Do we booksluts have a “type,” too?

Not long after the Montreal screening of Jim Munroe’s Infest Wisely, I stumbled upon a copy of his 2004 novel, An Opening Act of Unspeakable Evil, at a local bookstore. Excited to see a physical sample of the DIY hero’s work, one that I could procure for a mere $10, I snapped it up.

I’m not finished reading, so don’t expect a review, but do expect to buy the book yourself (or any of his other works). In fact, I’m not even a third of the way into the book, as I’m one of those picky readers who insists on reading no more than two books at a time (three, if one is completely different from the other), and thus Evil was first placed in the to-be-read pile.

I noticed, however, that despite the piles I have in that pile, Jim Munroe bypassed many others straight for the VIP front-of-the-line treatment. Yes, I gave other books the runaround, books I will surely love once I’m into them. To me, this begged a question: Do we voracious readers, in all our well-rounded literary lust, involuntarily favour certain authors (or books) over others before reading simply because of the author(s) in question?

I know, and have known, a panoply of music lovers who dismissed their formerly-favourite artists because they “sold out” (the “What the hell does that even mean anymore?” rant is another post) or released an album with a drastic style change. Even if the music is still, well, music to my ears, I could never hear the band without thinking of so-and-so’s insistence that they “sold out” and thus suck.

No one can accuse Jim Munroe of such an indefinable faux-pas. To me, he’s a genius, and an utterly respectable and praiseworthy one at that for sharing his experiences and oh-so-valuable tips and tricks of the indie trade. So when I was in that bookstore, browsing through dozens of titles I wanted to adopt immediately but couldn’t thanks to limits we call bank accounts, did I choose Evil as my next nightstand partner because the love affair had already begun?

Examining my bookshelf, I saw my complete Bronte collection (yes, all three are there — Anne, Charlotte, and Emily), and traced its origin to my first (of hundreds) reading of Wuthering Heights, which in turn was prompted by my mum’s telling of her Jane Eyre love affair. (But I chose Wuthering Heights as my first Bronte after seeing the Sir Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon adaptation at 12 or 13.) My Jane Austen collection, however, consists of a lone 99-cent Pride and Prejudice, a remnant of grade 10 English lit class. Heathcliff, 1; Darcy, 0… ah, well. Was it the English class that did it?

Of course all authors differ in style and subject matter (among endless other variables), but considering the channel-changing attention span of my generation, the one before it, and inevitably at least the next few to follow, why have I consistently chosen to remain faithful to works by one author over discovering new objects of lust? I do indeed love discovering new authors, new bands, and new artists drool over, but when the choice is complete discovery or long-time-no-see, I, at least right now, am choosing to rekindle the flame.

Do we lean to byline comfort zones when it comes to reading material? And once we’re there, do we remain faithful and support new works, even if they’re just that much different from what we know and love? (Would I have been so eager to pick up an unread Jim Munroe if he’d stayed with a major publishing house rather than going the indie route?)

Give me your thoughts! Who are your favourite authors, and why? Have you read their entire catalogues? Do you intend to?

By the way, I borrowed the title of this post from (not surprisingly) Bookslut.com. The love theme just sort of grew from there…