Reading novels instead of news.

I’ve had a moment of clarity about just how much time I was spending on news apps. Because I cut myself off after the US election, I suddenly found myself with hours to fill every day.

Yep. Hours.

I don’t recall wasting hours gorging on news coverage, but Siri tells me my consumption is way down. Apparently I wasn’t wasting heaps of time on the socials. I pretty much had that under control, except for long-form pieces on Substack. But Apple’s news app was chewing up large parts of my day.

It wasn’t all politics, but it hardly matters. It was still mostly wasted. The last week I’d frequently find myself standing, staring into the distance, wondering what to do. A bit like a junkie I guess.

I solved that problem by scattering books I’d been meaning to read around the house. I’ve mentioned a few of them already. The trick seems to be to have one in reach in every room of the house. I’ve got some that can be taken in small bites, and others that need long periods of concentration.

Juice, Tim Winton’s squeeze of the apocalypse-orange is among the latter, but I was surprised to discover that Elena Ferrante’s My Brilliant Friend could be read in small doses. Actually, I was surprised to discover Elena Ferrante’s My Brilliant Friend could be read at all, at least by me. I’d always assumed it was chick-lit. And maybe it is. But it’s also pretty fucking cool.

There’s some amazingly good writing in there. And honestly, I don’t usually dig amazingly good writing because a lot of writers seem to think it’s a good unto itself. I prefer writing that serves a story. Ferrante’s does. It’s almost a horror story, in a way. A social horror story, at least in its post-war detail of Italian childhood, and because of that, some of the most intense passages remind me of Stephen King. That was a surprise.

Anyway, you know, read more books. It’s good for what ails you.