Literary
giant Maya Angelou left the world a little quieter last week, and as any good
student of literature, I mourned her death. Which is ironic, since I can’t
recall reading a word she wrote. I’ll wait for the shocked gasps to subside … I
may have a degree in English literature and I may be an avid reader, but I am woefully
under-read. Let me explain.
My
literary mediocrity is due to both education and personal motivation. Most of
the “classic” literature I read growing up was done on my own, from a summer
reading list teachers assigned but rarely—actually never—taught from. Hence why,
until about three years ago, I thought Animal
Farm was a cool story about animals that took over a farm. In high school,
I alternated between English teachers who tried to cram as much literature as
they could down our throats (I’m still bitter that Junior Honors English wasn’t
credited as an AP course.) and English teachers who gave extra credit for
having a library card. When I switched majors from Pre-Physiology to English
Literature halfway through college, I about had a nervous breakdown. Professors
expected us to know terms like sublime
and foil, to know the historical and
social environments in which particular pieces were written, to know how to
analyze a poem’s rhyme and meter. My classmates did, but me? I tried to pick up
as much as I could while keeping up the best that I could and graduate before
my scholarship expired at year four. Post-college has been an exercise in learning
to love reading again. Reading as much literature as I did in half the time I
should have “traumatized” me, and it took me a year or two to be able to look
at a book without my eye twitching. I may have exacerbated the situation by choosing
editing as a career path. After reading for eight hours a day, I don’t always want
to come home and read more, or I don’t want to read anything with substance.
Let me relax my brain with drivel like the Twilight series (don’t judge) so I can
perform a quality edit of a short paper on genetics or population growth the
next day.
But
these are really just excuses, which my husband called me on as I lamented Angelou’s
death.
CH: “What happened to that Year of the Classics
you were gonna do a few years back?”
Me: “I went back to school and got caught up
reading ‘candy’ like the Hunger Games
and … ”
CH: “Those sound like excuses.”
Me: Gives The Look.
CH: “Well why don’t you do it this year?”
And
that’s how 30 at 30 came about.
I
turn the The Big 3-0 next month, and I’m looking forward to it as much as I
look forward to dentist appointments. I've thought about creating a bucket
list, and I guess that’s what 30 at 30 is. When I turn the Age That Shall Not
Be Named, I’ll start on a reading bucket list. All those “classics” I’ve wanted
to read but haven’t? All those “classics” I wish I remembered but can’t because
2 a.m. is meant for sleeping, not analyzing literature? I’ll read ‘em. And I’ll
review ‘em on the always intended, but never begun, book reviewing portion of
my blog. A two-for-one deal!
But
I need your help. While I have my own to-read classics list going, I’m sure it
could be … much improved upon. So I’m calling on you to help me create my list.
Suggest a classic or two for me to read, and I’ll place it in the consideration
pile. What’s a classic, you ask? That’s actually a hotly debated topic in the literary world, and I’ll refrain from stepping into the fray. I’ll
simply say that if you can picture being assigned to read it when you were in
school (or in the case of you teachers, making your students read it), suggest
it. And don’t limit yourself to novels. Poetry, plays, novellas, essays—any
form of literature is eligible. Once I’ve received enough suggestions, I’ll
whittle the list down to 30, release it, and get reading.
Thirty
can’t be so bad if I spend it reading, right?!
