Never Again
My goal for 2024 was to read fewer books. I did, and it did not go well.
I’ve read dozens to hundreds of books each year for most of my life, and I wanted to see how my brain and perspective would change if I didn’t. Maybe I’d get smarter. Maybe my memory would get better. Possibly I’d lose my empathy (good fiction builds it, donchaknow) or watch my eyesight improve. I might even appreciate the few books I allowed myself (I said I’d limit myself to 25) more if I weren’t gobbling them by the handfuls.
I vowed not to use the freed-up hours to scroll mindlessly on my phone, play video games, or watch television. I’d fill my processing capacity with new skills, art, and blah-blah-blah. I made a list of ‘Important Books’ I would tackle. My white whale, Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, would finally get the attention it was due.
You’re laughing. I can hear it from here.
In truth, in 2024, I spent a disgusting amount of time clicking through memes and “Worst Tattoos” lists. I took a lot of naps -- “Twenties,” I called them, timed spans of unconsciousness -- three, sometimes four a day, often out of sheer boredom and depression. I drank more alcohol than is wise and moved up a pants-waist size, 32 to 33. I read political posts on Substack as if they would change anything.
Bad tattoos, why can’t I quit you?Smartphones are insidious little bastards. If I brought it up to bed with me, no matter what book was on the stand beside or sexy spouse slumbering next to, I'd spend my pre-sleep hours scrolling bullshit. Something is deeply wrong with these things.
I cheated on myself and read books anyway, dozens of them, mostly free or nearly free e-books. Chewing gum to stave off the pangs of an empty head. I didn’t keep track of name nor number, but there were a lot.
My mind was mush, my body blobby. And so I entered November and just … I don’t know. I guess I went mad again, like I had in 2016, but different. When I woke at 3 am Nov. 6 to see the results my first thought was a terrifyingly earnest, “I guess I could just kill myself.”
When I woke at 3 am Nov. 6 to see the results my first thought was a terrifyingly earnest, “I guess I could just kill myself.”
Call it being scared straight. I started leaving the smartphone on the kitchen counter, buried, all day and all night. I think it’s there now, but I sort of hope it’s lost under the snow somewhere. I take it with me when I leave the house and only use it for dual-authentication and listening to podcasts while I do chores. I’m back up to reading a couple of books a week. Good ones, not candy. Candy is OK, but it’s not an everyday snack. I’m down to one or two twenties a day and wearing an activity monitor. I discovered alcohol-free Guinness (not bad).
Did reading fewer books in 2024 and consuming a steady diet of candy, gloom, bad tattoos, and memes contribute to my dark-side moment in wake of Trump’s victory? Maybe. It’s possible the layer of empathy I lost was the one I’d slowly built for myself. Caring for other people comes easy for me. Caring for myself, not so much.
Just in case, my goal is 120 books in 2025.
Maybe more.
Happy New Year.
