I was waiting outside a restaurant for dinner the other night and noticed a father and son nearby. The father had a book in front of him, actually a tome would be more accurate description. His son was looking at his two smaller books. I thought, a man who reads, wow I am in love. Yet not to appear as a creepy husband stealer I simply commented, “I’m a writer and I am so pleased to see you actually reading books.” The father explained with a lovely smile that in their household the only unlimited spending for their sons was on books. Okay so maybe I will be a creepy husband stealer.
Books have been my elixir for my entire life. I have a distinct memory of walking into the Bridgehampton Library and the smell of the books in the stacks, a bit musty but not one of decay, one of a well-worn life. While many of my friends considered a trip to the Candy Kitchen for a black and white milkshake to be the most enticing treat, for me it was the chance to peruse Nancy Drew and Black Beauty and Pearl S Buck. Books were my magic carpet ride to another world outside of myself, and as an awkward, shy kid my summer reading list allowed me to travel to different cultures, times in history, and a roadster in a peplum blue suit to solve mysteries.
As I looked around at the other people at that restaurant, I noticed they were on their phones and their social media and talking about their Instagram likes. The whole point of a good book is that it takes you out of your world and exposes you to something different. This next generation was instead immersed in their own personal worlds, a group of girls obsessing over the best filter to perfect their appearance. I wanted to go over and offer to buy them each a copy of Emily Prager’s “A Visit from the Footbinder,” but figured one stalking of strangers per night was my limit.
As a writer I feel a bit of the Blue-Footed Booby, not a bra size reference but a path to extinction. A number of us who recently won awards from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists were on a chat not about the honor and distinction but of shrinking newsrooms, budgets, audiences and any possible path to make a living as a writer. There is virtually no other career where people expect to consume your hard work for free. Sure, it is easier to commit to a TikTok video than Tolstoy but where is the reward? We are addicted to distraction instead of enlightenment. Yet there is redemption for book worms, reading actually improves not just your mental health but your physical health.
A study at Yale University in 2016 followed 3635 participants for 12 years and concluded that “Book readers had a 23-month survival advantage and experienced a 20 percent reduction in risk of mortality over the 12 years of follow-up compared to non-book readers.” Another study at Stanford University in 2012 presented “This is your brain on Jane Austen.” They found that reading Jane Austen resulted in dramatic and unexpected blood flow to various parts of the brain. (Curious if those were Mr. Darcy passages.)
A powerful imagination has saved many a soul. Every person hits hard times (especially if you just survived this brutal Mercury retrograde) and a chance to just sit with a book and let your mind go somewhere else is a blessed relief. Reading also expands your horizons to people, places and cultures that are different from you, and in these polarized times we need that more than ever. I understand that it was King Richard III who in the midst of battle called out, “My kingdom for a horse,” but given the challenges of surviving as a writer in the current world I would say, “My kingdom for a book.”
