I set a lot of goals for the new year back on January 1, and even though I forgot most of them already (I need to dig up the paper I wrote them on and post it on my bathroom mirror), the one I was most excited about has not been forsaken: to read more in 2014.

More measurably, to read at least two books each month—one fiction, one non-fiction.

It occurred to me that other than childbirth books and baby-calming books, the main source of my reading material for the past year (or more) has been Facebook. I’m not saying I’m going to cut myself off of Facebook (though the time for that might come sooner or later), but I do want to be more meaningful about the things that I read. I bemoan the fact that I never have time to read anymore, but that’s simply not true. I read all the time, probably for at least several hours each day. It’s just that the content of what I read is such fluff that at the end of the day my brain feels emptier than it was before. Do I really need to take this quiz to see What Kind of Mormon I Am? Does it really matter if I read this article that I Won’t Believe How it Ends? Do I really care to see 50 Of the Funniest Memes of 2013?

No. It doesn’t matter. And most of it is crap. (Some of it isn’t, of course. But as a self-governing adult I am challenging myself to become more discerning of the valuable texts and less tempted by the nonsense.)

So what did I read in January?

FICTION(ish): Hyperbole and a Half by Allie Brosh

I’m considering this book fiction even though the stories (originally conceived in blog format as seen on Brosh’s viral website) are technically true. But it’s riddled with cartoon drawings and the stories were so outrageous it felt like I was reading a popsicle—the pages melted away in quick deliciousness. I left it on the back of the toilet and finished it in four or five sessions, if you get my drift. I laughed out loud more than once. I cried a little bit too. I really liked it and highly recommend it.

Two caveats: 1) There is a fair bit of crude language, including F-bombs, so be warned. I personally think they add to the text and almost always found them quite funny. 2) The last story, “Identity Part Two,” got on my nerves. In it, Brosh is discussing how she likes to think of herself as a good person but deep down she knows she is sh*t, and it just goes on and on in this self-loathing way that just made me want to shake her and say “SO WHAT IF YOU’RE NOT GENUINELY GOOD, YOU’RE NOT KILLING PEOPLE SO JUST BE YOURSELF AND GET OVER IT!” What annoyed me most, I think, is that she seemed to think she was the only person in the world who is basically shiz inside.

A main part of the human experience is realising that true altruism is impossible to attain because even if we are doing nice things for no other reason than to feel good about ourselves, we are still doing nice things SO THAT WE FEEL GOOD ABOUT OURSELVES.  In other words, we are doing nice things for selfish reasons. But it’s still better than doing mean things.

Still a good read though.

NONFICTION: My Story by Elizabeth Smart

I actually bought this book for my mom for Christmas, but I got bored on our drive down to Arizona so I unwrapped it and read it from Great Falls to around Salt Lake, where I finished it. To say it was a page-turner is an understatement. I didn’t want to stop driving at midnight because I wanted an excuse to keep reading. (And okay, you caught me: I read this in December, but it was late December and I’m just getting started on changing my life so give me a break on this one. Plus January’s not over so I still might find something else to read before the 31st.)

When I read, I’m not very picky. The way I judge a book to be good is basically if I don’t want to stab my eyeballs out while I’m reading it.

But the way I judge a book to be life-changing is if I can’t stop thinking about it for weeks, months, or even years after putting it down. (David Foster Wallace’s Consider the Lobster is one of these for me.) And in this way, My Story joins the ranks of the few.

My heart broke on nearly every page as I read about the horrors that poor girl suffered at the hand of two very evil people. It made me cry to think that such a thing could happen to innocent children, and it made me sick to think of it happening to my own child or nieces and nephews.

But as striking as her story was, the way it affected me most was this: Smart’s homeless captor discovered her after her mother gave him money on a street corner and later hired him to do some work around their house. Months later he broke into that same house and kidnapped her at knifepoint. So how can I ever feel good about helping people in need again? How do I judge when a person is legitimately needy or just trying to kidnap and rape my child? I already can’t pull over to help people stuck on the side of the road for fear of being killed; how can I do *anything* nice for *anyone* ever again? It made me lose faith in humanity, in other words.

Unfortunately I don’t think that’s the message Smart meant to convey, as she ended it on the very positive note of how far she’s come and how she will never give another moment of her life to that man by wallowing in self-pity. If I ever get a chance to meet her I would like to ask her about my question and see if she can help me come to terms with it.

At any rate, I think about it all the time in the weeks since reading it, and I have a feeling the words will never fully leave me.

Another high recommendation from me.

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