Snapback
by: Jennifer Panes
Last year, I read fifty books. While it may not seem like that many to some (notably the founder of this website), it was a lot for me. I have always been an avid and enthusiastic reader, but my reading typically comes in waves: six books on a week-long vacation; five over Christmas break. The reason I don’t read more consistently is not a lack of time or interest, but rather that reading takes an emotional toll on me that I can’t shoulder in my everyday life.
In a year when there was nothing to do, exacerbated by being unemployed for nine months, I finally felt free to indulge myself and read as much as I could. I would select books on my local bookstore’s website and pick them up with a thick, canvas bag so I could hold them all at once. I would spend hours each day flipping their pages, as dedicated (or perhaps more dedicated) to reading them as I had once been to my corporate job. It gave each day structure and purpose and ensured I was never bored.
After reading constantly for weeks, months, on end, I took a break. The joy of reading for me is not just in the excitement of storytelling or the beauty in a particularly well-structured sentence, but rather in the way my mind runs after a book is over. Whether it is wondering about what could have been for the main character, or thinking of how I would have changed the structure, or revisiting a memorable scene, a book is never over, for me, with the epilogue. The ghosts of each character stay with me, hauntingly, until new ghosts from a new story replace them.
The problem with this stalking by fictional characters is that it is exhausting. It sets my brain alight. I am revising and rewriting someone else’s story constantly in my head, without end. Worse, though, than offering free editorial services to each author’s work (I should start charging), is that it doesn’t stop with the manuscript. Instead, each story bleeds into me, its meaning more than just its words, and I unwittingly absorb them all, whole.
I have always had malleable edges; my identity bends and blurs depending on what I consume. I watched Grey’s Anatomy when applying to university and I was convinced I needed to apply to neuroscience programs so that I could be a brain surgeon (spoiler: I am never and was never capable of being a brain surgeon). I thought I should become a news anchor after reading Megyn Kelly’s memoir. Psychoanalysis might suggest that my willingness to shapeshift suggests an unhappiness with myself — that I would rather be anyone other than me.
I don’t think that is the case, though. Trying on someone else’s life has always held appeal, but I have found that I snap back to myself eventually, a rubber band that only stretches itself temporarily before resuming its original circularity. It wasn’t until last year, after reading so much, that I worried the band might snap instead.
It is so seamless, the way the ghosts get into my head. They lodge themselves and merge with me so that I am unable to tell who is who. I can no longer tell who is calling the shots in my life; whether it is me that wants something or the many ghosts swimming in my brain convincing me of my desire. Only with hindsight can I know for certain who was guiding whom — once the ghosts have faded, or at least been replaced with new, upgraded models (zombies?).
At a time in my life when I was unsure where to turn next - in between jobs and possibly careers — reading just seemed too dangerous. I needed to make decisions without the presence of interlopers. God forbid I decided to become a doctor (again) after reading When Breath Becomes Air, only to realize later (and also, again!) that it is not a dream I should pursue.
I love the feeling of my mind sparking; of being unable to sleep because I am holding a story in my head, inspired by what I read that day, and I need to remember it before sleep claims it. Of being excited to wake up so I can get down what I wrote on paper. But since I stopped reading, I have also loved the feeling of waking up without the interlopers in my head. Being able to tell where I start and end, unencumbered by the personas of the fictional characters I have imbibed.
That isn’t to say that I am not thankful for some of the decisions the ghosts have made. Megyn Kelly also talked about learning guitar in her memoir, and I decided it was time for me to learn guitar, too. Now, playing guitar is one of my greatest sources of joy. After reading Bob Iger’s book, Ride of a Lifetime, I realized I needed to leave my job (I actually wrote down how I would resign in the blank pages at the back of the book). It is possible that, occasionally, my own interests and the passions of the ghosts align.
I read a novel last week (Girl, Woman, Other, by Bernardine Evaristo) - the first fiction I have read in months. It was a book I started last summer, promptly lost, and then found again one year later. It seemed safe, since the ghosts it presented had already come and gone as I spent weeks wondering about their fates while I searched for the book. I actually found I was disappointed when the book ended because the stories I had written in my head seemed more interesting than the author’s neat ending. (Sorry Bernardine — I know you won the Booker Prize for it, but that’s just my opinion!)
The book did inspire me to write again — this story — as reading always does, but it didn’t infiltrate my mind. I remained myself, steadfastly. Perhaps taking a year off allowed me to build thicker walls, taking in only that which makes me stronger.