The worst thing a reader can ever do is study literature. I loved to read and write, so it made sense to study the art of craft of both passions. When I finally received my Bachelor of Arts in English, I walked away entirely. I could no longer stomach the Classics, the Masters, or literary fiction. Nothing stifles one’s passion for anything like being told what you will enjoy and how you will interpret it.


It took six months of recovery (and alcohol) before I picked up another book. I wish I could tell you that I had to read, that my half year literary fast created a word starved soul that needed to read. The sad truth is that I had surgery. I could no longer drink (much less move). Having no interest in soap operas, I picked up a book – Left Behind. Thus began my obsession with genre fiction. 


For the past 10 years I’ve again enjoyed reading. For the past three years I’ve enjoyed writing. I’ve, therefore, believed that I’m cured. I even joined a book club. Today, in fact, is our first official meeting. The co-founder of the group selected the book: The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery.


Barf. Literary fiction, aka plot-less ramblings and page long descriptions of the mundane.


Obviously, not cured.


But I read the book. I didn’t want to wimp out on our first book club get-together because the bruises of my heart have not yet recovered from where the Masters were beaten into me (to this day I am convinced that the celebrated writers of “Colonial and Early American Literature: 1620-1820″ are only celebrated because no one else was writing at that time).


I finished the book.


I loved the book.


If it hadn’t been for the book club, I never would have finished it. If I hadn’t finished it, I would have missed the point. If I had missed the point, I would have missed out on a cleverly written, pessimistic message of hope.


Don’t get me wrong – it’s still just a novel. Novels are merely stories, and I read them merely for enjoyment. There’s nothing life changing about someone else’s make-believe. It won’t make me a better person. It doesn’t alter my world view. It simply pleases me.


I’ve forgotten how enjoyable literary fiction can be (I did that on purpose). I spent so many hours dissecting every character, phrase, and subtlety of writing, that I forgot that it can be entertaining. No doubt I’ve missed the irony of the dialogue, the story within the story, the connection between certain characters and their obvious representations of various veins of post-modernist thought. For that I apologize. My days of analytical reading have passed.


But to my book club, I offer my gratitude. I’ve never read literary fiction without having to justify my reaction for a grade. I didn’t realize how pleasurable it can be when I’m not fearing if my interpretation will constitute a failure. I just read…and I liked it.