My bookshelves at home are boobytrapped.
Not in the sense that you’ll meet physical harm if you misstep — beyond actually pulling the entire structure off the wall on top of you — or that there is a secret door hidden somewhere (ugh, I wish #goals). But rather the shelves themselves are rigged as a mild test for the people I invite into my home.
Part of me was reluctant to admit this and thus tip off any future visitors. But let’s be honest how many of my irl friends actually read all of my little articles anyway, amirite?
So let me explain. I’m an avid reader. I read, like, a lot of books. Someone (who failed the aforementioned test) once asked me how many books I read in a year and I’m happy to say I have no idea because who tf actually cares what the exact number is. But I freaking love to read. Certain people love this fact about me. I think it confirms some preconceived notion that they already have about the type of person that I am. Other people couldn’t care less 🤷♀️ and even fewer want to spend the time actually talking about what I’ve read lately or give me new recommendations (if you have books recs pls send immediately).
But what I’ve noticed over the years is that a certain type of person is absolutely dying to judge my bookshelves. And I will probably hate that person.
In fact, did you already judge me when I wrote just now that I read a lot? I’ll bet a good portion of you had some sort of visceral reaction to that sentence. If you did and you’re still here with me, then kudos to you.
The truth is we’ve been conditioned to view reading as some sort of elitist activity for some reason. If it comes up in conversation that I read a lot, people immediately assume that means that I am either an intellectual snob, obsessed with business or self help books — or both.
And I frankly find this insane. When I was a kid I didn’t read books. I read magazines (posters from Teen Beat literally wallpapered my bedroom, and I took every Cosmo quiz I could get my hands on). My mom told me it was critical that I read…but that I could read anything. I tested her commitment to that statement by visiting every single end cap at the grocery store and buying all the Archie comics I could fit in my tiny little hands. Ugh, do you remember Archie comics?? They paved the way fr — even the OG distracted boyfriend meme…
And you know what? My mom never said a word. I guess she wasn’t lying. She just wanted me to read. It genuinely didn’t matter what form it came in. In fact, audiobooks were the only thing all five of us could agree on during long family car rides, so I don’t want to hear anyone trying to come here saying that audiobooks don’t count (they do, get over it).
I spent years devouring one supposedly “trashy” magazine after another — Elle, Lucky, Teen Vogue, of course Cosmo…and then you know what happened? One day I decided to pick up one of my mom’s old Agatha Christie novels. What was all the fuss about, I wondered. And Then There Were None didn’t look too long. I’d just read the first few pages to see what she loved so much about them, I reasoned. And you, dear reader, know exactly how this story ends…I loved it. I realized how freaking FUN those books were and immediately began rifling through my mom’s murder mystery collection. I hit puberty and sailed right over to romance novels (yes, I read the Bridgerton books back when they first came out in the early 2000s). My dad loved science fiction so I peppered those in now and again. While there were some I loved (LOTR, The Golden Compass), I discovered that by and large that wasn’t the genre for me. No harm, no foul!
As I moved into my own apartment and amassed a new set of books (sadly most of the childhood collection was lost to secondhand stores through various moves), I quickly realized that my bookshelf — this symbol of such joy and imagination for me — was actually a source of judgment for many people. I remember the often butchered John Waters quote: “If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t f*ck them.” And I agreed with the general principle that I’m definitely more attracted to men who read. But read anything, right?
WRONG.
It turns out that people are obsessed with judging the books a person chooses to read. As my collection grew larger, I was fascinated to see not just who zeroed in on the books when they entered my home. But which books they chose to comment on.
I’ll bet you know where this is going. More than anyone else, the people who voiced the loudest and most frequent opinions were — you guessed it — men. I’d say that more than 60% (#notallmen, are you happy now?) of the men who’ve visited my apartment have felt a desire to comment on the books lining my walls. And of that cohort, a solid 90% had something critical or derogatory to say.
They would see my massive collection of crime thrillers and scoff. Or home in on one of the romance covers and say something like, “Huh, I would have thought you’d read something more intellectual than that…” with a condescending look. Some would even dig in deeper, wondering aloud where the business books or biographies were hidden, adding that someone of my intelligence must also read those books too…right??
Omigod, they think I’m smart?! 🙄
I don’t even bother directing their gaze to the many non-fiction books that are littered throughout the shelves. Because honestly, their derision just made me sad for them. Were they really missing out on the joy of reading fiction because someone had convinced them that to be “smart” they were only allowed to read books like Freakonomics and Ron Chernow epics? How utterly limiting.
I remember my ex-boyfriend coming home one evening and seeing a Samantha Young novel lying next to me on the couch (her Highland series is such a fun work of contemporary romance, for those looking for a new addiction). He spent the next twenty minutes talking himself in circles — those books were obviously trash, but because I was an aspiring writer it made sense that I read them…or if they took the place of reality television then I guess it was an acceptable way to pass the time. But there couldn’t possibly be another benefit to reading romance, he wondered out loud to my face.
Or could there?
I read somewhere that a better way to convey the difference between reading fiction and non-fiction was to think about reading non-fiction as “learning through information” and reading fiction as “learning through imagination”. I’ve since seen variations on the sentiment tweeted out a lot recently and I think we’re really onto something here. Fiction teaches us empathy. It helps us shift our perspective and imagine what it would be like to live in another world — to quite literally walk a mile in someone else’s proverbial shoes. If we could adjust our lenses to see reading fiction in this light, couldn’t we all benefit?
Men mock their partners for reading romance novels, but what’s so laughable about women reading about the types of loving relationships they wish they could have in real life? If we could set aside our egos for a moment, what could we learn about how to better treat the individuals around us? Because that’s the secret of great writing. If it’s simply a means of mindless enjoyment for you, then lovely. But I wonder how often we don’t even realize that the entertainment comes with a side of deepened understanding of the world around us.
So men, take note. The next time you’re making fun of what the women in your life are reading, maybe think about picking up the book instead and seeing what all the fuss is about. I actually toyed around with the idea of giving my ex a reading list, and now I’m sincerely wishing I had gone through with it. I’m loving the trend of young men on #booktok picking up novels they might otherwise avoid, although I have noticed that they seem to be gravitating more towards the raunchier side of fiction (nothing wrong with that, boys! 😉). Let’s see if we can work towards accepting — or even embracing — that reading literally anything is great for the mind. Whether we’re expanding our mathematical mind through textbooks, our empathetic mind through fiction, or even our senses of humor through Archie comics. This should all be celebrated.
So now my copy of Infinite Jest is hidden amongst the Jack Reacher novels. Ayn Rand is mixed in with the collectors editions of the Harry Potter series. And The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo sits next to The Sense Of An Ending. If you visit my apartment, I challenge you to peruse the entire collection with wonder rather than judgment. Maybe I’ll even be inclined to lend you your next great read, but only if you promise to give me a fun recommendation in exchange.
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