Whatever I’m reading has an unmistakable impact on my thinking and feelings while I’m reading it. If it’s a romance, all I can say is that it’s a good thing I’m married. If it’s a gothic mystery, I find myself jumping at every moving shadow or restless after the sun goes down, because everyone knows ‘something’ always happens after dark. A thriller has my heart thumping whenever I wake in the middle of the night. I had to stop reading murder mysteries while we traveled in our RV because I was sure someone was watching us and planning an attack. My husband couldn’t live with the paranoia.
Nonfiction affects me too. Whether it’s a controversial diatribe on politics, feminism, medical care, or genocide, or a simple autobiography, historical account, etc., I’m on a soap box for months afterwards.
If it’s a self-help book, I become a radical about working on the particular issue of its focus. I work myself silly trying to uncover my hidden agendas, personal archetypes, or my shadow self. I can wring myself inside out by the time I’m done.
In some ways, this could all be a good thing. I’m forever entertained by simply reading and I feel that working on myself is a win-win situation. The moments I get into trouble are (1) when I think I need to describe or read the details of a scene to my husband, (2) I think everyone will be interested in certain quotes which I never quite repeat exactly so they mean less than nothing, (3) I try to help someone through a process I’ve read about but they really aren’t interested in changing a behavior, or (4) I get preachy.
I realized this last problem when I overheard my daughter warn her brother, “Look out! Mom’s read another book!”
The hardest lesson I’ve had to learn is that whatever I read and however it landed in my hands are the exact, synchronistic events which needed to happen to me at that time.
The works of fiction are for my entertainment. The nonfiction is for my education. The ‘how-to’ books are for my self-development. This attitude has taken a lot of pressure off family and friends.
I'll never forget the weekend I read The Women's Room by Marilyn French in college. What a rollercoaster that was. I have the same problem - gift? - I think that's why I shy away from books about politics anymore. It makes me physically ill with frustration and anger. I can get it in small more manageable doses via the internet. (Jane Brady)- couldn't get my id straight I'll have to get Tim to help me.
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