I Always Find It So Hard To Read On Holiday…

Wednesday is about books. And reading. And writing. Today, the struggle is so-real/surreal…

I always find it so hard to read when I’m on holiday. Especially when I’m with my parents. Bless them, but they’re not big readers. Dad always said that he read at work every day. Important papers, and the newspaper too. Had to know what was going on. At home he wanted to relax, and that didn’t include reading. Mum reads - still - but it would be a stretch to even call them “airport novels”. She does read. But not a lot.

I don’t know where my love of reading came from. My brother isn’t into reading at all. (Actually, he’s making an effort now, later in life, but it was never there for him as a kid, he was quite possibly never correctly diagnosed as dyslexic, we think).

My dad’s father was a huge reader - and I imagine I got it from him. When we’d stay there as young kids he’d have his nose in a book. He wasn’t social at all. One weekend he had to take me to my soccer game. He stayed in the car and read a book, not just while we were warming up, but throughout the entire game. I always found that remarkably sad - but I also kinda understood it. It must have been a really good book, I remember thinking.

I read a lot. And often. But I barely ever get a good reading session. It’s all stolen moments these days. Or waking up early. Occasionally, I’ll even have a late night up in bed reading - but mostly I just find the lines blurring way too quickly and the light goes off.

But when I’m on holiday, I always pack more books than I’ll ever need. It’s my time to catch up, I figure. Even though it never works that way.

It’s actually the same with writing. I find it really hard work - and have to just give in and not try too often. Last night, I snuck down to the end room to play some vinyl LPs I got for Christmas and write a newsletter. But within minutes of being there alone, my dad followed. He parked up on the couch across from me and started scrolling on his phone. He’d read out a little nugget from a Stuff article now and then. Also some sports updates. He was reading this aloud to no one. I mean, I was in the room. But the air was dead. I didn’t know how long I’d be able to freeze him out. Mum arrived shortly after, and this was both good and bad. Now dad had someone to read to - but I still had to pretend I was partly interested. I couldn’t walk out of the room, because that would be too rude. Though to just hide behind my book, or start typing away on my iPad would probably be too much also. In the end, I opted for the iPad, and pushed a newsletter out into a vague shape. Then I joined them for more conversation. Because they love when we are here. And that is what it is about of course.

But I haven’t done too bad, I’m halfway through a book of new Lydia Davis short stories. I love her work. Sometimes she’ll write for 10-20 pages, but more often than not it’s just a few lines, or a page and a half at best. Her stories are like weird little prose poems. But to call them weird perhaps belittles them, given they are so perfectly formed.

I’ve also read half of a biography about Vince McMahon (Ringmaster). I love reading about pro-wrestling. Far more than I like watching it these days. Though that obviously wasn’t always the case. When I was 11 or 12 I fell for wrestling big time. And was only into it it for a year or two. Then, much later in life, in my mid/late 20s I got newly interested in it - it started as purely nostalgia. But then I started to take it very seriously. I wrote for a website about pro-wrestling. I made several new friends, almost entirely due to an interest in wrestling. And I started to read as much as I could about the history of the sport, or “sport”, if you will. I read biographies of all the big players, and I read some of the lightweight photo-books and annual albums; I also read very serious books about the history of amateur wrestling and other linked combat sports, and the circus era of pro-wrestling. I read as much as I could find online, and I imported dozens of books. Some of them weren’t great, but I still loved the experience of reading them. Some of them were amazing. In some cases, they’re up there as a couple of the best books I’ve ever read.

I even got to interview Bret “The Hitman” Hart as a result of reading his book.

I also compiled an e-book of many of my wrestling-related pieces, including other interviews with big name players like Ric Flair and Randy Orton. I even interviewed Chris Benoit, who went on to murder his wife and child and then kill himself. That’s not a nice sentence, but it’s alway seemed like some strange anti-honour, and I’m sure his actions were in no way a result of any of the questions I asked.

Every now and then, I guess I’ll watch a tiny bit of pro-wrestling these days, though it’s usually a reel on Instagram (that’s about all I can take) but I am still connected in some strange sense. And I’m absolutely loving the Vince McMahon book. I bought it in America on our last holiday, and started it on the plane, then promptly ditched it for any of the movies instead. But it’s a thrill-ride of a book. He’s a Trump-ian figure, a “self-made” billionaire who was able to make a small fortune with just the tiniest of million-dollar-loans and job prop-ups from his old man. He’s about as politically appealing as Trump, about as likeable as a dinner guest, about as smug and self-serving, and yet because he works in the world of pro-wrestling, it’s a little bit more justifiable, or at the least understandable. It’s more of a laugh. Because you can walk away from it.

But as I write this, McMahon has snuck out the back door of his organisation to obfuscate things around some pretty damning “Me Too” type allegations. There have already been pay offs and other attempts at subterfuge. But McMahon has so far escaped, avoiding serious charges or repercussions. And that’s certainly nothing to laugh about at all.

It does help to make the book really interesting though. Also, the book is written by the same person that wrote a compelling biography of comic book legend Stan Lee. I’m yet to finish that book but will be heading straight back to it after this. Lee, too, was revered in so many ways by so many people, and obviously hugely influenced the culture, but had major darkness all about him. And died under something of a cloud too.

Well, anyway, I’ve once again snuck down to the end of the house to put on a record and write this. I managed better than yesterday. No one followed me in tonight. But I should now capitalise on that and get on with some more reading.

Happy holidays to you wherever you are in the world. And happy reading too.

Do you also find it hard to get reading done on holiday? Or do you not even try? Maybe you can nail it - and have worked out the perfect conditions. If so, do share.

And any great summer holiday reading recommendations or Christmas book gifts you care to share?