All Summer...

I'm not what I would call literate. I mean, I'm educated, have a reasonable vocabulary, and can demonstrate at least a surface-level knowledge on a wide range of topics from science to the arts. But I'm not terribly well-read. On the one hand, I sometimes think that reading is given an undue privilege (among adults, anyway... I don't include children with developing language centers in the brain). That is, people who read are thought of as intellectual whereas people who consume information through other forms (TV, movies, the internet, etc) are less so. This discounts that a) sometimes other forms of media are actually more effective methods of delivery, and b) the fact that the phrase "best-selling author" can be used to accurately describe Snooki should be seen as an indicator that not all books are created equal.

On the other hand, despite my justification that the amount of time spent reading is not always proportional to the amount of personal edification a person achieves, I still feel guilty about the lack of time spent nose-in-book. Sure, I can come up with plenty of excuses. I'm busy with school and get so burnt out from text books and journal articles that reading is no longer pleasurable (which is true, to an extent). But at the end of the day, I do wish I read more. I hate not getting literary references, and that insecurity usually forces me to fake my way through conversation rather than just owning up to my pedestrian personal library. And, I have to admit, I do feel like I'm missing out. My family is full of readers. Why can't I get myself to do it?

A few weeks back, I noticed a book on the shelf that I had borrowed from my dad over a year ago. It was Can I Keep My Jersey? by former Iowa Stater Paul Shirley. He (my dad of course, not Paul Shirley) had lent it to me, suggesting I would enjoy it. At the time, I accepted, knowing full well I probably wouldn't get around to it. But it had now been in my house too long, so I pulled it off the case as a reminder that I ought to return it. I had, after all, given it to him as a gift, and, even though he was done reading it long ago, I figured he should possess it. But, after my wife plowed through the book in a couple of days, I began to feel the nag. I really ought to read this thing before I return it, I pondered. And since I was going to see my father in less than a week, I had a goal. It was surprisingly easy and enjoyable to read. And I was rather proud of myself once I got done, so proud that when I returned it, I eagerly accepted my father's offer to loan me Money Ball (which kind of feels like cheating, since I saw the movie already).

So, now I'm about to sit down and crack into my second book of the year. Actually, it's the second book I've read in several years. The last one I read before CIKMJ was Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged which I borrowed from a coworker 3 years ago (3 years?! It's been that long?!). Which, now that I think about it, might be a contributing factor to my lack of reading for that long a span. (Ugh. Just thinking about that book--the John Galt speech alone--makes my head hurt. Don't get me wrong, I actually enjoyed it, but... whew.)

I've already decided that after I finish this, I ought to make the proverbial "summer reading list" comprised of classics I should've read a long time ago. And, to hold me accountable, I've decided to blog about my experience as a YouTube information consumer reintroducing himself to the written word. I've been meaning to start writing more as well, so this anchors me to a theme as I tend to be all over the map otherwise (in case you couldn't tell from all the parenthetical asides). The posts won't be so much about reviewing the books, but rather about my experience in reading. I'll document the struggles and joys I find in reading, as well as what the books themselves make me think and feel. And since this is starting out as a summer reading list, I've given this blog a title based on one of my favorite short stories from my childhood: Ray Bradbury's All Summer in a Day.

Speaking of Mr. Bradbury, I've already added his Fahrenheit 451 to my reading list. I'm planning on including some classic novels by Hemingway, Sinclair, Conrad and Orwell, as well as non-fiction work like Darwin's On the Origin of Species. Since I was a theatre student in college, I'll likely even include a script or two. Right now, I think my ambition might surpass reality, but it's good to be aggressive, no? If you so choose to join me along the way, I'd love to hear feedback, thoughts or even recommendations (although I'll temper expectations up front; I'm not necessarily a fast reader, which you might quickly surmise by the frequency of my posts).

But enough with the writing, on with the reading. First up, Michael Lewis' take on how Brad Pitt--sorry, I mean on how Billy Beane transformed baseball: Money Ball.