This is an issue I've had for a while. I've quickly gotten myself a list that's too long for me to be able to read it in any practical amount of time. I read comments online, have conversations irl, walk through a bookstore, and I write a quick note on my phone, or on my laptop. In any case, it's messy, unorganized, I don't remember why I added a book, there's no way to prioritize which books I should/want to read next. So how do you handle having too much to read in too little time?

My focus when partaking of an accumulated work of written word has always been on the story itself. The ideas and plot and characters presented transcend the physical media within which they are presented. But I know from reading various forums, including that-site-which-shall-not-be-named, that many people steadfastly cling to their tomes of dead trees with a fervor that seems unshakable in the face of technology. The smell of mold ridden paper, the tactile sensation of flipping through the pages, the collectibility of a treasured collection of ideals... I understand the value of collecting an antiquated form of presentation, but does it truly add anything to the story telling experience? I liken it to vinyl records; the ability to touch what you are partaking of, that tactile and physical wholly personable experience with the media with which you are interacting can be a powerful motivator, but to try to convince me that Spotify is inferior because it is new and digital and convenient seems deplorable. When I read the same story on a Kindle are we not experiencing the same thing? Does the fact that I carry my entire library of 900+ books with me in my pocket dilute my experience? I can zoom, and dictionary, and Wikipedia, and translate literally at the touch of my finger. I can highlight and make notes, I can scan the book without losing my place, without ever needing a bookmark. What am I missing by not having dedicated and decidedly wasteful space in my home for storing my leaves of enlightenment?

I first read "The Giver" circa 1998 when I was still in elementary school, and it changed my life. From that moment on, I craved idyllic utopias with undercurrents of death and despair but couldn't find them anywhere. I moved onto ghost stories and fantasies and Harry Potter, but still I read The Giver several times a year, inevitably kicking off a pre-family-computer search for more. The simple but powerful themes made me feel wise and the promise of euthanasia made me feel dangerous, and I was changed again.

Imagine my relief when I found Margaret Atwood's "The Handmaid's Tale." And Aldous Huxley's "Brave New World." And, finally, a name for my favorite genre. Even after I learned the phrase "Dystopian Fiction" and told everyone I could about it, it wasn't easy to find all the books I wanted. But I read "1984," "Fahrenheit 451," and the classic allegorical novels. When I was in high school, I read Kazuo Ishiguro's "Never Let Me Go" and Cormac McCarthy's "The Road," and I was shaken to my core and felt content enough.

[This ended up being more melodramatic than I originally intended; I'm definitely not a writer. I just wanted to get across my adolescent depth of feeling for dystopian fiction before I actually come to the point in my timeline when "it" happened. *self-deprecating eye roll emoji]

I actually enjoyed "The Hunger Games." The world compelled me even when the characters did not, and while I would have liked a touch more exposition about how the high society came to accept the murder of children, it was still chilling. But then the world exploded. YA dystopian novels were spilling from publishing houses with abandon as the populace became as obsessed as I was, and of course I was thrilled! And then I was miffed. And then I was disappointed, and then I became some sort of crotchety old-man/hipster hybrid. "No I'm not just jumping on the bandwagon! I was here before the world even knew its name! Back in my day, dystopian books had actual themes, not just unhealthy love-triangles and shadowy-but-one-dimensional villainous overlords!" The genre became overrun, in my opinion, with authors trying to cash in on the success of the big name novels without any passion for subject matter. Characters were flat, love stories were rampant and boring, and the dystopian world-building was over-the-top, reaching, and unearned. I still feel a little bit cheated.

I do feel bad about being so petulant; I'm glad that this surge has fostered a love of reading in zillions of children. I'm honestly probably missing out on some excellent novels, but now I'm hesitant to read a post-2012 book marketed as "Dystopian" lest I'm forced to live in yet another world where love is a disease ("Delirium"-Lauren Oliver) or, preserve me, where all forms of language have become deadly to adults ("The Flame Alphabet"-Ben Marcus).

Hopefully that wasn't too boring! I'm done now! I want to know if you've ever felt similarly, if you think I'm flat wrong, if you have some post-2013 novels I should read, if you want to talk about the genre... anything!