Aggressively Optimistic Vacation Book Packer

Here's the stack I'm hauling across four flights and two time zones. Since everyone keeps asking me what to read next…

What psychological condition makes someone pack eleven books? I don’t know if this is a personality trait or a diagnosable ailment, but every time I travel I pack enough books to open a satellite location of Strand. Not metaphorically, but structurally. The suitcase itself becomes a bookcase with a zipper. This isn’t delusion exactly, because I’m aware of the math: eleven books, ten days, four flights, two locations. The probability of success is roughly equivalent to becoming fluent in Spanish because I listened to one podcast on the flight over. Still. Into the suitcase they go. Every single time.

And we’re not talking about a Kindle. I refuse to own a Kindle. No offense to people who do, I’m happy for you. But I need pages. I need weight. I need to dog-ear corners, underline sentences that I’ll never revisit, and jot down marginalia that makes absolutely no sense six months later (”THIS.” Next to a description of a Labrador). A Kindle never looks loved or stained or worn, post read.

I don’t actually pack all these books for Vacation Me. I pack them for Future Me. Vacation Me is a myth—she drinks Aperol before lunch and wakes up late. Future Me finishes all eleven books and never checks her email by the pool. She also flosses (consistently). She is well-rested and deeply tanned. I love her. I will never fully be her, but I like giving her the opportunity to exist. Realistically? I’ll finish two books, start four, and buy three more at whatever independent bookstore I inevitably stumble into because vacation is apparently also the perfect time to acquire more books. Who else cannot pass a bookstore—airport, independent, used—without walking out with something? I browse books, like fashion. I am unwell.

The truly ridiculous part is that while I’m writing this and packing for Future Me, I’m buried in edits on my own novel where I can no longer tell if I’m making the sentences infinitely better or slowly destroying them. I alternate between this is finally becoming the book I wanted to write and I’ve completely ruined it beyond repair. Apparently that’s just the process. I’m also officially in the second year of a Masters program for creative writing, which means I’m trying to write one book while reading thirty others to learn how to write books better (plus the eleven that are traveling with me). It feels a little like going to a dinner party while your own kitchen is on fire. You’re thrilled everyone else made food. You’d also really like to leave.

Meanwhile, life keeps going.

Jay had a birthday. Followed by my friend Marcella’s. Two celebrations, two nights. Both ended in singing. One in the car with the kids. One at Café Wha? where nobody sat down. Group singing is, I increasingly think, the closest we can get to collective transcendence without joining a cult.

The Knicks won. The kids are off to camp and teen tours, and the house has gone quiet in the way that makes the work louder. So I’ve entered my favorite season: writing before work, working before writing, booking the facial that feels less like self-care than preventative maintenance, packing for Aspen, traveling to SHA Wellness, and convincing myself the novel is almost there.

But, back to the books. Here’s what’s coming with me (plus a few things I’m wearing). Whether they get read or not is another story. And no, I will not be taking questions about luggage weight.

THE STACK

Our Perfect Storm by @carleyfortune Currently reading. It goes down easy.

The Pool House by @choitotheworld Already on my nightstand. I bought it after the author posted, This is not Yesteryear.

Writers & Lovers by @lilyking Because apparently the only thing writers enjoy more than writing is reading about writers writing.

The Ten Year Affair by @theerinsomers The title alone. My professor recommended it. Sliding Doors but make it infidelity? I’m listening.

The First Husband by @lauradave Laura Dave could write the back of a cereal box and I’d preorder it.

Little Fires Everywhere by @pronounced_ing I know, I know. I’m late. Let’s all move on.

The Brilliant Friend by @ciaoitselena This one has been recommended to me approximately seventeen times. The universe is telling me something.

Blank by @zibbyowens Zibby writes about the parts of life people usually skip over, and I can’t get enough of it.

The Author Weekend by @laurazigman Authors trapped together for a weekend and something inevitably goes wrong?

Will I finish them all? Absolutely not. Will I carry at least three across multiple time zones only to return home with the bookmark still on page twelve? Without question. Will I buy another one (or two) in the airport before I board? We both know the answer. There is something strangely comforting about carrying more books than you could possibly read. It’s optimism disguised as excess. Or maybe excess disguised as optimism. I can never tell.

In any case, I want to know: are you a Kindle person or a physical-book person? Are you an underliner? A dog-earer? (No judgment. Unless you crack the spine on purpose.) And more importantly: what are you reading that belongs in my beach bag?