Every semester after finals are over, I go to the library. I know it should be the other way around. But one of the things I’m most excited for about summer is the ability to read whatever I want. To read without anyone telling me who or what is important. Without underlining or deconstructing. I can take recommendations or go off the title, or, if I’m feeling particularly rebellious, I’ll just grab something with a beautiful cover.
I love the freedom of summer, the freedom to judge books by their covers.
Reading for school is important, particularly if you’re an English major. A well-structured story, a nicely paced poem. A metaphor-heavy novel. Professors all believe they know the perfect books that every writer needs to r
ead, starting, usually, with all the books they’ve read.
That’s important. Reading books your teachers have read. Books that will make you better. But every semester after finals are over is when I really remember why I want to be a better writer in the first place.
I read books that make me happy. I read terrible first chapters and don’t bother finishing them. I read funny books. I read my favorite books over again, almost reciting them in my head. I read whatever I want.
This post isn’t really an advice post, because I don’t really have any advice. It’s more of a de-stress-from-finals post, a summer-is-here-hooray post. A nerdy-I-love-reading-post.
I so badly want to end with making this into some form of advice.
The best writing advice I ever got from a professor was that I needed to calm down with my endings. No one needs to learn a lesson. The other shoe doesn’t have to drop. There does not need to be a mystery solved or a big reconciliation. “Just let it end,” she said, huge red lines covering my last page, “It’s over here. Just let it end.”
Summer is here. I love reading. I’m going to the library to get a million beautiful books. The end.