Hello, readers! I’m your host, Kristen Arnett, advice columnist (and Dad) extraordinaire. I’m excited to welcome you back to yet another special episode of Am I the Literary Asshole?, an advice column that asks if “head empty, just vibes” is simply a nice way of describing a hangover. My head? Empty. But the vibes? Pal, they’re immaculate.
Today I’m coming to you live from the beach in sunny Florida. It’s my wife’s birthday this weekend, and buddy, we are celebrating! The waves are crashing, the chips are fresh, and somebody somewhere is making me an icy cold piña colada (hallelujah). What better way to celebrate my wife and nature’s splendors than by hunching over my computer, squinting from the glare, and getting sunscreen all over my keyboard?
Grab your coolers, let’s get this party started!
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1) Am I an asshole for not joining book clubs because I have been a professor of literature for 50 years, am tired of “opinions,” and don’t want to suddenly start teaching (or “lecturing”) instead of discussing, or become a know-it-all?
I’ll put off immediately answering this question by observing the time-honored tradition of supplying an “amusing” anecdote. I’ve been in a few different book clubs, but the last one I was part of was my favorite. My thought process behind this ranking is simple. There was a manageable amount of us (too many cooks at the beachside grill spoils the char on the burgers), people usually read the material and showed up ready to chat, and most importantly: people were chill. They just wanted a cool night out with friends and a (possibly) good book, they wanted to drink a few beers, and they wanted to have a nice, mellow time.
Then somehow a person got invited who (in my opinion) started taking things way too seriously. Each book club meeting began to feel like an interrogation. The intensity of the questioning was akin to that of a crime procedural; I half expected someone to shine a flashlight directly into my eyes and ask where I was the day Lincoln was assassinated.
Slowly but surely, most of the regulars I liked best fell out of the club, so I bailed, too. The funny part? The people who stayed in that club were thrilled with the change! They’d wanted a more rigorous book club and hadn’t known how to voice that opinion. Just because I liked it chill didn’t mean everyone else liked it that way, too.
All this to say it does not make you an asshole that you don’t want to join a book club. I will say, however, that there is probably one out there perfectly suited for you. And I truly doubt you would get there, immediately put on your professor’s hat, and immediately start telling everyone they’re wrong about LiteratureTM. Maybe cut yourself some slack and see if you can just pop into one and listen to everyone else for a bit. Have a beer or a soda. Sit back and kick your feet up. It could be chill.
Unless you manage to find my old book club. If that’s the case, all bets are off.
Now, let me hide the rest of my snacks so a seagull won’t steal them before we open our next question.
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2) Why do so many short stories read like someone’s therapy session?
I know it probably wasn’t your intention, but this question really made me laugh. I’m imagining episodes of Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist, but in book form instead of squiggle-vision. To be perfectly honest with you, the idea kind of slaps.
Do a lot short stories read like a therapy session? I don’t think so, but perhaps it’s according to taste and perspective. Most of the short fiction I’ve dug into lately has felt exciting because it’s bold and innovative. Maybe it’s beautifully written. Maybe they’ve managed to surprise me (I love that). There’s always great new stuff up at Lit Hub (and good stuff at myriad other publications you probably know about).
There are a ton of classics I return to again and again because reading them always feels fresh; never stale. A particular favorite of mine—one that I think of whenever someone mentions that they only like novels—is “The Skater” by Joy Williams. Father, mother, daughter. A lost sister. Grief, yes, but also a tendril of butter-yellow hope. In my opinion, this story does more in a few pages than most people are able to do in several hundred. It might be beneficial, as an exercise, to ask a variety of people to recommend you some of their best-loved stories. The fact that you’re lumping most short fiction into a “therapy session” category leads me to believe you just haven’t found the author who will snag your attention.
After perusing all of these recommendations you find that most of them still read like therapy? Maybe that says more about you than it does about short fiction.
Let’s swim back to shore so we can dig into our final question of the day:
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3) AITLA for hating excessive annotations on books? I can’t help but be reminded of my 11th grade literature class every time I see someone post about their color coded system of sticky tabs/notes.
Once again, I don’t think this is asshole behavior, but rather another instance of personal preference.
Everyone reads differently. Some people need tagging and post-its and tabs in order to keep their thoughts in order. Other people would rather zoom forward without anything in their way. Some people read for plot, others read for the beauty of the lines. Some people have issues with memory, others have near perfect recall. Notes aren’t a bad thing. Also, it’s completely fine to just enjoy the book and move forward with your day. One isn’t necessarily better than the other.
The only way you’d be an asshole in this particular scenario would be if you decided to tell the people who read this way that you think their way of processing things is immature. Otherwise, it’s fine to think your way of reading is superior. Just keep that thought to yourself.
Well, there’s sand in my computer bag and the humidity is beginning to warp the pages of my book. Time to take this operation indoors and possibly order a pizza (or three). Join me next time when I delve into more of your questions and (hopefully) give you answers that at the very least make you laugh.
And don’t forget to send in your anonymous questions!!!!
Have fun until I take the T-bird away,
Dad
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Are you worried you’re the literary asshole? Ask Kristen via email at AskKristen@lithub.com, or anonymously here.
