Years ago, when I was trying to shape my dissertation study, I had the “brilliant” idea to study how reading changes us. I’d been a reader for as long as I could remember. I recognized that the books I’d read throughout my life, in school and out, have shaped the way I think and act in the world. I wanted to understand how that happens, how it works.
My dissertation chair never came right out and said, “That’s a dreadful dissertation topic.” An exceedingly gentle and wise man, the kind of man about whom people are likely to say, “they don’t make them like him anymore,” he wanted to see me finish my dissertation sometime before the universe’s inevitable flame-out. He asked me questions. He showed me what such a study might entail. He invoked the vaguely Orwellian sounding Human Subjects Committee.
Somehow, by the end of our extended pre-proposal discussions, he delicately helped me construct an infinitely more manageable – and quantifiable – study: I looked at how writing handbooks advise student writers to incorporate texts alongside how “exemplary” student writers actually incorporate them. I worked with published texts and numbers. I enjoyed researching and writing my dissertation immensely … even if it was the kind of study that exactly seven people on Earth are likely to read (because they had to): The three members of my dissertation committee, my two outside readers (who probably skimmed it), my writing partner, and me.
Conducting my study helped me think about the ways we bring other writers into our work at the language level. It was fascinating and instructive. I’m grateful for the years I spent working on it. Still, my larger question has lingered. Earlier this year, I articulated some of the related questions circling around that larger one: Continue reading “Modern Wisdom from Classic Literature, Part 1”
by Craig Carlson. A quick peek at the subtitle revealed it’s an American’s memoir of opening a diner in Paris. I’d not heard of the book before. Lord knows I have plenty of 
I have been neglecting my own books lately in favor of new borrows and buys. To visualize how I feel about this, picture that emoticon of a melting face. There is no good reason I’m not reading my own books. Reasons, yes. Good, solid, evidence-based arguments, nah.
, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 
, and Nella Larson’s 
. During a two-week period a few years ago, I read these three novels in succession. My goal in doing so was to experience that period through a range of viewpoints.
Sure it was from a movie, I combed my memory for the film’s name. Then I realized something: It wasn’t a scene from a movie at all. It was a scene from Yaa Gyasi’s 
is super suspenseful. They’ve kept me up reading even when I feel like my eyeballs are going to fall out. For murder mystery readers, I adore M. C. Beaton’s 
novels. They’re short, quick reads as well, so perfect for Readathoning. Two others who have kept me glued to a book are Octavia Butler and Liane Moriarty.
by Brit Bennett (full)
by Shannon Messenger (halfway)
by Molly Guptill Manning (finished)
After finishing 
I’m getting over a terrible cold that knocked me flat on my back for the better part of a week. It also side-tracked me from 
I also listened to