Growing up, I would always save the best for last: the tip of a pizza slice, the darkest chocolate from my Easter basket, the most fascinating book in a new haul. Perhaps I was subconsciously trying to prolong my enjoyment by pursuing the order that would theoretically bring the most satisfaction. Or the least chance of disappointment. Sometimes, weeks and months would transpire before I reached “the best” (I promise, the pizza tip didn’t have to wait this long). Foolishly, more often than not this left me with stale chocolate. I wish I could say I’ve grown older and wiser.
Just older, apparently.
My wife still threatens to consume my Easter chocolate if it’s not consumed within 24 months of arrival. Usually, she ends up eating it.
A few weeks ago, I had a sobering thought. I often read books and watch movies in the same manner I eat chocolate. Unless it’s Star Wars, I’ve caught myself postponing a book or movie I’m eager to experience, substituting a supposedly “lesser” choice for the evening’s consumption. If I had to rationalize, I’d say an old childhood adage, birthed in folly, is the culprit: I don’t want to get through all the good stuff too quickly and spend the rest of my life reading second rate junk.
Oh, foolish, foolish thoughts, Despite the plethora of reportedly good novels and films which would take lifetimes to consume, the obvious truth apparently whistled by my oblivious brain. If I’m to grow consistently as a writer, I need to be reading and watching the best stories. Sure, there is a fully trained army of subjectivity behind the elusive word “best”, but how about if I started out with what I want to read most?
What books am I desperately saving for last?
On that note, only the Lord knows what the last book I’ll read will be. If He blesses me within another fifty years, and I can muster 50 books per year (a goal not met since childhood), that’s only 2,500 books (feel free to check the math; numbers and I have never been on good terms). That’s really not a lot of books.
Which is why I decided to mostly read books that I most want to read. Sure, there will be odd peculiarities thrown into the reading pile, and I’m always open to good recommendations, but the stories I’ve been aching to experience will no longer be given early burials with unlikely resurrections.
The next book on the list:
With this new revelation, I marched (sped) to the nearest Barnes & Noble and picked up a novel I’ve had my eyes on: The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss. Yes, I know the third book does not yet have a release date, but that’s quite alright (I say that now. HA!). I’ve been craving an epic tome and so far, The Name of the Wind fits.
I’m roughly 60 pages in, and the set-up of a tucked away innkeeper with a hidden past has thus far been delicious. As Kvothe begins his tale, I eagerly wait to walk alongside as he recounts his past. Speaking of which, I can see the fat novel peering, unblinkingly, from the kitchen table.
And with that, I must go…
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