When people learn that I have written science fiction stories, they seem to immediately assume that I enjoy science fiction movies. This is despite my having said it repeatedly here on the blog, at conventions, and elsewhere, I am, generally speaking, not a fan of sci-fi movies, and I rarely, if ever watch them. Similarly, if people know I am a science fiction writer, they will often recommend science fiction books to read. But I don’t really read much science fiction anymore. I have, at least for the time being, lost interest in it. Or better yet, I have gained interest in other things.
Second is what I would call “synchronicity.” Unless someone is regularly consulting my reading list, it would be hard to know what topic is currently occupying my mind. Upon learning I am a reader, a friend might suggest the latest Vince Flynn novel, when, in fact, my state of mind is centered around mid-twentieth century history. The recommendation someone makes, “You should read the latest Vince Flynn novel,” might be a perfectly valid one, and the book might be one I enjoy, but there is no way I am going to give up what I am reading at the moment to switch to the Vince Flynn novel. We’re just not mentally in sync on what we are reading.
Back to the Butterfly Effect of Reading: Even if the Vince Flynn recommendation is something that I would like, I can never commit to it until I am ready, and it is hard to say when I will be ready because of the butterfly effect of reading. Much of what I read next is based on what I am reading now, but only in a random sort of way. For example, I am at the time of this writing reading The Fifties by David Halberstam. I often have a short list of the next few books I’d like to read. That list, when I started The Fifties, included Up From Slavery by Booker T. Washington, and Rush by Stephen Fried. But that small queue is very sensitive to what I am currently reading. So, as I read the chapter in The Fifties on the arms race and the making of the h-bomb, I was reminded of my long-standing desire to read Dark Sun by Richard Rhodes. (The Making of the Atomic Bomb by Rhodes was so good I read it twice.) Suddenly, Dark Sun went to the top of the queue. A chapter I read today may send me off in another direction. I have a great deal of trust in my own sense of what interests me, and especially in how this butterfly effect of reading works upon me, and that takes precedence over all recommendations from others.
The Butterfly Effect of Reading works in other ways. Last week, I was in Denver for a work-related conference. One of the speakers at the conference was Pulitzer prize-winning journalist Charles Duhigg. I was, at the time, reading Team of Rivals by Doris Kearns Goodwin. After listening to Duhigg speak, I was impressed and decided to bump his book, The Power of Habit up toward the top of my queue. I read it a few days ago, and enjoyed it.
Sometimes the Butterfly Effect of Reading acts as an alert for a set of mental lists I keep: authors I like or books I am anticipating. I know, for instance, that the new Stephen King novella, Elevation is coming out at the end of the month. That will jump onto my queue, bumping other things already there. Ditto for the second volume of Gary Giddin’s biography of Bing Crosby, Bing Crosby: Swinging on a Star: The War Years, 1940-1946, set to hit bookstores around the same time as Elevation. And each of these books holds its own set of random connections, which may push the books that are in my queue today further down the line. You can see, therefore, that recommendations I get from friends might get shunted again and again until it becomes embarrassing to admit that I have not yet checked out the book.
When discussing books with friends, I try hard to avoid saying, “You should read…” unless I am explicitly asked for a recommendation. When I write about the books I read, I try to cast my writing as books that I enjoyed. There is absolutely no way I can tell if you would enjoy them. I do this because I am sensitive to the hypocrisy of recommending books when I don’t take well to such recommendations myself. I am not always successful, but I always bear it in mind.
My butterfly effect method of finding what to read has its flaws. As someone recently pointed out to me, my reading list would likely be enhanced by increased diversity in authors: more women and people of color. While this is certainly true, my methods for choosing what I want to read often overrides other sensibilities. My willpower is weak in this regard. I can stand in front of a display of cakes and cookies and without a second thought, ignore it and pass it by. But despite my efforts to maintain a disciplined queue of books I want to read next, something else will catch my fancy and I’ll throw it all out the window for that one read. This has been the way of things since at least college, when I had to read something for class, but would often put it off because I found something more interesting to read first.
For me, the Butterfly Effect of Reading is one of the most wonderful thing about books. In some respects, it is like the World Wide Web with hyperlinks acting as the connective tissue between seeming disparate topics. With the Butterfly Effect, those links remain unseen until I stumble right on them. There’s no advanced warning, no blue underlines calling them out. They are hidden doors that remain undiscovered until you realize you are standing before one, and dare to open it and see what’s inside.
Over the last twenty five years, I have kept a journal more often than I have not. Over the last 14 I have written more than 6,000 posts on this blog. Over the last 11 years I have tweeted more than 25,000 times. There’s a lot for me to look back on if I wanted to learn something about myself. Despite all of that, when I want to know the story of my life (at least since 1996) I turn to my reading list.
I have kept a list of every book I have finished since January 1, 1996. The entries are brief. Each book gets a number. I record the title, the author, the medium (paper, e-book, audiobook), the number of pages (or listening time) and the date I finished reading it. If I like a book enough to want to read it again (or recommend it, if asked for a recommendation), I mark it with an asterisk. The list has been with me for nearly 25 years, growing one entry at time, at what often feels like a snails pace. The most recent entry, made just a few days ago, is as follows:
805. The Double Helix: A Personal Account of the Discovery of the Structure of DNA by James D. Watson; 256pp/4:11 (9/23/2018)
This reading list, the master source of which is kept in a red covered, college ruled Composition notebook, acts as a kind of memory primer for the story of my life. I can flip to any page in the book (I’ve filled 35 pages so far), randomly point to an entry, and at once can recall where I was, and what was going on in my life while I was reading the book in question.
In addition to the entries I make into my Composition book, I replicate the entries in a text file which I make available online, for those who might be curious.
Such lists seem pretty hard to come by, but they do exist. The reading list I’ve followed along the longest, that seems similar in character and format to my own is Eric W. Leuliette’s “What I have read since 1974“. Another one is none other than Art Garfunkel’s reading list–which goes back to 1968. Strangely, though, I’ve been hard-pressed to find many others. I think Goodreads might have killed the notion of a simple list of books one’s read, or at least vastly overcomplicated it.
I was glad, therefore, to discover Pamela Paul’s book, My Life With Bob: Flawed Heroine Keeps Book of Books. The “Bob” to whom Paul refers is her “book of books,” a list of all the books she’s read from the time she was a teenager. The book itself uses her book of books as a focal point for a literary memoir. It made me think about my own version of Bob:
For a book to get on the list I have to finish it. I am surprisingly strict at enforcing this rule. To be otherwise would be to somehow cheat myself. Paul also tracked books she didn’t finish. I think my list would be at least twice as long if I tracked books that I didn’t finish.
What constitutes a book? Here I am less strict and give myself the benefit of the doubt. For instance, I’ve included on my list all of the issues of Astounding Science Fiction I read for my Vacation in the Golden Age series, even though they are magazines. I justified this to myself by saying that, at around 60-80,000 words per issue, they were as long as a book. A handful of novellas have made it onto the list, but always when they were in the form of a standalone book. And I’ve counted audiobooks as books because the text is the same as the printed book, which is good enough for me.
Paul argued that her book of books was revealing about herself and she was reluctant to share it with others. I am the opposite in this regard. While the list might be revealing, the context surrounding the books is virtually invisible except to me. Then, too, I make the list available in part because I wish there were more lists like this available to peruse for suggestions.
I have, over the years, pulled various metrics from my reading list. Here are some interesting stats:
The 805 books I’ve read amounts to 330,802 pages, or about 14,300 pages per year over the 23 year period I’ve kept the list.
The average length of a book on the list is 410 pages.
The longest book I’ve read is Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898 by Edwin G. Burrows. It was 1,424 pages. I have read 14 books that are 1,000 pages or longer.
In 2013 I started listening to audiobooks in addition to reading e-books and paper books. The volume up my reading has gone up dramatically since. The table below illustrates the impact of the change
The list is fun for pulling out these statistics, but perhaps even more, the list tells the story of my life better than anything else I have written. Opening randomly to page 26, my eye falls on entry number 625:
655. This Old Man by Roger Angell, 320pp (11/25/2015)
Despite this being nearly 3 years ago, I still remember walking to a nearby ABC store to pick up some tequila for margaritas while listening to the book. Seeing the title brings me back to that walk. Another random roll and we land on:
431. Booklife by Jeff VanderMeer, 329pp (7/13/2010)
Seeing this entry, I am suddenly seated in a bar at Logan Airport, waiting for my flight back from a recent Readercon, and the time slipped by unnoticed as I am totally absorbed by this original book on the writer’s life. A flip back to the very beginning of the list:
7. A Tour of the Calculus by David Berlinski, 331pp (3/31/1996)
I don’t remember much about the book, but I remember sitting on the balcony of my small Studio City apartment, with my chair tilted back against the wall, reading this one.
At a glance, I see a title and am somewhere else. Blue Highways by William Least-Heat Moon (no. 577) puts me on the long drive from Virginia to Maine. Wise Man’s Fear by Patrick Rothfuss (no. 653, second time reading the book) transports me to a cool fall evening watching my son at soccer practice while I listen to Nick Podehl’s wonderful narration. I see book no. 199, John Adams by David McCullough, and it is nighttime in Castine, Maine. Everything is silent and out the windows it is pitch dark, and there I am in the midst of the American Revolution.
On September 11, 2001, I was reading Salem’s Lot by Stephen King (book no. 208). On the day my grandfather died I was reading Gateway by Frederik Pohl (book no. 300). On the day Frederik Pohl died, I was reading Salinger by David Shields and Shane Salerno (book no. 539).
On the day my son was born I was reading Polaris by Jack McDevitt (book no. 408), the very first e-book to appear on my list. When my middle daughter was born, I was reading Astounding Science Fiction, April 1941 edited by John Campbell (book no. 464). And on the day my youngest daughter was born, I was reading Up Till Now by William Shatner (book no. 650).
There aren’t a lot of things I really enjoy browsing, but a good, simple reading list is one of them. It’s too bad that Goodreads has put such simple lists on the endangered species list.
Over the last few years I’ve read several books that I enjoyed so much, I wanted to know more about their authors. I recently completed Dumas Malone’s 6-volume biography of Thomas Jefferson, Jefferson and His Times. It took Malone decades to complete. I was fascinated by the sheer dogged persistence of someone completing such a monumental task. It seemed like it was more than a task. It felt like a quest.
I have also read the first four volumes of Will and Ariel Durant’s 11-volume Story of Civilization series. I’ve loved those books not just for the history, but for the wonderful writing style. The first volume of the series was published in 1935, years before the beginning of the Second World War. The final volume was published in 1975. All told, it took the Durants 40 years to write the books.
As interesting as I have found these books, I am equally intrigued by the authors. I want to know more about them. After completing Jefferson and His Times, I did some searching and found My Long Journey with Mr. Jefferson: The Life of Dumas Malone by William C. Hyland. This biography was just as enjoyable as the story of Jefferson’s life.
At present, I am also reading A Dual Autobiography by Will and Ariel Durant, hoping gain insight into the authors of such a massive history of civilization.
I have come away from these books with a similar insight I’ve taken from books like Red: The Life and Times of a Great American Writer by Ira Berkow, One Man’s Meat by E. B. White, and Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process by John McPhee: these writers of vastly different backgrounds, and writing on vastly different subjects all managed to do the writing and research without the aid of computers and the Internet.
Much of the shop talk I’ve been involved in with other writers centers around the tools we use: word processors, thought-organizers, outlining tools, citation aids, search engines, discussion boards, etc.
I don’t know why it fascinates me, but I love reading about early twentieth century reporters and writers and how they worked in those seemingly dark ages of technology. They took notes on paper. There were no voice recorders so some reporters learned shorthand. They did research in libraries, and often traveled the world (as the Durants did) as part of their effort to get to source material.
Entire multivolume books were written longhand, the paper handed to typists who produced manuscript copy which served as the basis for the text of the book. While there may have been frustrations over poor ribbon quality, or somewhat messy copy, no one was complaining that their typewriter was “frozen” or that they forgot to save their work for the day. Things like spell-checking didn’t exist in their present form, but were easy enough with a dictionary at hand.
It also seems like these writers provided a treasure trove to archivists that modern writers may lack. Edits can be seen on the page in these old manuscripts. First drafts are often handwritten with cross-outs, corrections, and marginal notes right there on the yellowing pages. It is easy to see the transformation of research notes into final book form because every step is preserved on paper. Today, even a first draft in a word processor is not quite the same as a first draft on paper. Typos, corrections, and changes of thoughts vanish in the digital ether and all we see is the resulting text, not the thought process behind it.
Perhaps I am romanticizing the labor that went into production of epics works like The Story of Civilization or Jefferson and His Times. It is entirely possible that the Durants and Malone complained bitterly about the inadequacies of the typewriter and pen, the limitations of the card catalog and carbon paper. But I’ve found no evidence for this. I think the Durants and Malone and many others could be as productive as they were, and could produce massive volumes of well-researched material as readily as they could because they were not distracted by the bells and whistles of technology. They didn’t worry about formatting and style sheets and the format of the files they saved, and whether or not they saved them, or were working on the right version of the document. They focused on the content and the tools were simple enough to not intrude on that process.
I often daydream of being a sportswriter like Red Smith, sitting in a smoke-filled press box, with a portable typewriter before me, watching a ballgame unfold below as I tap away at the noisy keys, knowing that what I wrote on the pages that emerged from my typewriter would appear in newspapers across the country the following day.
“There is no Frigate like a Book to take us Lands away.” —Emily Dickinson
The importance of books
My parents taught me the importance of books. They surrounded me with books, read to me, and encouraged my love of books. As a child of the 1970s, I was lucky: There were 3 television stations, and no video games to serve as a distractions. I remember my mom telling me that books could take you anywhere. I knew that she didn’t mean literally, but I learned that my imagination filled in enough of the gaps to make the distinction meaningless. Books could take me anywhere.
I remember staring at the books in my parent’s and grandparents house longingly. Once I could read, I read the titles and authors and they were like magic incantations: Eye of the Needle, The Thornbirds, Hunt for Red October, Tropic of Cancer, and mysterious names like John Le Carre, which I always pronounced, “la car.”
Learning to read
I learned to read in grade school. In Kindergarten we had this wonderful flip-board story about Milton the Monkey and his adventures. Each adventure tackled a letter of the alphabet, one for the capital and one for the lowercase. That is how I learned the alphabet.
The process of learning to read is a blur. Today, it feels like something I have always known. But I do remember sounding out L-O-V-E and the thrill I felt in the achievement stayed with me right down to this very moment. I remember struggling with words early on, especially when reading aloud. I remember wondering if I would ever be able to read as smoothly as my teachers or parents read. It seemed like it would never happen, but eventually it did. I remind my kids of this today, as they learn to read.
In first grade I discovered a book called The Nine Planets by Franklyn M. Branley. The book was midwife to love of science and astronomy. I checked our of the library repeatedly, and can remember reading it, so I was reading (haltingly) in first grade.
There were other books along the way: abridged and illustrated editions of Robin Hood and Treasure Island that seemed daunting. There were four of the blue bound Hardy Boys books on a shelf. I remember being fascinated by Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing (read in third grade). I looked forward to the Weekly Reader. I picked out books on ghost stories, and mysteries, sometimes combining the two, as in The Mystery of the Green Ghost. There were books on Bigfoot and UFOs. There was a fantasy book, David and the Phoenix, which may well have been the first novel that I read on my own. Today it would be called a YA novel. There was a remarkable story I read in my four or fifth grade reading textbook called “How Baseball Began in Brooklyn.” I have never been able to find it again, but it was wonderful.
Libraries and the great awakening
As a small boy, I went with my mom to the Franklin Township library, near my house. I remember the stacks of books and I couldn’t believe that so many books could possibly exist in the world. And I could actually borrow these books. It was amazing.
I was always fascinated by the school library. When we moved to New England when I was in second grade, the school library was a big open area between corridors. Books lined the walls. The center had tables and displays, and smaller bookcases. Just walking along the shelfs, looking at the book spines was a thrill.
It was when we moved to Los Angeles, when I was in sixth grade, that I really discovered the power of the library. I would walk to the Granada Hills library, about a mile or so from my house. In the summers, the walk was hot, but the library was air-conditioned and blessedly cool. It was at this library that my reading expanded.
I had mostly read fiction with an occasional nonfiction book. But once I had access to the Granada Hills library, I experimented with everything. I could spend what seemed like hours walking through the stacks. I’d take some books and sit at a reading carrell, flipping through the pages, skimming here and there. I realized that if there was something I wanted to know about I could look it up in the library. I was fascinated by the card catalog, and became a whiz at using it to find what I was looking for. It’s hard to describe the feeling, but I suppose it is something akin to an amateur golfer finding in a golf course, everything they could ever want.
Oddly, I have no memory of my high school library, but in college, the library was a like temple to me, and I’d often seek out desolate, quite places where I could study and stare at the books that surrounded me.
Using the tools
By the time I reached high school, I knew how to read. I mean that I don’t think I read any faster today than I did when I was in high school. What high school taught me was how to think critically about what I read. Looking back, I consider myself a naive reader before high school. I never really thought to question what I read, or apply what I read in one domain of knowledge to another domain of knowledge.
All of that changed in high school. I went to a humanities magnet high school in Los Angeles in the late innings of the 1980s. We didn’t have traditional English and History classes. Instead, we rotated through a set of four “core” humanities classes: philosophy, literature, social institutions, and art history. These classes taught me how to think about what I read, and exposed me to the kind of reading I had never come across on my own. We read Plato and Socrates. Some of it was boring, but the parts that weren’t made it worthwhile. We read Shakespeare. We read Vonnegut and Richard Wright. It was in high school that I began to form my own opinions about what I read, rather than regurgitate summaries. I decided, for instance, that Henry V was my favorite Shakespeare play, and the Tempest was my least favorite. It felt good to have opinions!
We read books I would never have chosen, but was grateful for reading: Day of the Locusts, The Painted Bird, and Ragged Dick to name just a few.
One of the biggest takeaways from high school was that so long as you felt you understood what you were reading, and had some sense of the context of it, you could disagree with your teachers, and others on what was good and bad. I never liked A Tale of Two Cities and the fact that I had to read it in school nearly turned me off of Dickens forever. This confidence has had positive and negative side-effects. I never worry about differing in opinion on a book with friends or family. On the other hand, I rarely ask for or take recommendations from people I know, simply because I know my own tastes better than anyone else. This is unfair to others, true, but I put some of the blame on being forced to read things that I didn’t like. I dread little more than the words, “You should read…”
Learning to learn
College taught me to use those these skills to learn. It seems to me that the wide variety of classes I took in college (from cultural anthropology to organic chemistry to constitutional law to entomology to history and film) provided different tools for learning, all of which depended on reading and books.
Constitutional law taught me how to write a succinct argument.
Organic chemistry taught me the importance of showing my work. Before organic chemistry, I had the neatest lab books, everything copied neatly over from my original notes. After organic chemistry, my lab books and other notes were far more messy because I worked out everything there, crossed out (but didn’t erase) my mistakes. They became a kind of history my progress.
Classes on political theory taught me how to do proper research.
Classes on journalism taught me the conciseness of reporting. Often in meetings to this day, I try to focus on the who, what, when, where, how, and why to get the point as quickly as possible.
By the time I completed four years of college, and walked away with a B.A. in political science and journalism, I had all the tools I needed to begin learning in earnest.
II. Why I read
“Books became his academy, his college. The printed word united his mind with the great mind of generations past.” —Doris Kearns Goodwin, Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln.
My informal education
I read to learn. I read because just when I was in the optimal position to continue my formal education and really start to learn, I went out and got a job. I read to provide myself with an informal education using the tools I learned from my parents, grade school, high school, and college. It turns out that this informal education has now lasted nearly a quarter of a century, and is far better than anything I imagine a graduate education in a specialized field could have provided me. But it is never enough. I always want more. As John Adams once said, “I read my eyes out and can’t read half enough… the more one reads the more one sees we have to read.”
I call it an informal education, but only because it has less structure than what a university setting might provide. The structure is straight-forward. In late 1995 I set a goal: read one book per week, or 52 books per year. In order to track my progress, I needed to track what I read. Thus, my reading list was born.
In learning to read, I’d learned to learn. Now I wanted to learn as much as I could. About everything. And so, I started my list and the first entry was for a collection of Isaac Asimov science essays, recorded as book #1 on my list. 22 years later, I just passed my 800th book.
The butterfly effect
My education is guided by a principle akin to the butterfly effect. I might read a book about Leonardo da Vinci and end up, ten books later on a book about Alaska:
Leonardo Da Vinci by Walter Isaacson
The Man Who Loved China by Simon Winchester
Genghis Kahn and the Making of the Modern World by Jack Weatherford
Paper: Paging Through History by Mark Kurlansky
The Map That Changed the World by Simon Winchester
The Stranger in the Woods by Michael Finkel
The Lost City of Z by David Grann
Walden On Wheels by Ken Ilgunas
1491: New Revelations of America Before Columbus by Charles C. Mann
Coming into the Country by John McPhee
This butterfly effect controls my curriculum and is the best force for education that I have ever encountered. While occasionally, one book logically follows another, sometimes there are odd jumps. I read the book on Genghis Kahn after reading an article in Money magazine about the richest people in history relative to the current dollar. (Khan was one of the richest.)
The butterfly effect acts as a kind of natural selection for reading. I don’t know exactly how it works, but I have discovered that its selection of books has gotten better over time. While I don’t rate books (I think rating books is silly), I do mark a book as one I’d recommend or read again. The number of books so marked has increased in frequency over time. This tells me that whatever force is at work behind this butterfly effect, is getting better over time.
I practice what I call applied reading. I try to take something practical and useful from everything I read. Sometimes, that comes in the form of other books to read. Other times, it is practical, real-world advice that I can apply to my life. The best self-help books out there are the stories of remarkable achievements other people have made. For instance, the best books I’ve read on project management didn’t come from the Self-Help shelf. One was The Making of the Atomic Bomb by Richard Rhodes. The other: Moon Lander: How We Developed the Lunar Module by Thomas J. Kelly. Both of these books described how real people solved real problems in the real world, and I took invaluable lessons from these books that have helped my manage projects at work.
I am constantly marking up the books I read. I learned long ago that to learn the most I can from a book, I need to make it mine. I underline passages and write in the margins. Looking at a book I read reveals much about what I was thinking about while reading it. This helps me apply what I read.
Knowledge is power
Education is the foundation of a democracy. When education fails, that foundation begins to crumble. For me, it is a lifelong pursuit. That foundation needs constant reinforcement. I can’t force others to want to learn new things, but I can learn new things myself, and in doing so, I can do my part to help keep that foundation intact.
As Thomas Jefferson once said, “Educate and inform the whole mass of the people. They are the only sure reliance for the preservation of our liberty.”
Write what you know! That old advice and my lack of writing on this blog might lead one to believe that I know nothing. I have neglected the blog far too long, but I was tired of the kinds of things I had been writing about. So I’ve decided to take that old advice and write about what I know–and love–reading.
I plan to start writing a weekly post on what I have been reading. I am not planning on writing book reviews. Instead, I plan on writing about the themes and items of interest I come across in my reading. I’ll write about my books and how I use them. I’ll write about my notions on applied reading. I’ll write about reading lists, and about my thoughts on book recommendations. I’ll write about libraries and bookstores. All of it will ultimately be tied to something I have read. To get a real sense of what I mean, you’ll just have to check it out, if you are so inclined.
The first post will appear on Tuesday, September 18. And since it is a kind of a debut post, I’ll use it to tell you why I read.
In the meantime, if you are interested in what I have read recently, you can check out my reading list. And if you take a peek over there in the sidebar, you can see what I am reading at the moment.
Baseball is a game of senses: the roar of the crowd. The crack of the bat. The smell of the popcorn. The feel of the worn leather mat. The green and browns of the field against a blue sky. The taste of Big League Chew, or a cold beer in the stands. Amidst the sounds the of the game, there is an undercurrent that I often participate in without ever hearing: the voices.
Last week at my son’s game I paid closer attention to those voices, marveling in the patterns and the encouragement I heard. This week, I took notes during one inning. Here’s the voices of the game as I heard them, sitting behind home plate and scribbling rapidly into my Field Notes notebook.
Top of the inning
“Here you go buddy, eyes on the ball.”
“There you go! Run! Run! Run! Good hustle buddy.”
“Okay, coming to you.”
“Good cut. Straighten her out.”
“There you go! Alright!”
“Come on now!”
“Good cut. Keep your eyes on it. Hands to the ball.:”
This weekend a friend told me about the Sports Illustrated 100 Best Sports Books of All Time. I don’t think I’d known about this list before, and I was immediately intrigued. As with the Modern Library Top 100 Nonfiction Books, I immediately picked through the list to see what I had already read. Turns out that I’ve read five of the 100 books on the list:
#1 The Sweet Science by A.J. Liebling (1956)
#3 Ball Four by Jim Bouton (1970)
#24 The Natural by Bernard Malamud (1952)
#35 The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Garrard (1922)
#47 Shoeless Joe by W.P. Kinsella (1982)
I like lists like these. They don’t dictate my reading. I don’t try to read every book on the list. They are more like rivers meandering through a literary wilderness. Sometimes, I’ll come to the river unexpectedly and cast a line. Other times, especially when I can’t quite figure out which way to go, I’ll find the river, and see what’s there.
As I stood along its bank this weekend I noted several books that I have been wanting to read for some time:
#2 The Boys of Summer by Roger Kahn (1971)
#11 A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean (1976)
#18 The Summer Game by Roger Angell (1972)
#39 The Red Smith Reader by Red Smith (1982)
#48 Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer (1997)
#49 Eight Men Out by Eliot Asinof (1963)
#57 The Glory of Their Times by Lawrence Ritter (1966)
#93 No Cheering in the Press Box by Jerome Holtzman (1973)
There were other books that I was not familiar with that piqued my interest almost at once, among them:
#5 You Know Me Al by Ring Lardner (1914)
#8 Paper Lion by George Plimpton (1965)
#19 The Long Season by Jim Brosnan (1960)
#22 Fat City by Leonard Gardner (1969)
#40 An Outside Chance: Essays on Sport by Thomas McGuane (1980)
#42 The Celebrant by Eric Rolfe Greenberg (1983)
#52 Dollar Sign on the Muscle by Kevin Kerrane (1984)
#61 The Universal Baseball Associate, Inc. by Robert Coover (1968)
#74 Only the Ball Was White by Robert Peterson (1970)
#75 Harvey Penick’s Little Red Book by Harvey Penick (1992)
#77 Annapurna by Maurice Herzog (1951)
#82 Farewell to Sport by Paul Gallico (1930)
#90 Road Swing by Steve Rushin (1998)
At the moment, I’m not all that close to this particular river, and it is hard to say when I’ll reach it again. At least I know it is well-stocked. So are the other rivers that I sometimes encounter on this journey of mine.
This morning I finished my 784th book since January 1, 1996. It is a milestone. When I started keeping my list, I had a goal of reading a book a week, or 52 books a year. For the first 17 years, I never hit my goal, although I’ve come close. Then, in 2013, I read 54 books, finally hitting and surpassing my initial goal.
I’m always amazed when I read how people like Thomas Jefferson read tens of thousands of books in their lifetime. The math for me doesn’t even come close. But I’ve often wondered if it would be possible to read 100 books in a year.
That is the significance of my 784th book. One year ago, I had just completed by 684th book. That means that in the last 365 days, I’ve read 100 books.
Indeed, in the first half of 2018, I read 62 books totaling over 29,000 pages, more than I have read in any single previous year. (The book I finished today, Undaunted Courage by Stephen E. Ambrose was my 66th of the year.). In the calendar year that puts me on track of reading 120 books.
I’ve been reading so much that it is hard to keep up. Usually, when I finish a book, I write notes about what I read in my journal. It helps my memory of the book. I also copy any highlights I’ve made there so it acts as a kind of commonplace book. But I’ve been reading so much, so quickly that I am now 20 books behind in my notes. I’ve got to find a block of time to catch up.
The speed is due to several factors:
I listen to audiobooks and have gradually increased the speed at which I listen to where 1.5x sounds normals to me. That means I finish a book in two thirds of the time it would normally take (e.g. a 15 hours book I can finish in 10 hours of listening).
I listen longer during the day than I used to. In June, for instance, I average a little over 5 hours of actual listening time each day. At 1.5x speed that’s the equivalent of 7.5 hours of listening each day.
I read more than one thing. Usually when I am reading an audiobook, I am also reading something on the Kindle or paper. These go more slowly but they add up.
For instance, I just finished my 784th book today, but I will likely also finish my 785th book today, which I have been reading separately.
I know these are just numbers but they please me because I love to read. Books form the foundation of my real education. High school and college taught me how to learn. Reading has taught me nearly everything else.
I am 550 pages into my third attempt at reading Will Durant’s Age of Faith. This time, I think I’m going to finish it. I’ve always been interested in history, largely because it teaches us that anything we are experiencing today, no matter how strange or absurd it seems, is nothing new. It’s all happened before. But I am also fascinated by Will Durant and his (and his wife, Ariel) lifetime of work on 11 volumes that encompasses a large span of human history. The first volume was published in 1935, the 11th in 1975.
Much of my reading these days is through audiobooks, but in this instance, I am listening to the book, and reading at the same time. Not only am I reading (I have all 11 books in print), but I am highlighting and annotating as I go. A friend of mine told me perhaps 20 years ago that The Age of Faith was not only the longest (my edition is 1,196 pages, making it the second longest book I’ve read), but the most erudite. I’ve made two previous attempts at reading it, and both petered out.
I can’t begin to describe how much I am enjoying it this time around. There are many things I love about Will Durant’s writing—his style being not the least of them. But he writes equal force on those anonymous people of history as he does the famous. What I am finding as I move through the Age of Faith is very personal feeling of the passage of time. Some people are mentioned in only a sentence—an entire life encapsulated it a dozen words. And yet… their name lives on in Durant’s books.
The Age of Faith covers the period of time leading to and through the Dark Ages. When Durant set out to write the series, I think the thought there would be only five books, making Age of Faith the middle of the series. That there are seven books beyond this one makes me very happy.
I do a lot of writing on paper these days, and that means carrying around pen. I am almost never without 3 Pilot G-2 pens (black, blue, and red), or a Field Notes notebook. I write a kind of journal in a large Moleskine Sketchbook. And I write my fiction these days (first drafts, anyway) in composition books.
Measuring how much I write on paper is more challenging than at the keyboard. At the keyboard, I can put together all kinds of automation to track word counts. On paper, it’s trickier, especially when I have three different kinds of notebooks for three different types of writing.
Wait long enough, however, and a solution will present itself, as it did for me today. I was working on my novel, scribbling away in a red camouflage-covered Composition book when right smack in the middle of a scene, my pen ran out of ink. I keep spare pens in my backpack. I tossed the old pen and pulled out a spare, and continued writing. The pen had died mid-sentence, so there was a bit of momentum I had to regain, but it wasn’t anything particularly difficult. In fact, writing was going great guns today.
Later, when I finished, I wondered about that pen running out of ink. How long had I been using it? And I remembered that the last time my pen ran out of ink, I jotted a note in the margin of my journal. I wrote “New pen today.” So I went wandering backward through time, leafing through the current volume of my journal to see when that was. It turned out to be Wednesday, April 18. I think that puts it about 50 days ago. So my black Pilot G-2 lasted 50 days. That amounts to 30 pages of journal writing, about 100 pages of notes for the day job, and more or less an entire Field Notes notebook, to say nothing of the 15 or so pages of novel I’ve written in that time.
Of course, not all of that ink gets on the page. I typically keep my Field Notes notebook and all three pens in my back left pocket. I’ve got three or four pairs of shorts, each of which with black, blue, and red ink stains on the pocket. A few shirt pockets have been sanctified in similar fashion. I suppose I could get a pocket protector, but the ink stains are more colorful. They somehow legitimize my status as a writer.
Over time, I’ve grown tired of tracking how many words I’ve written. I much prefer to focus on writing. But I have to say, there’s something subversive about reporting the amount I’ve written in Pens.
“How long is the current novel?” someone asks.
“Well, let’s see. I started it on June 1. Today is July 20, so that makes it just about 2 Pens long.”
Or even better, imagine the delight of submitting a manuscript, and in place of a word count at the top right corner of the first page, seeing something like this:
Vermont is offering people $10,000 to move and work there. That sounds appealing to me, although I admit it would sound appealing even without the financial inducement. We spent a week in the hills above Woodstock, Vermont last summer, and the desolation, the quiet, and the slowness of life formed the perfect anodyne to my normally hectic, crowded lifestyle.
I’m not sure when it started, but for some time now, I’ve been dreaming of small towns and slow lives in the same way I used to dream about being a published writer when I was young. I call it my midlife crisis. No sports car for me—give me wilderness, acres without another house in sight; give me small towns where everyone knows everyone else, and news from the town spreads outward from the general store.
Not long ago, I was explaining these feelings to a friend. I couldn’t quite put it into words so I grabbed a napkin (we had just finished a barbecue dinner), pulled one of the ever-present Pilot G-2s out of my back pocket and sketched out the following diagram:
I have lived much of my life in urban areas, or the suburbs of large urban areas. Moreover, since leaving home for college, my life has gotten steadily busier to the point where at times, the pace of things is frantic.
It seems to me, therefore, that my days pivot around two axes: how crowded my space is, and how crowded my time is. The y-axis on the drawing, the urban/rural axis, represents space density. The x-axis, the busy/bored axis represents time density. I’ve lived in that crowded upper-right corner for a long time. It’s no wonder I am craving something different.
I imagine that people who grow up in rural areas sometimes dream of living in the big city the way I dream of moving to the country. It’s the grass-is-always-greener syndrome. In reality (outside my rose-colored imagination), rural living would have its challenges. But I admire people who are able to make the change. I recall reading fondly of E. B. White, who, after years in New York City, gave up writing regularly for The New Yorker and moved to Brooklin, Maine. There, he ran a little farm, which became the subject of his One Man’s Meat column in Harpers, to say nothing of the stage for Charlotte’s Web.
What would I gain from living in the country? Swapping the sounds of car motors and airplanes and helicopters overhead for the sounds of birds, the whine of insects would be a start. I love the sounds of the country as much as I detest the background noise of the city. I’ve learned to tune it out, but it takes an effort. It would be nice to listen for a change.
Life is fast in the big city. I’ve been running that race for a long time, and I’m ready for a slower pace. I used to think busy was a good thing—cramming as much into every day as possible. Just look back at posts I wrote 5 years ago and its everywhere. Now things are different. I’ve been frantically busy long enough. I’m ready to slow things down. I’m ready for a calendar that doesn’t overwhelm me each time I look at it.
But the pace of life isn’t changing (much), and the country will have to wait a while longer. This is part of the reason I started to write again. In stories, just as in my imagination, I can live where I want. My characters can slow down their lives, even if I can’t slow down mine. And while it isn’t quite the same thing, it does help a little.
Still, I am looking for ways to move that stick figure version of me close to that daydream version. I think I’ll get there someday, but the road is still a long one.