Nobody Cares How Many Books I've Read

An Existential Crisis

It’s 8:30pm here. The heating wasn’t working last week, so when the heating man came to fix it on Monday, Kate and I went a bit trigger-happy and kept all the heaters on. Towel-rails included.

~ I’ve never dissected ‘trigger-happy’ before, and it feels a bit disturbing considering how often people die due to gun misuse (not that I think there’s any correct use for a gun). I take it back, but I don’t want to delete it because maybe this will also make you consider not using it as an adjective. ~

Don’t worry (I’m sure you were worried), we’ve left the underfloor heating in the bathrooms off. Mainly because we can’t figure out the controls. Oh, also, we’re not rich; heating is included in our rent. And I’m terrified of mould. So terrified that I’d probably grab my hydrometer before anything else in the event of a fire.

This morning, Kate started panicking because it was too hot. Fair. We both hate being too hot. I don’t usually have the heating on, but we don’t have double-glazing, so the mould risk is too high. Plus, my bedroom was fucking freezing last week. We did turn the heating off today, though, and opened a few windows. I have the windows open in the living room now. We live on the high street in Brighton, so there’s always a bus going by or a couple fighting in the street. Maybe I’ll tell you every time I hear a bus. There’s a bus lane on our road and a bus stop right outside. Trust me, there are so many buses.

Bus ~

Last night, at around midnight, I heard someone screaming. I ran to my bedroom window, ready to spring into action, but it was just two people closing up the restaurant below us. They were taking out the bins, and I assume (bus ~) that one of them was running from a mouse. I was ok when I realised neither of them was being murdered.

Bus ~

Bus ~

Now I’m getting distracted.

Bus ~ (omg I didn’t realise there were this many actually)

Our building is quite similar to the one in Only Murders in the Building (bus ~), if your definition of quite similar is completely different, with a few minor similarities. I want to back up my theory of the building having Only Murders vibes, but I (bus ~) literally have no idea what the similarities are. Just trust me, I guess?

The Only Murders in the Building building

~ I’m checking the Brighton bus schedule quickly because now that I’m tracking it, I kind of feel (bus ~) like I’m imagining things.

Ok, so it turns out more than 24 bus routes stop here. Makes sense. I’m gonna stop tracking now for all of our sanity. ~

Bus ~

Bus ~

Anyway, I read a poetry book that a new Brighton friend lent me this morning. Then I chatted to my friend, Jake, because we’ve been writing poetry and whatnot (bus ~) together for 8 years, and (BUS!!!!!) they know that my poetry is a bit shit.

I usually tell people the reason my poetry is shit is that I don’t follow forms, and that they’re full of scattered thoughts. I studied creative writing at uni, so, in theory, I could write a poem in form. I just don’t want to.

That doesn’t matter because it’s a lie. The real reason my poetry is a bit shit is that I’m not very good at writing poetry. I like it when my poetry rhymes, but it feels juvenile because it doesn’t have any depth. None of my poetry has any depth, which is strange because I have a lot of depth. Too much depth, maybe. I’m a Scorpio Sun and Aries Moon. I think if I had any more depth, I’d be at the centre of the earth (which I already am, but that’s because I’m a Leo Rising).

The room temperature has been a bit more manageable for the last hour or so, so I’ve been relaxing on the sofa with my Lord Farquaad blanket, listening to the ending of the song Roddy by Djo on repeat. My favourite part starts at around 3:06, so I listen to that part over and over again while I write.

I got bored with doing that, anyway, so I started reading Arrangements in Blue by Amy Key, a book Kate let me borrow recently.

~ Now people are drilling outside. It’s 9pm. Cities are wild. There must be babies sleeping. ~

Jake said I should try writing about how my poetry is a lie and why I don’t feel seen through it. I tried, I told them, but I still don’t feel connected to it. I read it to them in a voice message, and they questioned my motive for writing poetry.

This conversation gave me a bit of clarity. I guess my desire for writing poetry is fuelled by my desire to share my poetry and have people tell me my poetry is good and that they see me.

So really, I just want to be seen. But I also feel intimidated by the idea of being truly seen. So my poetry is a lie. And I write shit poetry.

After that, I wrote some pretty good poetry.

I was reading Arrangements in Blue just now and thinking, wow, Amy Key really can write.

Writing stirs some weird emotions for me. I consume so much of it. My entire life revolves around it, really. Novels, short stories, poetry, long late-night texts and Substack articles. It’s a sore spot for me because I really want to be good at it, and I get intimidated when I read other people’s writing because I think I should write like them. And then I think if I write like them, I won’t have my own personal style. And that’s when I start to think that maybe I’ve never had my own personal style and I’ve always just copied from other writers I’ve consumed. Then I’m just overwhelmed because I wonder if I should stop writing. Then I think I need to find a niche. Then I find a niche, but then I get inspired by someone else and convince myself I’m a liar and all my work belongs to every other writer but me.

And on and on and on and on and on.

Amy Key is a really good writer. I’m only on page 9, but I can tell because I stopped midway through one of her sentences and thought, no one cares how many books I’ve read.

What a realisation. I’ve been reading books forever. I used to do 100 a year when I was naive, then I cut it back to 50, and now I read when I can. I’m aiming to do a casual 50 again this year. Not that you care. A lot of my friends read books. I don’t know how many books, but they probably do.

I think that’s the point here. I want everyone to look at me and think that’s Abs who read 50 books this year. But I don’t even do that. And when the year is over, I’m back onto the next challenge of how many books I can read, how fast I can run and how many mountains I can climb. All so I can tell someone that I read 48 books, and they can excitedly pretend to listen while they tell me how many books they read. I don’t remember how many books they read because I wanted them to know how many books I read.

When I was studying for my degree, my therapist told me that if the point of having a goal is to wait for the goal to be completed, we’re ultimately just waiting for our lives to pass us by. Or something like that.

That is to say that instead of enjoying the books I was studying and the knowledge I was obtaining, I was living each day waiting to say I had a degree. And once I said that, I immediately set my sights on something else.

This changed my perspective for a while. But it’s one of those philosophies you forget about and have to relearn when you remember it exists (this essay is kinda me doing that, but also an existential realisation of some sort).

Sometimes, when I’m reading a book, I feel like I’m just reading it so it can be over and I can say I’ve read it. Bit weird, really. People don’t care how many books I’ve read. I’ve been thinking I need to read more books, and I should be reading right now instead of writing shit poetry and Substack articles. I’ve also been thinking I should be writing right now instead of reading because at the end of the year, I’ll need to tell everyone how many Substack articles I’ve posted.

I was reading Arrangements in Blue by Amy Key, and I realised that no one is going to care if I’ve read Arrangements in Blue by Amy Key.

So, will I continue reading it?

Back to the Leo Rising. I’ve always thrived on attention. I post my entire life online daily so that everyone can see me.

If something happens, I immediately tell someone about it. I live for communication, and when I’m on my own, I live in a fantasy world where I’m successful, and everyone is giving me praise for some amazing thing I’ve accomplished. Call it a praise kink (I will), but it’s also the result of me living almost entirely for external validation.

I used to think I was the type of person who lived for myself, but that was another lie. Whoops.

I’m struggling to think of many things I do that I enjoy because I simply do. The first few things that spring to mind are Sudoku, being vegan and solving murder mysteries. Reading books is also on the list of things I genuinely enjoy. And writing. But I can’t tell if I’d do them to the same extent if I couldn’t talk about them, because I pretty much live my entire life to talk about myself.

Perhaps this essay is just me discovering the ego. I know I thrive on attention, but I wonder how much of who I am is built purely on attention.

What a rollercoaster.

Will I continue reading books? The deeper question is actually, will I continue existing purely for others, will I start existing for myself (what does that even look like? Doing Sudokus, eating vegan food and solving murders?!), or will I just stop existing entirely (probs a bit dramatic).

Maybe I’ll just sleep on it.