What does it mean to be well-read? How is it being decided, and most importantly, who is deciding it?
In conversations I’ve expressed the sentiment that TikTok (or rather, BookTok) has done wonders in terms of helping people discover or reignite a love of reading, but it has simultaneously led to a decline in media literacy.
Consumerism is just as rampant with book-buying as it is within other industries (i.e., fashion and beauty)—are we really reading the books we’re putting on display in our social media profiles and personal libraries? And, is there a level of understanding being applied to what we’re choosing to read?
Photos of displays at bookstores have become subjects of speculation online due to their lack of research. As a bookseller, lumping literary works like Lolita and Gone Girl together for the sole purpose of generating sales and foot traffic can come off as dangerous and irresponsible. And without proper context this cycle of misinformation is perpetuated with content creating.
Let me be clear: the line between reading for pleasure and reading for enrichment isn’t narrow. Online and off, I’ve become increasingly aware of the ways we treat reading in regards to our own self-perception.
The most glaring example of this is what I’ve referred to in discussions with peers as “accessorizing” reading—being labeled as a reader is more important than the act of reading itself.
In 2019, supermodel sisters Bella and Gigi Hadid were photographed separately leaving Fashion Week carrying books (Outsider by Stephen King and The Stranger by Albert Camus, respectively). The New York Post sensationalized this by writing, “The gals know how to coordinate their outfits to their new brainy accessories.”
This of course, was met with backlash from Glamour, and publishers like Scholastic and Little Brown replied to the Post’s accompanying tweet with GIFs of the eye-rolling variety.
Without questioning the validity of their interest in reading, or their duality, the ability to be both beautiful and smart, one can’t help but assume that the Hadids’ placement was strategic—the foresight to know they would be photographed holding their books was always there.
2023 was famously dubbed the Year of the Girl, on the Internet and seemingly everywhere, due to a variety of cultural events (Barbie, Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour, and Beyonce’s Renaissance Tour) and statements made in jest that unsurprisingly reached virality—girl dinner, hot girl walks, girl math, etc.
Now, in the present day, I’ve seen multiple recommendation videos in my algorithm prefaced with emboldened text, displaying variations of “hot girl books” or “hot girl reads.” The need to “girlify” has now made its way to the likes of BookTok, which arguably advertises reading as a commodity rather than a hobby (consequently, this hinders the intended accessibility of literature in general).
Celebrities have caught on, too. When a clothing line, tequila brand, or production company isn’t enough, a sticker slapped onto a book cover is the next big venture. This isn’t new, of course—Oprah’s Book Club was started in 1996, the year I was born. Other famous women, like Reese Witherspoon (Reese’s Book Club) and Emma Roberts (Belletrist), followed suit much later in 2017 for their respective audiences. Most recently, Jimmy Fallon joined the chat by relaunching Fallon Book Club (which was first introduced in 2018 as Tonight Show Summer Reads).
And yet, despite me writing all of this—I can’t pretend I’m any different. I enjoy and benefit from modern-day book marketing. In true Millennial fashion, I will double-tap a good Instagram flat-lay, especially one that captures a new book sleek in design and convenient in size. The need to carry the latest, most raved-about lit fic is enticing, especially as a form of social currency with people I think are much cooler than me. But, I learned my lesson last year when I bought the newest Instagrammable release from a reputable author and could not bring myself to finish it.
In the spirit of girlhood, I was introduced to books at a young age and taught to appreciate them. I watched Matilda repeatedly. When I was gifted the Kit Kittredge American Girl Doll in elementary school, I read all six of her accompanying books then moved on to the other historical characters in the American Girl Universe (AGU). As I got older, I moved on to different material (as a teen, I reached for The Hunger Games, the Percy Jackson series, and The Perks of Being a Wallflower)—I knew the books I read would inevitably change with the passing of time.
Despite my bouts with teenage angst and reinvention, what I wanted to study in college never changed. My desire to major in English was not only born from my passion for books, but my need to learn of experiences and perspectives different from my own, and develop the skills to analyze and apply them to the world around me. And correctly answering a handful of questions from random weeknight episodes of Jeopardy is an added ego boost all these years later.
Admittedly, growing up, my relationship with reading was heavily tied to performance. I wasn’t valued if I wasn’t excelling academically or consuming media that was “mature” for my age. I’ve had to navigate unlearning those biases and expectations as an adult, and come to terms with the fact that my own reading habits should not be developed with the intention of impressing someone. Which is why I go into each year not knowing how many books I’m going to read, though I aspire to be more thoughtful with variety in subject matter and writers.
But maybe the compulsion to “girlify” something in order to anoint it as worthy will go away. Maybe, in 2024, we might be able to find some joy and lightness in growing up as well.
Sharing and discussing books with people I love is one of the great joys of my life. I tend to form friendships with and gravitate towards people who share a similar approach to reading as me. I’ve been asked for recommendations, been on the receiving end of text messages that express admiration towards a favorite title of mine, or hurriedly grabbed a book from a room in my house to place in a guest’s hands as they’re heading out the door.
It’s meaningful to me that my literary taste is trusted—but it has been shaped by a variety of external factors in addition to my own preferences. I follow multiple publishers and imprints on Instagram and TikTok, as well as book-centric content creators. I enjoy literary news and keeping up with announcements from debut to seasoned authors, and finding things I wouldn’t have thought to pick up on my own.
The books that others choose to read shouldn’t challenge my own relationship with reading. But I think, to some degree, that we should care about what we read and what it means to us. We shouldn’t want to read something because we want to appear intellectual or trendy, or in all senses of the phrase, “hot.” The want alone should be enough—whether it be to grow, learn, or escape.