RA

Was that even an acronym twenty years ago? I clearly recall learning about Readers Advisory service in library school, but I don’t remember referring to it by initials. Then again, that’s how you can tell something is hot in the library world—when we decide it’s just too exhausting to say all 6 syllables, and come up with letters.

Still, every time I see the letters RA, I have to stop and tell myself “No, they don’t mean rheumatoid arthritis.”

I didn’t truly understand RA back in library school, and I don’t understand it now. Oh, I get the definition, and the mechanics. It’s the concept of people not knowing what they want to read that I don’t get.

If I could stop working tomorrow (are you listening, lottery gods?), and could devote the rest of my life to reading whatever I wanted to read, I would still die with hundreds of books that I really wanted to read untouched.

Even if you added the stricture that I wasn’t allowed to peruse any lists of new books, pick up new titles from the newspaper or tv, or even heed any titles mentioned to me by friends from that day forth—I wouldn’t be in any danger of running out of reading material.

If you got truly draconic and told me that for the rest of my life, I could only read things that were actually in my house at that moment—I’d be more than a little irritated with you, but I still wouldn’t run out of things to read.

How can anyone who calls themselves a reader not know what they want to read?

That’s not to say I don’t enjoy having conversations about books. Far from it. I love talking about books. I love hearing about books. I’ve read some wonderful books on the recommendations of friends, and even complete strangers. (I’ve read some terrible books that way, too.) Talking about books is how you expand your reading horizons, and that’s terrific.

What I don’t understand is the person who, metaphorically speaking, grabs you by the lapels, shakes you, looks at you with levels of desperation usually associated with castaways on desert islands, and begs you “Tell me what to read!”

And after you’ve found something for them, they come back in a week or two, and do it again!

How can they not know what they want to read? Why would they want to read something exactly like they just finished (and so many of them do!)? Do they not appreciate the sublime pleasure of browsing the shelves, and letting serendipity take its course? Are they not bombarded with so many new titles that sound interesting that they have to keep lists entitled “stuff I want to read… eventually”, as I do?

Is finding new books to read considered an unpleasant chore? I’ve never in my life heard anyone say, “Oh gosh, I just watched the last episode of Seinfeld, and now I have nothing to watch on tv. Please, tell me what to watch next!”

Part of the joy of reading for me is the process of finding new authors and titles that I love. It's rather a buddhist approach, I guess-- when the reader is ready, the book will appear. I've never felt the need to have anyone else assist with the process.