The Book Community has a Boundary Issue

Boundaries have been an integral part of society, allowing us to navigate the intricacies of our interactions with each other without going too far. When in person, with people we know or even strangers, the rules of boundaries tends to be clear. What is and is not acceptable to say or do is easily understood, or otherwise communicated.

Online, boundaries are harder to define, mainly because the intricacies that bind in-person interactions while similar to those online, are vastly different than how we communicate with each other and convey information to each other over the internet. There is an inherent level of comfort that comes with online interactions; certain boundaries aren’t even there by nature of how we speak with each other online, making connecting with others sometimes easier than in person.

The downside is, it also makes people comfortable engaging in activities or discussions that would otherwise be in poor form in person.

With (objectively good) efforts to read more diversely and support marginalized authors, the book community has created an unintentional but inevitable problem to an otherwise important goal, and that is sacrificing author privacy and autonomy under the guise of wanting to find diverse literature.

Becoming a Reader Again

There was a time where I used to be completely enraptured by reading—not just the act, but by the mere thought of a book. There was nothing that brought me pure joy like having the weight of a brand-new hardbound in my hands or cracking open an untouched spine to reach in and feel the tooth of the page beneath my fingers as I turned the first, unworn pages. And the scent. The scent of a new book was almost better than the inky words on the page, removing me from my reality for hours at a time.

Waking Up is an Art Form

Blink.

Yawn.

Grumble.

Telling myself that I needed to refine and stick to my writing schedule was certainly easier said than done. After all, the-night-before-me was completely awake, completely coherent, and one hundred percent dedicated to getting shit done.

Morning me, however, finds the cozy confines of bed and blankets far more alluring than the desk and computer screen—that even on 0% brightness and nighttime settings, still manages to assault my freshly-woken eyes. Sleeping just a little more, clinging to the edges of unconsciousness, is what I grapple with as the responsible part of my brain nudges me first reluctantly from my pillow, then to sit.

Another blink as the light floods brightly into my room from the window my partner forgot to close.

As I walk from my room to my office, I sometimes wonder if we’ve set ourselves up for unrealistic expectations of what actual writing routines and rituals look like. Plopping myself into the computer chair that never wants to stay at the level I set it at and opening my notebook to a page as I’m serenaded so serenely by the brawling cats below my apartment, seems nothing of the vision that I’m shown when browsing those aesthetically pleasing writer Instagrams. More often than not, when I sit down to get my morning writing out and start my day, I haven’t even bothered to put on a pair of pants, let alone make a cup of latte-art-coffee (though I applaud the people who know how to do that, because I sure as hell do not.) My notebook is far from a weather-worn traveler’s notebook of finely embossed leather and—as of about five minutes ago when I drafted this post—I’m not writing my prose with a fountain pen, but rather a common Bic.

It gets the job done.

In getting myself through my writing paces, I’ve learned that the magic isn’t in how prettily you get your writing and your routine down, but in the simple fact that you’re getting it down at all.