It started innocently enough. I’ve been reading Freedom for like a fortnight. It’s a big, difficult novel from hell. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve given myself over to a really big book. In fact, I’ve gotten so snobby (and a bit lazy) that I’ve avoided any book that’s more than 300-350 pages. Somewhere along the line I had decided that 600 pages was utter nonsense and that I was entirely too busy and important to indulge some silly writer in 600 pages because they were unable to make choices or edit.

But long about September or October, Rock & Roll Bookclub decided they wanted to read Freedom. After all it was the book of fall. Being a bitch, I totally poo-pooed the idea using arguments like, “I don’t want to” and “he doesn’t need any more readers” and “but everyone is reading it.” Sadly we’re a democratic bookclub. I was voted insane and we’ll be discussing Freedom next week.

Anyway, as I said, I’ve been reading the big, difficult novel. I say it’s difficult because some of it is really fucking boring. So boring that while reading I say things like, “Jonathan Franzen, do I really need to know that?” And sometimes it’s really fucking good and I say things like “Nice one Jonathan Franzen.” And sometimes I get cranky with the way he portrays Patty Berglund and I say, “You lost me there Jonathan Franzen that was really condescending and dismissive. You’re better than that.” Mostly though, I just warn him, “this better be worth it Jonathan Franzen” or “I’m trusting you, Jonathan Franzen, to make this worth the while.”

Please note that Jonathan Franzen never replies. This is what I will pin my defense on.

The steady stream of questions to Jonathan Franzen has leaked over from the bedroom (which is where I am reading Freedom) into all my inner monologues. “I’m going to make some macaroni and cheese for dinner. I hope it’s good, Jonathan Franzen” (incidentally, it was not good. I’m giving up on homemade mac & cheese. I just can’t do it). Or “Should I go to Target today Jonathan Franzen?”

I’m not sure why this is. It might have something to do with the fact that I’m constantly trying to dissect the “magic” of Freedom which is why I keep having that one-sided, imaginary conversation with Jonathan Franzen. Thus far (and I’m 500+ pages in) I’m not seeing why this novel was heaped with so much praise and glory. But, despite my instinct to put it aside, I keep reading because I’m putting my faith in my new imaginary friend.

I don’t know a lot about Jonathan Franzen, the actual person. I listened to How to Be Alone years ago and loved it. Plus, I think I have a tender spot for him because he was a friend of David Foster Wallace (my Tiger Beat crush).

All I know is that I keep reading the book even though I’m not sure I want to, I keep saying things like, “Jonathan Franzen why is Joey such a dirtbag?” and I’ve had Wham!’s “Freedom” on repeat in my head for two weeks.

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Nothing sends me through the roof like seeing that phrase “have time to read.” It bothers me more than “it is what it is” and improper use of “begs the question” combined. It bugs me even more that it’s coming from MinnPost, a website that I adore and that, well, asks people to read its articles.

I hate “have time to read” for two reasons. First, it insinuates that the reader does nothing but fritter away his/her time lazing about reading . . . books! Books! Oh, just think of all that lascivious self-indulgence. If only we too had the time to do something so decadent. But no, we are much too busy and important to have time to read books.

You never, ever hear or read about someone insinuating people who watch American Idol (or Glee or Lost or Dr. Who) “have the time.” Nobody ever talks about people who go see a new movie every other week “having the time.” No, time is only of the essence when it comes to reading books.

Sure, I realize reading an entire book is something of a time commitment. But American Idol is on like four hours a week. How much reading could you get done in four hours?

Also, I refuse to believe people don’t “have time to read.” That’s crap. If you have time to watch any TV at all, you have time to read a book. If you fall asleep to the TV in your bedroom, you have time to read a book. If you read three magazines a month, you could spend that time reading a book.

It’s not that you don’t have time to read. It’s that you choose to spend your free time doing something else, which is fine. Just stop being condescending about how other people “have time to read.” You have the same time.

Second, it’s nothing more than a flimsy excuse for not reading books. If you feel bad about it, start reading books.

And yes, I realize you mean you don’t make time to read books when you say you don’t have time. But you know what? Start saying what you mean. Because you know what I hear when you say you don’t have time to read?

I hear, “I’m a self-important windbag who is really busy with all the important things that occupy my very precious (and important) time that I have so very little of that I must spend it doing important things importantly.”

Sometimes I just hear, “I’m not very smart.”

Instead of saying you don’t have time to read, say you don’t make time to read books. That’s okay. I don’t make time for a lot of things I believe I should do — like exercising or cleaning. I never say I don’t have time to do those things, because I do. I just choose books instead.

So let’s stop being condescending pricks, okay? Next time you feel the words don’t have time to read bubbling up from your throat or your keyboard, just stop. Take a deep breath. Don’t make an excuse about not having time. Just say (or write), “I wish I read more.” That’s all it takes. You get to be honest with the extra special bonus of not making someone else feel bad. Everybody wins!

There, that’s your Supergenius Manners lesson of the day. I am off to decadently fritter all my time in a tub while listening to The Feminine Mystique.

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She was a tiny woman who taught the highest reading class when I was in sixth grade. Our reading classes were divided into highest, middle, and lowest. I think. I was always in highest reading and math. Being the budding intellectual snob I never learned what the other classes were called.

Mrs. Mullins loved books and poetry. When we were in sixth grade she made us do something called choral reading which until a few seconds ago I was pretty sure she made up. She would had out mimeographed pages of Shel Silverstein’s poetry and we’d read it aloud chorally. We worked on this for weeks and weeks, memorizing the poems. A lot of which are still floating around my grey matter. I’d rather play tennis than go to the dentist. I’d rather play soccer than go to the doctor. I’d rather play Hurk than go to work. Hurk? Hurk? What’s Hurk? I don’t know, but it MUST be better than work.

I loved choral reading. It was the most fun thing ever. Once, when Mrs. Mullins had to leave the room she left us alone with “Ations” and we were to practice our reading. Joy Grotewold sat on her desk and read the poem, “And if I say this is a wonderful poem, is that exaggeration?” Her voice dripped sarcasm, she rolled her eyes, and finished off her recitation with a gag.

My cheeks burned with shock and shame. First, I couldn’t believe she’d been so vocal about her opinion of choral reading, especially a contrary opinion. I waited for swift retribution to rain down upon Joy. She had expressed an opinion that differed from the adults and nothing was happening. Granted, the adult wasn’t in the room at the moment but they usually had a way of finding out. Nobody told her to be quiet or that she was too big for her britches. There was no yelling or hitting. Amazing.

Second, I was ashamed that I loved it so much when Joy and her friends made it clear choral reading was totally lame. I nodded along while everyone talked about how awful choral reading was, but said a secret apology to Mrs. Mullins.

The best thing about choral reading was that when it was over, we’d all settle back into our desks and Mrs. Mullins would read Blackbriar to us. This was another unpopular activity. We were in sixth grade and having a book read out loud to you was for babies. We were not babies, we were practically in junior high.

I have no idea why she choose to read Blackbriar out loud. But it didn’t take long for us to become wholly captivated by the book. I cannot remember what it was about. What I do remember is that it was the scariest book ever. Even in the fluorescent-lit classroom surrounded by twenty other kids we would collectively hold our breath while she read. It was terrifying and the suspense often made one of us gasp.

I’ve thought about that book for nearly twenty-five years and finally last week I bought a used copy. I can’t wait to read it and see how it holds up.

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Max calls his Winkletoe and Jaycie’s is Sparkletoe. Cade called his Wushy. Liam calls his D.T., because that’s what Nolan called his. Mine’s called Blackhole Sun, a nickname given to it by my college roommate F.R. Chicken because of its resemblance to an afghan that can be seen in the Soundgarden video.

The blanket doesn’t have an illustrious heritage like a few of the others. There’s the blue and bluer one that my Grandma Chromey crocheted using yarn in my favorite colors given to me as a gift upon entering teenagehood (I think. I’ve had the blanket for a very long time). There’s a purple and white one that my Grandma St. Martin crocheted using yarn in my favorite colors, given to me as a gift for college graduation. They seem too fragile for everyday use, and so sit up on a shelf in my closet. There’s the rainbow-themed afghan I crocheted after college that my sister’s have dubbed the gay-pride blanket. That’s folded up and sitting in a laundry basket, that Paco occasionally uses as a bed.

Blackhole Sun was knit by an anonymous person and discovered at a garage sale by my Aunt Anna when I was in college. I remember when she gave it to my mom she said, “It’s really ugly, but it’s so long I thought you’d like it.” It’s some 84ish inches long and I loved it immediately. My mom gave it to me since I was the only person who would truly appreciate its length. And I have, lo these many, many years.

I spent the weekend huddled under Blackhole Sun (I think the temperature was -14 yesterday) curled into the La-Z-Grrl alternately watching old episodes of Mad Men Season 1 and reading Craig Thompson’s graphic novel Blankets.

In fact, I just finished Blankets and have been sitting here in the blue haze of Minnesota’s January twilight clutching all 582-pages of it to my chest, pondering its beauty, its wonder, the tender coming of age story it tells, and thinking about blankets the actual things and the metaphor.

And it was all perfectly lovely and I wanted you to know that.

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Self-control is not my strong suit. When I want something, I want it now and a lot of it. I rarely settle for one, whether it be a cookie, an orgasm, or a beer. But I read somewhere that delayed gratification is a sign of maturity. I’m trying to be mature here.

This is not an easy task. I love Gaitskill’s writing with the kind of gusto I usually reserve for Dawson’s Creek, Paul Westerberg, and bagels with peanut butter and apples. Denying yourself something you love has to be good for something, right? I better learn something from this experience.

I’m hoping that my longing will make the reading of this book even better. By taking my time I’m hoping I will be able to soak up every drop of wonder in Gaitskill’s sentences until it oozes from my pores and shines from my eyes.

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