#153 You don’t have to read the whole book

Taking endless notes, making lists and not finishing novels

Hello friend,

I’ve been going through my notebooks and looking back at random things I’ve written down over the past year or so. My notebooks are not aesthetically pleasing. They don’t have sketches or diagrams. They are mostly filled with lists—lists of ideas, things-to-do lists, random observations, and potential article and post titles.

Each element on a list is a brief descriptive title or header summarising an idea or thought. Each bullet point in my list is a signpost or bookmark to an idea or thought I have for a piece. It's all written down so I can remember it and go back to hash it out and see where it could fit. My writing process has become so random that I really don’t know what to write next.

This newsletter is even created with a list of ideas I keep in a Google Docs document. I often sit down on my phone and write wherever I find myself during the day. Some random paragraphs are written in my car, waiting at the doctor's, getting my colour done at the hairdresser, or sitting at my in-laws' kitchen table doing a ten-minute brainstorming session.

I think I've picked up my own version of the Pomodoro method. Rather than programmed short bursts of 15—to 20-minute moments of focused work, I usually wrote whenever I could. That used to look like during nap time, during kindergarten, and later school, or nowadays after bedtime or whenever I have a spare ten minutes between errands, commitments, daily routines, and housework.

I write my thoughts, ideas, and observations and then organise them into these newsletters.

I thought I’d be starting on my next book by now, but I have fragments and a few ideas I do not know how to express yet. Sometimes, I wish the muse would dictate my path. It would make things easier instead of having to navigate my ideas, give them structure, and then find a place for them. It is like trying to solve a jigsaw without knowing what the final image will be.

I guess this makes me more of a journalist than a novelist. Lately, my ideas have come in short bursts. I seem to have lost the energy and desire to write longer pieces. I don’t think I have a novel in me, maybe lots of short stories and perhaps a couple of Novellas.

Even an essay seems to be an odyssey these days. I used to love all of the research, putting different ideas together, quoting other academics, and processing ideas through logical frameworks. But it is a really difficult task these days. Essays take a long time, and they always take a lot of my energy without giving me much satisfaction or reward in return.

I feel as if I am writing my essays only for myself, and then why would I continue torturing myself? Shouldn’t writing be something pleasurable? Perhaps I like different things these days. Perhaps social media has eroded my attention span, and I now seek to be distracted and entertained more frivolously and easily.

I quickly get bored with a book, and if it doesn’t entertain me, I will put it aside. I cannot stand long-windedness, which is ironic because I am rather long-winded.

A novel without a point will infuriate me. If it meanders, becomes pretentious or is abstract for only the sake of being abstract, I hate it.

Modern literary fiction often seems a bit too self-indulgent. I get frustrated and put it to the side, often not returning to it.

Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days. It takes me longer to get into the rhythm of reading a good book, and if it doesn’t engage me, I give it the flick.

I used to think you had to finish whatever book you were reading. My reasoning used to be that if the author had spent the time crafting, creating, and publishing a book, the least I could have done was read it.

Since I have become overwhelmed by how much there is still to read, I am less respectful of the writer's process and seek to fulfil my own personal entertainment.

My new adge is life’s too short to read a bad book, or rather a book that doesn’t ignite your love of reading.

Image from Canva

I have three books off the top of my head that I’ve stopped reading and a brief explanation as to why.

1. Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita: While I adored the prose and writing style, I found the story too disturbing to continue reading. Honestly, I wanted to keep reading because it was evident I was reading one of the greatest writers ever. Yet, the way Nabokov took us into the obsessive mind of a paedophile was too revolting for me. This perspective and ability to take the reader into uncomfortable places is a testament to Nabokov’s writing. I both loved and abhorred Lolita.

2. Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground: Once again, I enjoyed Dostoevsky’s writing. It was so vivid, and the immersive nature of his character took us into the claustrophobic world of industrialised Russia. However, the protagonist's life was simply too depressing for me to bare, so I stopped reading.

Recently, I read his novella White Nights and was so relieved to see another more romantic, hopeful side to Dostoevsky. Even though there still was the usual sense of isolation, lack of freedom, and entrapment, it wasn’t too overpowering for me.

3. Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary: Even though this novella is considered a masterpiece of literature, I found the protagonist so disagreeable and unlikable that I felt the need to put this book aside. I couldn’t stand Madame Bovary’s weak character, she was starting to piss me off, so I tossed her to the side. But again, this is more of a compliment to Flaubert as he created such a complete and well-defined character that made such a reaction from me.