I saw her out of the corner of my eye, watching me as I hovered over the display table. I’d circled it four times already, running my hand over the books, marveling at their sleek feel and their unbroken spines. I picked up a few, read a small bit of the description and a random page, then set each back down. I even brought one close to my face to get a whiff of the fresh print. But now, with the saleswoman eyeing me, I held my hands awkwardly at my sides and turned my back, assuring myself that would keep her at bay.
But then, I heard a voice. “Ma’am, do you need any help?” There was no mistaking the question was directed at me.
“No thanks,” I said, glancing up with a polite smile. I didn’t want her thinking I was a creep, only there to smell the books.
“Are you sure? It seems like you’re having trouble finding something.”
“I’m good,” I said with what I hoped was a dismissive wave.
She was undeterred. “What do you like to read?”
I froze.
There it was. The question I dreaded.
It seemed innocent enough. It was, after all, a perfectly acceptable question. Socially appropriate. I just didn’t have an answer for it.
And because I was also bad at spontaneous conversation, I’d probably blurt out that I just finished writing a manuscript and then she’d ask what kind of book. And I didn’t have an answer for that either. Not beyond fiction. Or book clubs would like it.
They would. I already have the questions.
Don’t get me wrong, I love talking about books. Or maybe I should say, I love hearing about books. After all, many of my formative years were spent listening to Mom talk with friends about authors, pen in hand, as she scribbled down the suggestions on a random bit of paper. I’m just not good at doing the talking myself. It’s like I have a magic eraser in my brain that prevents me from remembering what I just read. I like to think I absorb the story entirely into myself so that it’s a part of me, making it incapable of description, much like I cannot remember a single joke from a comedy show an hour later.
This wasn’t always a problem. I was about 11 when I discovered Mom’s hidden boxes of books in the basement. Stacks and stacks of Harlequins. I devoured them, one by one, in sequential order, figuring Mom would never know if #127 was missing for a day or two.
Next up was my Stephen King phase. I absorbed his entire inventory, simultaneously both frightened and fascinated by the sinister forces that made objects move or people disappear. The phase ended abruptly when I turned 17, old enough to drive alone at night, old enough to imagine each oncoming car was Christine out to get me.
Don’t even get me started on Cujo.
As a new adult I loved best sellers – John Grisham, Tom Clancy, Pat Conroy, Danielle Steele – never advancing past the bright display shelves that held them in the bookstore.
But now, I’m pickier. I know what I like when I see it, when I read it. I typically gravitate to the table, not the best seller table, but what I call the thinking table where I stood now.
The woman cleared her throat, jolting me out of my reverie. Her question about my reading preference was still hanging in the air, unanswered.
I sighed and looked up at her. “Umm..Good books?” She stared at me, waiting for more. “Books that are, uh, interesting. Different.”
Wow. Why did that question reduce my language to that of an 8-year old, nothing like the middle-aged language I was supposed to use? In an attempt to sound not quite as dorky, I added with a rush, “You know, with good words per dollar.”
“Words per dollar?” she repeated, one eyebrow cocked.
“Right.” I nodded. “Books with a lot of pages, and lots of words per page. To make them worth the purchase.”
“Ah..Something dense. Perhaps I could steer you toward the literary section?”
“You mean, literature? No thanks. I had enough of that in school. I had no problem reading the assigned books, even enjoying them, until I had to write a paper on the allegory or the motif or when the foreshadowing first appeared. How are you supposed to know about foreshadowing when you haven’t finished the book?”
“Something lighter then?”
“Yeah, something I can read at the beach.”
“Alright. How about this?” she asked as she handed me a book with 2 ladies sipping daiquiris on a porch. I flipped through it quickly noting the large font and the pages of dialogue.
“It doesn’t have to be about a beach. And I don’t want to finish it in an hour. But I want to escape. Get out of my head. Get absorbed in another place and time.”
“Science fiction, then. Or fantasy.”
I shook my head. “Not a huge fan. Though I did like The Martian, especially because one of the characters had my name. But she got left out of the movie and that bugged me. Then that author wrote about the creature who communicated with the human in a weird broken version of English. I loved that. Hilarious. Or as the alien would say: amuse.”
“Maybe women’s fiction?”
“That’s a thing?”
“Yes, usually the main character is a wife and mother.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have kids.” Why do all books for women have to do with kids? Surely, there are other women besides me, even those that have kids, who have a broader identity and want to read something else.
“How about romance?”
I shook my head again. “I like books that I immediately have to re-read, to get their cleverness.”
“So you like twists. Mysteries.”
I shrugged. “My mom loves mysteries. Reads them exclusively these days, though I don’t really know what they are, and she is unable to describe them. I mean, isn’t every book a mystery? You don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s unknown. A mystery.”
She laughed. “No, a mystery specifically has a crime, usually a murder, which the characters are solving. Similar to suspense.”
“Well, any book can be like that. I’m waiting, on the edge of my seat. You know. In suspense.”
“What about horror?”
“Definitely not. Not after reading that book about what happened to the woman who was kidnapped. I still have nightmares.” I shuddered.
She frowned. “That’s the full list of genres, so I’m not sure what to recommend.” I waited for her to go away, which was what I wanted in the first place. Then, she added, “Let me guess. You’re not really a reader?”
I bristled. “I read all the time. Have been since before kindergarten. I just can’t describe what I like.”
“Then tell me some authors you enjoy.”
Now this I could answer thanks to a bit of free time I had a few years ago when I finally typed up the little scraps of paper I’d been carrying in my purse forever, scraps of paper like Mom’s with author names and titles that I’d found on random Best-Of-the-Year lists. Now instead of struggling to remember names, I can just pull the list from my phone. And finally, I could quit carrying a purse.
I whipped out my phone, reading from the list. “Colson Whitehead, Ann Patchett, Chris Bohjalian, Anthony Doerr, Amor Towles, Brit Bennett.”
She brightened. “Historical fiction. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Historical fiction. Ah, yes. That could be something. In fact, maybe it’s the answer I’ve been seeking. The answer that saves me from having to force my manuscripts into a genre. The answer that makes my work appealing to literary agents and publishers. The answer that prevents me from genre shopping, searching source after source, staring down “official” lists each with their own unique definitions. The answer that precludes finding yet another comp, hoping it provides a clue to categorizing my own manuscript. The answer that lets me just write.
The fact is: I don’t write in genre, because I don’t read genre.
But historical fiction. That solves my problem. That creates an end to this entire genre hunting exercise, an exercise eerily similar to how I shop for weather forecasts until settling on the one I like best.
“Sure,” I admitted, my smile returning. “I like to learn something when I read.”
“What, in particular?”
“Some point in history. It doesn’t really matter.”
“Great, so let’s narrow it down. Do you like westerns? Historical romance? Historical fantasy? Historical thriller? Historical mystery?”
I exhaled, then picked up a book at random from the table.
“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll just take this one.”
Oh Cathy, that had me busting a gut! Totally with you on that…. Ranks right up there with “what kind of music do you like”?
Diane – Yeah, I could totally see the same conversation happening about music!