“What are you reading?” is my go-to question for just about anyone I run into. At my mom’s assisted living facility, it’s the only safe way to change the subject from ailments, recent deaths of people I’ve never met and, sigh, politics. Books are like people, except interesting.
With elementary school kids, it’s how I learn about Dog Man and graphic novels I’d never pick up otherwise. With the woman eating next to me in the airport, it’s how I discovered the romance series that kept her sane through chemo. I really want to know what people love about their book. Because here’s the truth: I’d rather talk to an eight-year-old about Captain Underpantsthan discuss almost anything else. Books are the universal language I speak, the bridge across every divide.
When someone turns the question on me, there’s always a flicker of panic. What’s the name of that audiobook I’ve been listening to? The one on my Kindle? The hardback on my nightstand? The paperback in my purse? And depending on who’s asking, do I mention the gory murder mystery that speeds up my morning walk, or the historical saga that’s eating my driving miles?
My daughter calls me a book snob. I protest, but she’s got a point—just not about other people’s choices. I don’t care if you read lightweight romances, self-help platitudes, or prize-winning literary fiction. I just want to hear what you love and why. No, I’m only ruthless about my own nightstand.
At sixty-seven, I’ve done the math. If I have five hundred books left—maybe a thousand if I’m lucky and my eyes hold out—I can’t waste one on “meh.” I’ve finally embraced the art of DNF: Do Not Finish. It still feels slightly scandalous, like going to bed without brushing my teeth, but the TBR pile doesn’t lie. Life’s too short for obligation reading.
I curate my reading with help from readers I trust, even if I’ve never met them. I’m not swayed much by Oprah or Reese, though Obama’s lists have never steered me wrong. And I always pay attention to the staff picks table at any indie bookstore I visit.
I’m omnivorous: biographies, historical fiction, science fiction, dystopian warnings, twisty thrillers that add miles to my walks. I’m a sucker for books about male friendships, community bonds, and anything with a great dog—as long as the dog doesn’t die. Absolute dealbreaker.
Memoir is my weakness, the braver the reckoning, the better. I like writers who tell the truth after they’ve survived it.
I match books to moods the way other people pair wine with dinner. Wallowing in a character’s misery can be strangely uplifting. Cheerful self-help can make my teeth ache, like eating sugar donuts all day. Dark dives into the Machiavellian politics of ancient monarchies feel like a hearty meal of mead and meat.
This eclecticism makes me both the best and worst person to ask for recommendations. My taste is too chaotic for tidy “if you liked X, try Y” lists. But it also means I understand something essential: different books serve different purposes. Some are medicine, some are comfort food, some are the thing that makes you walk faster or drive farther without noticing the miles.
I often find the best books in unexpected places: moldy paperbacks in beach rentals, large-print castoffs in assisted-living libraries, random volumes in those Little Free Libraries scattered around town.
So when I ask, “What are you reading?” I’m really asking how you’re surviving, escaping, or paying attention right now. It’s the conversation I’d rather be having.
Tell me in the comments (or next time we meet): what are you reading these days—and why does it matter to you?
