I turned 32 today.
I don’t have a list of “32 Things I've Learned Being an Idiot”.
No, as much as the SEO would love it, today I am grateful for everyone who I’ve gotten to share my life with this year. And I only have one reflection.
But I think it’s pretty good.
All the Books
Books have always been a passion of mine. Before acting, food, or writing, there was reading.
Some of my earliest (and fondest) memories are of my parents reading to me, snuggled up on my denim comforter, surrounded by cowboy wallpaper. Those saints would sit with me for hours, reading books about dinosaurs and ocean animals and all sorts of wild things. They read the first Harry Potter Book to me, 20000 Leagues Under the Sea, Call of the Wild, and hundreds more. Honestly, I’m convinced half my speaking ability is because I got to read aloud from Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn and Alexandre Dumas’ Three Musketeers.
Growing up, I was encouraged to collect literature. Candy and toys were a sometimes treat, but books were something my dad never said no to. Poor man must’ve spent a first semester’s college tuition on my (not so) little library.
It wasn’t just about collecting. It was about digesting. Consuming. Drinking up as much knowledge and adventure as I could. Even to the point of obsession.
Aiding my addiction was a convenient little competition. In grade school, our elementary had gamified reading to encourage more kids to crack a few verbal spines. It was called “AR” and for every book you read (and successfully answered a few questions about), you got points.
Now, if you don’t think snaggle-toothed, spikey-haired Seth wanted ALL the points in the world, you’re about three teeth short of a pair of dentures.
Around third grade, my friend Nile and I were neck and neck in this literary tour de force. We had both summited the hundred-point mark and hadn’t stopped. 101, 105, 110, we tore through books at a breakneck pace, unable to let the other keep a lead for long.
I’d test on a short little novella like Of Mice and Men, and jump a point ahead for the day. Then Nile would drop a three-pointer from the non-fiction section with a big biography on Thomas Jefferson. It was probably the fiercest I’d ever competed, and the most fun I’d ever had.
Once or twice I even tried to sneak a bit of reading in under my desk while Ms. Ketcham droned on and on about something frivolous like math.
At the end of every year, the AR winner would be announced. The whole school knew it was either me or Nile for the crown, and I remember being giddy with anticipation. I had posted 20 points earlier that week after finishing the latest Harry Potter book, but something told me my nemesis had an ace up his sleeve.
A hundred dirty little kids sat criss-cross, apple sauce on the carpeted gym floor, waiting for their summer to start. Me and Nile only cared about who was going to take home bragging rights.
After all the basic stuff about how proud they were that we would be going on to the next grade, blah, blah, blah - they got to the good stuff.
Drumroll.
“Third place,” the teacher said, “goes to Cole Pool.”
Polite claps all around.
My guts were twisting and sweat greased my palms.
“C’mon,” I whispered
“Second place,” the teacher started. .
. “Don’t say Seth. Don’t say Seth…” I prayed.
“Seth Rogers!”
Gasps (I shit you not. It was that intense.) all around the auditorium as our principal hurried to say Nile’s name as the winner.
The crowd applauded. The sound of too-small hands slapping together escorted us to the stage.
We walked up side by side, shaking hands. It was a healthy rivalry.
“Lord of the Rings” Nile mouthed as he accepted his first-place pizza party prize.
I smiled and clapped with everyone else, a gracious loser.
(I mean, I wished to hell I’d heard of Frodo and Sam a few weeks ago, but mostly I was excited to have something new to read.)
As I was browsing the fantasy section in Barnes and Noble during a weekend trip to Midland (the only town with a bookstore within an hour’s drive), I had a sobering thought. – I’ll never read all the books.
No matter how fast I read, I’d never be able to cover all the books that had ever been or would ever be. Even if I crushed the classics and made my way through Steven King’s impressive collection… I just wouldn’t catch up. There wasn’t enough time. Forget AR points, this was bigger than a silly school competition, I’D NEVER READ ALL THE BOOKS!
For a kid who probably (definitely) thought he was smarter than he was, grappling with the limits of my knowledge and intelligence was pretty humbling.
Not only would I be unable to learn everything (lol), I’d never even be a fast enough reader to see a minuscule fraction of what humanity had scribbled down.
F*cking bummer dude.
It wrecked me for a while. Still does, in some ways….
But maybe we’re not supposed to read all the books.
Maybe we’re supposed to find the books we like and read them again and again, learning something new every time.
Maybe we’re supposed to skim our favorite genres and authors, pulling out bits of inspiration for a rainy day.
As much as little me wanted to read ALL THE BOOKS, 32-year-old me knows: that isn’t the point.
For every book I read, I’m NOT reading a different book. So I choose more carefully now.
Every time I revisit a favorite character or place, they greet me like life-long friends with (somehow) new stories to tell me. So I’m quicker to give an old read another glance.
I want to do so much, see so much, love so much…
But I can’t read all the books.
Hopefully, I can dive deep into a few good ones, and discover all their pages have to offer. I hope I can share that with a few good people. And I hope at the end, I’m a good read myself.
(psst. This isn’t really about books.)
I’ll end with a poem. Cuz it’s my birthday and I can end my substack however I wish.
If I were a book
If I were a book,
I’d be a tarnished hardcover
Spine broken and bent,
With little frayed edges that tickle your fingers
If I were a book,
My pages would be stained with tears and
Filled with smudged inky notes,
From a hundred different pens
If I were a book,
My story would be shared
Passed from father to son
Friend to friend and
Whispered to lovers under the covers
If I were a book,
I would be read aloud
Cursed by the clergy and
Clutched by the innocent
As hope…
If I were a book,
I’d be held together by tape and string
Dog-eared, torn, and full of red Texas dirt
Well-written
Better-read
Full of love