I’ve written before about the quandary of picking your thing and running with it. How imperative it is to be OK as a “usedta” guy.
One of those things I usedta be was a reader – Russian, classics, pulps, satire, sports, poetry, politics, religion … didn’t matter. (Related, I also usedta be a “book quote douche,” but that’s a different post for a different time.)
On a recent work trip, I found myself in an incredible group of dad bros – dudes who took time away from our early-afternoon Wiffle ball games, mid-afternoon beers, and late-evening shenanigans to break from the crowd and Facetime the home team. It was a relief. Hell, so much of what we represent at FTFP is just that: the instinct to balance the guy we usedta be with the dad we want/need to be.
One morning, during an excessively literary breakfast conversation, one of the guys tilted his head my way, set aside his general pisser-offer tone and said something that made our cafeteria-grade scrambled eggs much more palatable:
“Kyle, why don’t you write a blog about the death of reading? Like, as a dad?”
And then I realized it wasn’t just me. Sure, we do our best. And yes, we are staying current in our own corners of the literary universe. (For me, this consuming as much sports lit and sports writing as I can, as necessitated by my afternoon alter-ego.) It’s important to know that pile of reading you’ve been meaning to get to – whatever it is, and whatever your jam usedta be – it’s OK if you’re consuming a book a year. Maybe more. Maybe less.
It’s. Just. Plain. OK.
Lookit: At some point those little kiddos in your house aren’t going to be little kiddos in your house. And when that happens, you’re going to need some reading material.