I was 25, living in New York City. I’d just finished my first novel, poised to tentatively enter the literary world for the first time. Then, I spilled water on my computer, and the entire work was lost.
My heart sank.
Rather than crying, rushing to fix my computer, or calling a life coach to unpack how I’d let two years of effort vanish, I walked to a bookstore.
I craved comfort. And the only thing that could lift my spirits was a new book—specifically, a “night book.”
I’ve long categorized my reading into two broad types: day books and night books. Day books demand focus, requiring sharp concentration. They’re often books I read for research, chosen because their subject matter holds something I aim to study.
Night books, for me, are about immersive escape. They’re books I can’t wait to lose myself in, ones I look forward to reading each night—the kind that brings me joy.
The kind that helps me forget. And in that moment, forgetting was exactly what I needed.
So there I was, wandering the aisles of my local bookstore—the thought of my own novel ever gracing those shelves feeling more distant than ever—searching for a night book to take home.
I read across genres, from mysteries and family dramas to poetry collections and biographies. The advantage of reading multiple books at once is that no matter how different they seem, they always end up conversing in unexpected ways. How does a case study on wildfire futures connect to a love story between theoretical physicists? Books that appear unrelated suddenly, almost impossibly, feel like they’re dialoguing with each other as much as with me.
While the day/night book categories are helpful, I generally avoid strict division. A book may start in one category but shift over time—day reading might quite literally become a nighttime pursuit.
A recent example is Sophie Elmhirst’s A Marriage at Sea, a remarkable true story of a couple shipwrecked and fighting for survival. I began reading it in the afternoon and didn’t pause until I reached the final page at midnight—a captivating, dreamlike read.
Similarly, some night books draw me back during the day because I can’t stop thinking about them—like the psychological realism in Bruce Holsinger’s family drama Culpability. Holsinger’s heartbreaking (and deeply human) final twist compels me to revisit page one for a second read.
With my novel lost—two years of painstaking work erased in an unrelenting instant—I stood alone, stunned, in those bookstore aisles. Yet surrounded by all those books, I felt myself take a slow, steady breath.
Books offer refuge from disappointment, heartbreak, and loss. They’re the best reminder that joy will always come when you seek it. Storytelling remains an act of rebellion. What is lost can always be found again.
Moreover, reading multiple books at once reinforces that we always have a choice in what we do next.