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Yesterday, I helped my Dad route audiobooks through his hearing aids. I think he’s always looked down on listening to stories rather than reading them, which is probably the reason I used to look down on it—or consider it a separate activity from reading?—too. But no more.
When I asked him what he wanted to listen to, his first ever audiobook, I expected him to say “Trollope” or “Ulysses” (what he usually reads and respects). But instead he said, without any hesitation, “A thriller!” So I gave him my friend Liz Moore’s book “Long Bright River” about two sisters caught in the opioid epidemic in Philadelphia, where I live. Today I caught him sitting in his chair looking out onto the snowy tundra while a story came silently through those tiny, magical receivers.
Audiobooks have been seriously necessary for me during the pandemic; many days they have been the only way I can read. I’m listen-reading Nothing to See Here by Kevin Wilson right now. I’ve realized that the words in the book matter-ish when it comes to audiobooks but it’s the reader that matters and the only reader who truly matters to me is Marin Ireland. You can see a full list of the books that MI has done here.
I find that as I’m writing my first novel (eEEEee) I don’t want new books, I want books I already know I love and books I already understand. These days I’m looking for the straight-on pleasure of story, a this happened and then this happened kind of tale. I’m teaching Vasilisa & Baba Yaga, Peach Boy, Rumplestiltskin and I’m re-reading the two books I fucking love most in this world --The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers & The Collected Stories of Grace Paley by GP.
Have you ever seen, in your life, two such beautiful frumps?
(Re: frumpland, my essay “Notes on Frump” has been generously republished for this occasion over at Hey Alma. Also, I highly suggest reading “The Fantasy of Being Thin” by Kate Harding. “Overcoming The Fantasy of Being Thin might be the hardest part of making it all the way into fat acceptance-land..I didn’t just have to accept the size of my thighs; I had to accept who I am, rather than continuing to wait until I magically became the person I’d always imagined being.” Fuck.)
Beside audiobooks, it feels like I have no room for new stories. And, in this moment, I have no room for convoluted storytelling, for frame stories and tricks of place and time. I worry we’ve put too many layers between ourselves and stories. As Miranda July puts it, ”It’s a good job, but not as good as just opening your mouth and singing. La.”
yours,
Emma
P.S. Haagen-Dazs vanilla swiss almond still slaps!
P.P.S. At the top of this missive and all future ones is an audio version, if you prefer to listen rather than read me
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