I've been a reader for most of my life, but I'm always stumped at the start of summer when the term “beach reads” enters the chat. During the colder months of the year, bookworms are imagined as contemplative people drinking hot tea and curled up in leather-covered chairs with the complete works of the Brontë sisters. But when summer begins, our tea is supposed to turn iced, our folding chairs and Brontës are supposed to be traded in for something light, romantic, fizzy and fun.
However, it seems I'm off schedule. As a college professor, I prefer to delve into light-hearted reading during the school year when I need a break from reality. The semester I had just completed was especially challenging, so relaxing with rom-coms and other books often categorized as beach reads was just the kind of entertainment my brain deserved at the end of each day. I felt a little out of place listening to other readers talk about the season's big books, but I knew I needed the escape that the lighter books provided.
However, when the sun starts to burn, I find myself drawn to those more intense reads. Perhaps because I have more mental capacity, what I want while curled up under an umbrella on the beach is sincere disappointment, something thick, well-written and very sad. I want to see tragic mistakes and learn meaningful lessons. In the summer, when other readers seem to want books with happy endings, I want to lament the foibles of humanity as I walk along the shore… while sinking into a big ice cream cone.
I can trace this back to a summer trip I took to London with my dad when I was 21. On the flight from Pittsburgh, I immersed myself in “In the air,” the deeply disturbing account of a 1996 tragedy on Mount Everest that left five dead and many others guilt-ridden. It was, as my students say, unbeatable, and I read well into the night even after checking into our hotel, completely ruining my sleep schedule for the rest of the vacation.
Dazed as I was, I couldn't stop thinking about the terrible decisions the book described and how fragile life seemed after reading it. I was chastened to know how close we often come to ruin, which made the sights and sounds of my trip more vivid. The tragedies in the book gave me the feeling of being somehow more alive. And my arrogance was controlled. Let others climb mountains; I was happy to explore a decadent Eton Mess.
Since then, I have taken to reading tranquilizers in the summer. The Surprisingly Well-Researched and Chilling “Dave Cullen”Columbine“ He accompanied me on a Parisian excursion. I took Sheri Fink's “Five Days at Memorial,” a masterpiece about a New Orleans hospital before, during and after Hurricane Katrina, on a family trip through Canada's Maritime Provinces. I delved into Michael Shaara's Gettysburg-set novel “The Killer Angels” on a beach vacation in Cape May, New Jersey, reflecting on Pickett's Charge while searching for sea glass.
Each of these books appealed to me because of their exhaustive research, deep knowledge of place, and expert craftsmanship. And I learned! The facts of each tragedy, of course, but also about the darkness of the human soul and, in moments, the lights of hope that break through that layer of clouds. While I didn't envy the calamities of these characters, I did feel grateful to get as close as possible to witnessing what they had endured and how (if) they survived. And then I left those worlds behind for the solace of Skee-ball or barbecue.
I realize now that my summer reading may be out of step with many others', but I hope we're all transported by our selections, because that's what good literature can do.
So this year I'll be holed up on the beach with a book about the opioid crisis while others on the coast read celebrity memoirs and romance novels. But instead of letting my seasonal preferences make me feel like an outsider, maybe I'll take note of what my neighbors are reading and make a list for fall. Then, when another semester starts and my work life gets more stressful, I'll know exactly which book to escape to for fun and froth… while I pull the blanket up to my chin and take a sip of piping hot tea.
Shannon Reed is a professor and director of undergraduate studies in the writing program at the University of Pittsburgh. Her latest book is “Why we read: About bookworms, libraries, and just one more page before the lights go out.”
