Issue 99: On reading authentically

Loving the reader that you are, becoming the reader you wish to be.

In 2024, I found myself obsessing over — among other things — a particular form of reader's anxiety: the fear that being a mood reader makes me somehow less serious, less substantial. The fear has a specific grammar to it, a recursive pattern of self-doubt that goes like this:

Why is it so hard to commit to a list and go after it? Why is it so easy to become bored with ideas I was so enthusiastic about moments ago? Why do my reading habits have to be at such profound odds with one of my deepest desires — to be a reader of substance?

These questions carry the weight of former selves. The self who wore Banana Republic suits in corporate America, believing that fitting in meant that I was on a path to advancement. The self who spent years in therapy and with a career coach, learning to work with rather than against my nature. The self who now stands, somewhat defiantly, in defense of spontaneity and the unpolished truth of who I am. My heart, I've learned, is an excitable one. It craves variety, inspiration, an unexpected turn. My brain, meanwhile, demands order, preparation, competence. The tension between these forces defines not just my reading life but my entire approach to intellectual pursuit.

This year, blissfully, something shifted. I began to understand that structure and spontaneity could coexist, that one might even enhance the other. The evidence appeared in a series of projects that seemed to emerge naturally from my interests:

📚 My Substack

First, I launched A Reading Life in April 2024¹. Writing about books forced me to articulate what I'd previously only felt, to trace the patterns in my seemingly random reading choices. The discipline of writing paired surprisingly well with my mood reader's heart.

🧐 Close reading challenges

Then the close reading challenges arrived – The Age of Innocence and Passing with Haley Larsen. These exercises in careful attention revealed something crucial: deep engagement doesn't require rigid planning, only presence. In The Age of Innocence, I found echoes of my own struggles with social expectation versus personal desire. In Passing, I recognized the complex choreography between authenticity and adaptation.

📝 Annotation

The annotation practice developed next, evolving into something between art and analysis. When my post about it was featured on Substack Reads and went low-key viral, I realized I wasn't alone in seeking a more intimate relationship with text. Others too were looking for ways to mark their passage through books, to leave traces of their reading lives.

😎 The Didion Month

October became Didion month, not through planning but through obsession. I read her work, read about her work, talked to so many of your about your experience with her work. What began as curiosity became a model for future exploration. Didion taught me that precision needn't preclude passion, that one could be both meticulous and moved. The second Substack Reads feature that resulted felt less like validation and more like a conversation extending beyond myself.

What emerged from all this has formed a system so simple it barely deserves the name: I read widely about books and reading before I decide what to read next. I organize my reading into reading projects² so that even if I am deciding spontaneously what to read next, the book itself is in conversation with other books that I am interested in. If I love a book, I give it extra time and attention — to journal and / or annotate it. If I love it extra-extra-extra much… YOU will know because I won’t shut up about it. 🫣

This “system” works because it acknowledges both my heart's need for freedom and my mind's desire for order. It allows me to move forward with both intuition and focus, to be both the reader I am and the reader I wish to become.

Now, considering 2025, I find myself in an unusual position: content with uncertainty. The anxiety hasn't vanished, but it's transformed into something more productive. Instead of rigid plans, I have directions to explore (with gratitude to so many of my Substack friends):

• Author deep dives into prolific writers, allowing for both systematic exploration and spontaneous deviation

• Completionist projects (inspired by

  Natalie McGlocklin
  and
  Books on GIF
  ) focused on Nicole Krauss, Katie Kitamura, and Lauren Elkin— not as a duty but as an extended conversation with trusted voices

• Joining

  Regan
  ’s "5+ club", starting with Annie Ernaux?? understanding that quantity can lead to quality of understanding

• Thematic explorations like 19th Century Wives Under Pressure – Amor Towles shared in an interview that his reading group spent a year reading Portrait of a Lady, Madame Bovary, Middlemarch, and Anna Karenina as a conversation across time. I absolutely love this idea and will be slow-reading Anna Karenina with

  Henry Eliot
  ’s book group, starting in January.

• Poetry and prose intersections, examining how poets write novels and how this changes both forms.

• Strategic re-reading — Little Women over Christmas break anyone?! — to challenge the productivity mindset that makes us always reach for the new; a tender way to re-connect with past selves.

• Reading series, practicing the art of patient reading — I am halfway through Ali Smith’s Seasonal Quartet and anticipating the third book in Constance Debré’s Trilogie.

• Resistance to the hype machine, choosing new releases with intention rather than obligation

• Practical considerations: starting at the library always

• Deep engagement with criticism, seeking the critics who can become intellectual companions (or, basically, learning from

  Celine Nguyen
  to not be afraid of letting my nerd flag fly high)

For those who share this reading life – both the structured planners and the spontaneous wanderers – I want to know:

How did you deepen your reading practice in 2024? What does your end-of-year reflection reveal? How do you balance the desire to plan with the need to remain open to literary serendipity? How do you make sure you are staying true to your authentic reader-self?

These aren't merely rhetorical questions. They're invitations to continue a conversation about how we read, why we read, and who we become through reading. Because in the end, being a mood reader isn't about being a flake at all. It's about being alive to possibility, about letting books find us when we need them most.

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1. Before April, I wrote a newsletter titled Lifequakes about living through major life transitions. I worked 1:1 with

Sarah Fay

who has been incredibly helpful to me in pushing me to be honest with myself about why I was writing and what I wanted to write about, despite my insecurities. If you are considering becoming a paid subscriber or joining any of her coaching programs, let me be the last push you need.

2. Sometimes I call them curriculum piles because they are often literally piling up on the floor next to my bed.