Before last summer, I always balked at the seemingly straightforward question, “Do you read a lot of books?”
Do I read books? Sure! Well, I always mean to. I start quite a few, but it’s been a while since I actually finished one. I just get so distracted, you know? I can never sit down for long enough – and consistently enough – to really get into one. I wish I read more. It’s what I should do, right? I’m an educated adult. I want to know more about the world. Heck, I’ve even written a book. Surely I should want to read them. But life is so busy. And reading too often feels like work. I can’t just sit down and enjoy books. I don’t have time. So I rush through them and barely remember them a week after I finish. Maybe I’ll just never be a “reader.” But I’m sure I’ll keep trying.
I condensed that inner monologue into a sheepish but socially acceptable, “Sure … every now and then.”
That changed when I soon had no choice.
Twelve months ago I began an MFA program in narrative nonfiction at the University of Georgia. In two weeks I’ll begin Year Two. And the curriculum requires me to read eight nonfiction books every semester – essentially two a month – in addition to crafting twelve long-form works of my own.
So I read constantly. I knew I would force myself during the semesters. I didn’t know I would feel compelled to keep reading when they ended. I submitted my final assignment for the year at the end of April. I have continued reading two months a book through mid-July. I read while I walk on the treadmill. I read while I relax on the couch. I even read select books aloud to my four-month-old daughter while I feed her. (I read her children’s books too. But when you use one hand to hold a bottle and the other to keep your child’s head in position, you appreciate being able to swipe a Kindle screen rather than hold open a hardcover board book.)
As a human being on this spinning planet, I appreciate the education and perspective I receive from an powerful book. But I also benefit as a journalist. I study how authors structure their stories, use words to convey emotions, and construct a scene without any visual aids. I recently listened to an episode of the Longform podcast where food correspondent Helen Rosner spoke about the difference between an author’s intention and reader’s perception. “It doesn’t matter what you say,” she said. “It only matters what they hear.” As a TV reporter and photojournalist, I must guide my viewer through a few minutes. A nonfiction writer must do so through hundreds of pages.
In the last year I have read writing of high quantity and, for the most part, high quality. I have been exposed to writers with different backgrounds, perspectives, and life experiences. Here were the ten that moved me the most:
Four Seasons in Rome, by Anthony Doerr: This was the second book I read during the MFA program, and it moved me so much I wrote Doerr a handwritten letter. It’s a memoir-travelogue-parenting tome wrapped into one, with big-picture themes that will inspire you to book an international flight … or maybe just see the world a little differently.
The Anthropology of Turquoise, by Ellen Meloy: Similar to Doerr, Meloy writes with such a celebration of language that her work feels both vivid and distinct. She crafted these ruminations on color, nature, and the American West in 2002, two years before she passed.
The Line Becomes a River, by Francisco Cantu: I finished this one last month, and I consider it a must-read for anyone who wants a three-dimensional understanding of the subjects of immigration and the US-Mexican border. Most news coverage of this topic skims the emotional surface; Cantu offers no easy answers but a multitude of first-person reflections from his time as a border patrol agent.
Hunger, by Roxane Gay: Hunger is a mess – and seemingly on purpose. Gay repeats statements, makes generalizations without explaining them, and veers from anecdote to assertion about her nearly lifelong battle with her body. But I appreciate her willingness to expose herself, inspire those facing similar issues, and instruct those on the outside.
Citizen, by Claudia Rankine: I was told this would be a book of poetry. It was better: a mash-up of passionate prose with poetic flourishes that read as if you’re hearing a performance from The Moth. Rankine tackles issues of race with specificity and vulnerability; I was absorbed the whole way through.
How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America, by Kiese Laymon: Same goes for this compilation of essays, written with such distinct and realized narrative voice. I heard Laymon speak during my MFA residency, and I’m excited his read his next book, Heavy, when it comes out this fall.
Nine Lives, by Dan Baum: I had visited New Orleans several times before I opened Nine Lives. I closed the book with a far stronger understanding of the city’s nuanced history. Baum uses nine New Orleanians’ parallel stories to bring life to decades of the Crescent City’s soul.
Truevine, by Beth Macy: The story should seem thoroughly detached from our modern lives: it’s a tale of two brothers who, 100 years ago, were taken against their will into the circus. And yet Macy describes the history with such fully researched clarity and reveals a context that shines light on both the past and present.
Zoo Story, by Thomas French: The author gets inside the minds – and hearts – of animals. It’s an extraordinary exercise of reportage … and an emotional read about a Tampa zoo.
Evicted, by Matthew Desmond: It won a Hillman award, National Book Critics Circle award, and the Pulitzer Prize. It also shone illuminating light on the conversation around extreme poverty and affordable housing. It moved me so much I wrote an essay about it.
The Solo Video Journalist is available for purchase. You can find it on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and the publisher’s web site.
Matt Pearl is the author of the Telling the Story blog and podcast. Feel free to comment below or e-mail Matt at matt@tellingthestoryblog.com. You can also follow Matt on Facebook and Twitter.