#strugglesofasinglegirl

This morning, as I scrolled idly on my phone during commute, I came across the above post from The Strand Bookstore. As an avid reader, this got me thinking about how books inform our own reality. Spoiler alert: this post is about to venture into the uber nerdy. 

Do we as readers choose books that have parallel themes to our own lives? Or, do we simply seek out books with a compelling story to tell? Curiosity piqued...

And here’s why, last week was a bit bumpy in terms of my dating life. Things fell through with a guy I’d been talking to, and looking forward to meeting. (Dear men, if we haven’t started dating and you get back with your ex....it’s cool, just fucking own it, and don’t string anyone else along.) But I digress. Anyway, growing up, whenever the world feels like a bit more than I can handle, I’ve always turned to books as the perfect way to escape to an alternate reality where my ish can be put on mute. 

This can get a bit complicated, when normally that escape route looks a lot like stories of whirlwind romances or people getting their happily ever after (even if it’s not getting the guy). 

Back to last week, where I stood in the bookshop at Grand Central, poring over paperbacks trying to find a story that called to me, without two of the characters ending up between the sheets or skipping hand-in-hand into rainbows and piles of puppies. Is that really too much to ask? Crossing my fingers, I made a selection and ventured towards the train and my journey home. 

Now, despite my discerning eye and best efforts, sure enough, the main character ends up with her life wrapped in a perfect little bow. Dream job. Dream apartment. Dream guy. Rainbows. Puppies. Kissed by a damn angel. 

So, now I’m wondering, what does a girl read when she wants a great story that’s free of romance and guaranteed happy endings, but also not the kind of thing that’s going to be full of gore, or stressful twists and turns? Do we need disclaimers? WARNING: DO NOT READ IF FEELING BITTER.

Where are the stories of people like me simply trying to put one foot in front of the other? Those of us simply surviving? I suppose, if I’m my own protagonist, you could make the case that the job, and the move to NY, and the trivial things are my rising action. Each guy who ghosted, quit one date in, or sent an unsolicited dick-pic is just a consequential plot point. But the reality is, fiction is easier. When you’re a woman who deep-down wants the stuff of story books: conversations over candlelight, holding hands in Paris, and pancakes on Sunday morning, it’s hard to be patient waiting for puppies and rainbows in the world of “you up?” text messages at 2 AM.