Dear Reader,
I am a simple woman when it comes to my taste in books. I know what I like, and I stick to what I know. After entering college, I quickly learned that I had outgrown the youthful cringe of young adult romance and fiction novels and made the jump to literary fiction. Since then, I have found that I prefer books that make me think, as opposed to books that I could finish in a day or two. I was overly pretentious about the books I read and annoyingly proud of my loyalty to the literary fiction genre. And, even though my friends relentlessly teased me, their efforts to get me to read outside of my chosen genre were, for a while, futile.
So you can imagine their shock when I announced to them that I would be taking the summer to binge-read all five of romance author Emily Henry’s books. After spending the entire first half of this year reading intense, powerfully moving novels about love and loss, I was looking for a change of pace. Reading romance novels in the summer makes sense anyway; they’re lighthearted and fun, and the giddiness of love stories reminds me of the joy that the summer sun brings. I jumped at the chance to throw myself into this world, but after just two books, I’d had enough. Not wanting to go back on my word, I forced myself to read the first page of Beach Read to see how I felt — the next thing I knew, I was walking out of Barnes & Noble with Henry’s last three books in hand. I then proceeded to finish them within the month, surprising my friends by actually following through with my original claim.
Bela never switches genres like this!? What is happening? I imagined them asking each other. But now, genre-jumping is something I seem unable to stop doing.
Immediately after finishing Henry’s novels, I took a go at a non-fiction book about cognitive biases. Summer was ending, classes were around the corner, and I wanted to read something that would get me back into the habit of intellectualizing what I read. “The Age of Magical Overthinking: Notes on Modern Irrationality” by Amanda Montell was certainly not a book I would have picked up, if not for the gorgeous cover and the fact that I met the author a few months ago at a book festival where she was giving a talk on her novel. I’m not sure I entirely understood what she was explaining, but it satisfied my itch for learning something new at the start of the school year. But alas, there is a reason I am not a cognitive science major.
Once I was done with that book, I jumped to yet another genre I had never explored before: horror. I mean, it was only right that I finally read Bunny by Mona Awad in the month of October. A story about a graduate student at prestigious New England school, Warren College, who encounters strange women in her program who call each other “Bunny” and very clearly have some cultish thing going on? Sounds like “A Secret History” — sign me up! Normally, I tend to stray away from anything scary, but with the eerie fog rolling into La Jolla recently, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. In hindsight, though, my excitement and nervousness was maybe not enough to prepare me for this book. As someone who had never read horror before now, I am thoroughly terrified of what it’s doing to me.
The writing in “Bunny” itself is phenomenal. I feel truly immersed in the story whenever I put on the audiobook or curl up to read in bed. In fact, I feel so immersed in what’s happening that I completely forget that I’m not actually there — that the unsettling kindness of the Bunnies isn’t towards me, but to the main character Samantha; that the unnerving Warren College is not the Earl Warren College of UCSD. Just the other day, as I was reading between meetings, it completely escaped my mind that I was sitting at Art of Espresso and not in Creepy Doll’s living room listening to “Slave to Love” and watching in paralyzing terror as someone’s head exploded in a fit of fury. (I was indeed late to The Guardian’s staff meeting due to this very mortifying out-of-body experience.)
What I’ve gathered so far from my journey with genre-jumping is that there are some genres I am simply not cut out for, but the experience is still worth it. I mean, despite the genuine nerves I get while reading “Bunny,” I am still absolutely going to finish the book — it just will most likely be the last horror novel I read for a while. Additionally, would I go back to non-fiction in pursuit of learning more about cognitive science? Probably not, though I’d be willing to read a different book in that genre. Next summer, however, will I boldly declare that I am going to go on an Abby Jimenez binge-read and actually follow through with it? That’s still up in the air, but so far, it’s looking like a yes!
The point is, after being so stubborn about sticking to the same genre, it’s honestly kind of nice to read books I never typically would. It gives me a chance to explore new worlds and discover more about myself in the process. Not to mention, I’ve grown to enjoy this habit of changing what genre I’m reading based on the season I’m in. So now, as fall looms around the corner, the coziness of November and December inviting me to curl up with a cup of tea, I know I’ll start to feel homesick for my home-genre. And I know that when I return to my classic lit fic books, as I inevitably do, I’ll find that I have a little more appreciation for them.
