OPINION: New obsession, same reason

Here’s a confession from a writer which should be surprising and somewhat worrying: I’m not an avid reader of novels or narratives. Oh yes, despite my BA in journalism, I am quite lame if you were to ask me for my favorite books.

I always go with the ones I read all the way back in high school, which was the last time I could remember being obsessed with books. To clarify and dampen my point, these were just the ones I read for English class, but they still had a major effect on me.

I remember the first time I ever read a nonfiction narrative in this class, Susannah Cahalan’s excellent “Brain on Fire,” a personal memoir detailing her diagnosis with anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis. It’s a fascinating read as Cahalan pores over events of her autoimmune disease she doesn’t even remember, her “month of madness.”

A few fiction novels have become fond favorites. Barbara Kingsolver’s first novel “The Bean Trees” is an exceptional tale of motherhood, recovery and empathy which I arrogantly knew little of at 15 years of age in high school. Richard Wright’s “Native Son,” despite the controversy it caused is an angry look at the 1930s’ racial divide which challenged a world that’s failed a marginalized people, and continued to do so today.

And, my favorite book, Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” McCarthy is a fairly distinct writer, but you’d be surprised by how “The Road” seemingly abandons key parts of his style. In a dystopian world where an unnamed man and his child survive as they head south down the titular road, it’s often unemotional in prose, uncaring to narrative dynamics and exceedingly depressing.

Yet, it’s perhaps this bland use of language which has kept the world of “The Road” a constant light in my head for years. It’s a blatantly obvious novel in theme because the only theme that could be in this minimalist approach to storytelling is all you can read: fatherhood. Witnessing the world crumble around oneself while protecting the innocence of a child.

It wasn’t until recently my brilliant colleagues told me to make a Goodreads account and start reading again that I returned to a world I abandoned. I’ve often written in these columns about my anxiety around feeling small and insignificant, and perhaps my tenure away from the pages forced a subconscious perception of myself as uneducated to steer me away from novels.

As most overachieving high-school students tend to do, I had tried to read what I thought were “adult novels.” Books and classics like “A Game of Thrones,” “Catch-22,” “1984″ and “Heart of Darkness.” Perhaps forcing myself to adopt the language of the past discouraged me from pursuing these, but I felt quite dumb as I forgot character names and confusion at unfamiliar phrases, eventually giving up.

That’s why this small revolution in my brain since the start of this year has been so addicting. I’ve read seven books, which isn’t magnificent or a spectacle, but it’s a start. I started with two which I knew would be upcoming movies, the sci-fi comedy “Mickey7″ and the historical tragedy “The Nickel Boys.” The latter, written by Colson Whitehead, became my first five-star rating of the year.

Two audiobooks took over. Bill Carter’s “The War for Late Night,” detailing the NBC late-night show dispute between Jay Leno and Conan O’Brien, put me close to an industry I’ve always admired. Jason Schreier’s “Play Nice,” chronicling the history of video game developer and publisher Blizzard Entertainment was familiar (I followed the workplace controversy when the horrific stories were at their peak) but still an exciting piece of nonfiction.

Two recent novels brought me out of my comfort zone. Samantha Sotto Yambao’s “Water Moon” was fantasy, a genre I repeatedly feel grumpy about across all mediums, but a dreamlike edge kept me entertained. But “First-Time Caller” and its cute romance stylings was the biggest surprise, and made me question how silly I would be if I were to read more romance in the coming months.

Over the weekend I consumed David Grann’s “The Wager,” a spectacular piece of nonfiction detailing the shipwreck of the HMS Wager off the coast of what is now Chile. Nautical themes and a haunting analysis of human behavior is the perfect blend of tastes. Grann’s sympathy to indigenous people and the historical reflection on imperialism adds “The Wager” as another entry into the canon of truth-is-stranger-than-fiction.

I have never had a book rattle in my brain like this, diving day after day into the narrative as it held my thoughts captive. It is currently my second five-star, and my favorite book I’ve read this year, so far. Yet, I still hunger for more books, more novels, more narratives, more everything I can get my hands on. I still feel this obsession. It’s probably worth nurturing, for now.