Last Weeks Readin'

"Research"

I can never say enough how truly grateful I am that I have an opportunity to write a book. I’m mildly agonizing over bits of it because I”M TOO YOUNG AND TOO INSIGNIFICANT TO WRITE A MEMOIR OF MY LIFE! However, I see it as an artistic blessing, and an exciting endeavor to set out on—a beautiful invitation to create a work of art…

In this process, I am increasingly more present. I’ve went to 25% FTE with my contract job; that gig ends in March, then which my salary (at this point) comes entirely from my role as an author. I decided not to pursue any bike industry contracts that include cash in 2026. I no longer want to work in the bicycle industry (maybe more on that someday.) As I slowly transition into my role as an author, I’m using this transition time to research so that when the time for writing comes (soon!) I can be fully present having done the bulk of one of my phases of research before I started even writing. I am reading as many memoirs as I can get my hands on. I’ve started by reading Memoirs from Indigenous people. I am reading books in hand, from the library largely, supplemented by literature from my editor. I listen to books while I work out or walk, and those are whatever I am interested in, almost entirely non-fiction.

I listened to the book Time Management for Mortals last week. I largely listened during my morning walks and gym sessions. I’m back in the gym again, learning how to train on my own and in a way that fits with my quality of life and goals. I learned about the author Oliver Burkeman from a TED podcast I had been listening to while helping Johnny tie wreaths for a contract we got. I’ve done most of the things he mentions about time management in the beginning; I tried blocking out my entire calendar every day for things like “lunch”, “writing on the Substack,” “training" and so on. I blocked out meetings with brands, time to take photos, time to edit and still I never had enough time to get the things I needed to get done, done. I found myself critically thinking as he offered counter arguments, or suggestions, or rather his reflection from years of writing about time management.

I think a lot about many of the things he brought up— like our cosmic insignificance. He mentioned a line about Steve Jobs in which he remarked, he too, will be forgotten. I thought about all the big names of people floating around in my brain; strangers that feel like neighbors. Neighbors that exist in a way where my judgments have created a caricature of them, jeez, they never take their trash cans back in, jeez, they never shovel, jeez, they never blah blah. As if I know anything about them and their circumstance. I think about them and feel a cruel kinship to them, I too, am insignificant. This is beautiful and freeing, because for all the agonizing I do, for all the pressure I put on myself, I’m just one of a gazillion and I should lead the best life I can, while I can.

There are a multitude of nuggets within this book that illustrate the way we choose to use our time ends up defining our lives lived. I thought about the place I was at in my life, and was like… “fuck, I don’t want to spend a life doing that.” It was exactly the book I needed as I’ve been debating on whether or not I wanted to stay on the career path I’ve been on, or if I was brave enough to lean into the path I want for my life. I definitely recommend.

Apple: Skin to the Core by Eric Gansworth Tribe: Tuscarora

I’d read his If I Ever Get Out of Here years back, even gifting a copy of it to a boy I nannied. I couldn’t finish Apple: Skin to the Core. I read roughly 100 pages of it. It was poetry, which I have a very discerning pallet for, and find that there is very little poetry that resonates with me. I found that his poems were simply sentences organized in free form. It doesn’t work for my brain to read. I skimmed the rest, reading anything that appeared to be prose, appreciated his art, made note of the structure and tried to piece together the stories. I read select paragraphs from each page. My takeaway was that memoir has infinite forms, and that this for him was the way his brain worked and how he wanted to get his story into the world. Upon closing, I was left wondering about the author ego. How does that show up in literature? I know how it shows in bike racing. I’m also learned that academics in the realm of creative writing, college professors and writers in that genre (those studied writers) reveal themselves in a particular way through their writing. It’s like the hint of cinnamon in a recipe— it’s impossible to hide, and it leaves a taste in my mouth. Personally, I wouldn’t read again.

My Body is a Book of Rules by Elissa Washuta Tribe: Cowlitz

This was the first book I’d read by Elissa, and I could tell she was an institutional creative writer. She obviously delves deep into her life in this book and bits I resonated with as we’re pretty close in age. The book read like a journal to me. And properly disjointed, similar to how our memory of our own lives reveals itself in our day to day. Bits of the book resonated with me as I too had a period of my life heavily defined by pharmaceutical intervention, psychiatrists, and internet chats. I think literature is a way to connect with other humans and in my life, it shows up as a tool to teach people what I know. It serves less as entertainment (at least in the memoir form, I do think novels and fiction is entertainment) but more so as a way to relate to other humans to me. This book reads as alienating to me; I do not feel similar to her and thus had a hard time wanting to keep reading. I couldn’t help but think about ego again here. Personally, I would not read again.

Crazy Brave Joy Harjo Tribe: Muskogee

I have read excerpts of Joy, but as someone who isn’t attracted to poetry, I never sought her out as she’s a literal poet! It’s interesting to think that my distaste for poetry doesn’t really make sense since I identify as an artist, but I’ve always struggled with it. There are some great poems out there, I have read a few. Mostly the greatness boils down to a simple line in a poem, whereas the rest of the poem disappears to me. And I make sense of the title and the line, and that is the artistic take away. I find writing good prose to be an extraordinary practice, and I find that so often, poetry I read is a shortcut. It’s a form of expression I don’t understand. However, there were several poems in the book that I quite liked, even reading them out loud. Her book felt like a work assignment, meaning that the closer I got to the end, to her identity as a poet, the more beautiful the text got. The early years felt like regurgitation, which is surely, at least partially, attributed to our memory changing as we age. Did she want to write this book? Or was it time to write this book? I have so much trauma that I have stuffed down so that I can move forward, but as she was sent off to art school in high school, I couldn’t stop but excessively cry. I wish that someone, something invested in the aspirational goals I had as a youth. I wanted to write, to paint, to draw— maybe even to exercise and move, but I was trapped in poverty and obesity, and the only way out was a good job. A job likely in the trades, or for the very few, I could be a white collar person. So naturally I envied Joy for being sent to Santa Fe Arts school— of course she’s an accomplished writer now. What if I had been sent to an art school? What if I had a coach for cycling? She’s been nurturing her creative drive since she was a kid. Importantly, I’ve loved reading all these memoirs of Native people. Indians educated and supported to an extent to become the creative minds they are today, but as I am absorbed in myself (yeah that ego), I compare myself to all these books and I can’t help but feel loss and envy and hurt and anger. Then I remember, I had more opportunity than my parents did, and to have gratitude for the life I have been living. It’s been an adventurous life to live. I would read this book again.

The Rider Tim Krabbé Non-Native

A cycling classic that I wanted to hate, but found quite fun to read. Obviously, I have had a multitude of the same thoughts, written even similarly in some of my journals. I know so little about road racing, but at the same time, I know enough to get what it’s about. I never raced road, will never, and appreciate it in that vain. But it’s an inaccessible sport for mostly all people here in the States, and for the select few who do access it, it’s a privilege thing. So I never entertained the idea of participating in it; the closest thing I got to road racing was Alley Cat racing, and we all know, they’re no where near the same category of racing. So I valued his romantic view of it, and the simple, yet stoic purist ethos of racing. I appreciate the pacing, pulling, and overall poetry of road racing; to win you have to work with your competitors, believing in yourself enough to win the sprint. I suppose this is auto-fiction, but still I underlined several sentences as absolute banger quotes. I would (and plan to) read this book again.

Feeding Ghosts Tessa Hulls Non-native

I read this a while back; the author wrote me a sweet card including a copy of her newly released memoir. I read it then, and was absofuckinglutely stunned by the sheer amount of work she put into the book alone. The story was relatable, but her drawings were stunning and creative, and as someone who’s half-assedly attempted to write a graphic novel, I knew this was an intense labor of love. She wrote about her place in the world defined by history. Similar to my story, her understanding of who she is relies heavily on her understanding of her mother’s relationship with Tessa’s grandmother. There’s historical context, lived experience, and a damn creative way to process a complicated relationship. I have been re-reading and scanning this book daily. It’s amazing for drinking coffee and imagining. Most of all, it’s eerily similar to my world, and I can’t believe we never crossed paths in the real world. I am re-reading this book, and couldn’t recommend more highly.

I’m wrapping up a few books next week— I’ve started a few since finishing the above ones. Since I am checking out from the library, I usually have a stack of books so fat that I get really excited and read 50 pages from them at a time, gravitating to the one I am most interested in. Then of course, I am like “fuck, I need to return these soon,” and finish the books, even though I determine very quickly that I would not write a memoir at all like the one I just read. But I am happy to put my eyes and time into reading a Native life story, because I think everyone deserves to have their story read, regardless if I like it or not.