The Experience of the Reader
Last week I turned 22, and one of the two books I was gifted was the latest installment in a young adult mystery series. I’ve been a devoted fan of this series since I was 14, and I was thrilled to find out that the newest book and I shared a birthday/release date. Naturally I had to get my hands on it. But I read it, and it was not what I expected. My reading experience felt different for some reason, and I’m writing this blog in part to decipher why.
I’ll start by saying, I recognize I am not the target audience of the series anymore. I am now a college senior who has been exposed to difficult English and philosophical texts for the past three years. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m smarter now, and I’ve learned to engage with texts in a different way than when I was 14. Maybe I should have expected to interact differently with a YA book.
In the same vein, I looked up to the characters a lot when I was younger, but I’m no longer in the same position in my life. The main character is an aspiring detective, so I always conceptualized her as very clever, even solving 80-year-old cold cases. She’s only a junior in high school, but that was still older than me when I began the series, plus she attends an elite boarding school, which made her seem even more advanced.
But now that my life has eclipsed hers, I am able to see her faults. I will not claim to be the master mystery-solver she is, but I’ve noticed the amount of social-emotional growth she still has to do. When the fifth book came out a few years ago, I reread the entire rest of the series and was struck with how consistently bad of a friend she is—she’s so obsessed with figure out each case that she purposely sidelines her relationships in the process. My informed perspective has shifted my expectations of how she should act.
But despite that I’m smarter and older, I still had fun reading this book. So where does enjoyment in reading come from? Some of my professors may claim it’s produced by the appreciation of literature, of encountering good craft. I won’t deny this: I’m studying English for a reason. But I think only considering reading in this way is reductive to the wider experience of the reader.
My time with this particular book was influenced by more than just the text itself. I had highly anticipated this book since its release date was announced, so I had high hopes it would live up to my expectation. These feelings may have inflated my perception of the book. Additionally, the previous book had left off on a cliffhanger, so I felt the urge to seek resolution and figure out the main character’s relationship status. I can’t help it that I’m attached to characters I’ve been reading about for 8 years!
And most importantly, this book gave me an opportunity to share something with my sister. I forced her to read the series alongside me the last time I did a full reread, and while I was reading the book, I was excited to know all of her thoughts. I love being able to connect with her over our praises and complaints. We often agree—that’s just how we are—but what makes it more entertaining is receiving silly texts about the book that don’t relate to the plot, like when she sent me, “I’d be pissed if someone got syrup on a sweater that I just made them.” Same. The opportunity to text her makes me enjoy the reading experience more, whether it is a good or bad book.
Here, I’m proposing that being a good reader means developing this flexibility, this ability to find goodness somewhere, even if it’s not in the obvious.
During this read, I was distracted by a few plotholes scattered across the book. Does that make reading it a waste of my time, when there are “higher-quality” books available to me?
I don’t think so. To me, it’s okay that this book wasn’t the best, because I was able to find enjoyment in it through other means, mainly my excitement for its release, my continued attachment to the characters, and my connection to my sister.
Here, I’m proposing that being a good reader means developing this flexibility, this ability to find goodness somewhere, even if it’s not in the obvious. The experience of the reader is subjective, and so I can’t wholly prescribe it to fit on one label.
And is that such a bad thing?
