30 at 30

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?!