I'm Embarrassed to Admit This...
and maybe you are, too.
This is the Sunday letter on a Tuesday. Because that’s how life wanted it this week, and who was I to disagree?
When I landed in our new apartment, the first order of business — after sorting the essentials, like towels and toilet paper — was unpacking the books.
There are more than a few. My latest estimate puts it somewhere near a thousand. (“Have you actually read them all?” asks everyone who comes over, and the answer is not all, but most.) The sooner the books are on shelves, the sooner the boxes disappear and the space starts to feel like home.
I’ve used the same system for years, dividing them into fiction and nonfiction, then loosely by subject. Except for the books that are hidden.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve kept a stash of embarrassing books. In one long ago apartment, they lived in a pile under the bed. In the next, they lurked behind a basket of scarves. As I type this, there’s a small stack tucked on a shelf in my closet, above the jackets. They’re neatly organized, ready to grab at a moment’s notice. And safely out of view.
“When we were first dating, you said you had a shelf of embarrassing books somewhere in your apartment and that I’d never find them,” my husband reports. Eventually, he moved in, and the books moved, too. One day, while he was tinkering in the front hall closet, I heard, “What are all these books doing in here?” followed by a triumphant, “I FOUND THEM!”
An embarrassing book is any title where you might feel sheepish about marching up to a register or library counter with it in hand. You’d maybe think twice about reading it on a crowded train or plane, cover bared for all to see. You may not display it prominently in your home where visitors are sure to see it.
It’s not that there is anything wrong with said books — we’re not talking about banned books (which for the record, I don’t support). It’s more like the literary cousin of a cheesy workout playlist or guilty pleasure reality show — excellent in the right context, but not always something you advertise.
Embarrassing books come in all shapes, spanning genres, formats, and the limits of our imagination. While some categories jump to mind (hello, self-transformation!) the scope of one’s taste (and the threshold of one’s embarrassment) is unique to them.
Any book can qualify — one person’s embarrassing read may be another’s source of pride. Take Intermezzo, for example. In the past week, one person boasted to me about reading it, as a sign their finger is on the literary pulse. Another nearly apologized for having read it, as though it was evidence of their susceptibility to hype.
Of course, our emotional reaction to someone’s work generally has little to do with them and everything to do with us. Shame is in the eye of the beholder.
*
Curious if this was a wider phenomenon or just my personal reading shame, I asked a few friends if they had any embarrassing books of their own.
“I’m a forty-two-year-old man who reads erotic young adult vampire novels without shame,” said one friend. “But only on Kindle."
“Of course. It’s like the book version of how I can’t listen to Taylor Swift with my car windows down,” said another.
“Definitely self-help type books, especially about relationships and romance. And pulpy novels.”
“I have a lot of sex books that I keep tucked away in case visitors pop by.”
“Um, yes. Remember when everyone in our friend group was reading Calling in the One?” (Indeed, I had forgotten.) The book in question boasts a large, workbook-type format and the not-so-subtle subtitle Seven Weeks to Attract the Love of Your Life. The same author went on to write Conscious Uncoupling. The friend who served up this memory kept her copy stashed under her mattress, or so she thought. Until one evening, she brought home a date who saw it on her nightstand. “I watched him see it,” she said, “Then I watched him pretend to unsee it. He didn’t say anything, but I was mortified.”
(In case you’re wondering, he was not “the one.”)
*
I was recently in a bookstore (how fitting) where I bumped into an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in over a year. As we exchanged the usual pleasantries and life updates, she paused and put a hand to her chest as though she was about to make a confession.
“I read your newsletter,” she said, making a sound that landed somewhere between a giggle and a scoff. “I mean, I can’t believe I read it — it’s not the kind of thing I normally read — but I do.” Her tone was apologetic.
That’s when I realized. To this woman, I write an embarrassing newsletter! The plot twist I couldn’t have seen coming: That is not a point of embarrassment. If anything, it is a source of pride.
*
Don’t let their out-of-the-way placement mislead you: Embarrassing reads are among my very favorites. They contain ideas I am considering, mulling, processing. My curiosities. My needs. Things I might be keeping secret, sometimes even from myself.
Embarrassment, like all emotions, is information. Much like envy can be a reliable compass for the things we desire, embarrassment can be a key to the deeper parts of ourselves.
My hidden books contain my truth at the time I read them, their pages speaking directly to the purest love, the soft underbelly, the vulnerable bits and pain points, the deepest nostalgia, the things I hold close. The parts I am not yet brave enough to show the world. And no matter what scrutiny I bring to the table, they always meet me where I am, without judgment. Isn’t that among the very best parts of a book?
*
All this talk about embarrassing books got me thinking: I want to start an embarrassing book club — a place to stretch and grow, in both what we read and how we read it. I’ve wanted to have a subscriber book club since the early days of this newsletter, but it felt a bit redundant. There are so many books, so many clubs, so many recommendations, and only so much time for reading and discussion.
But perhaps there is room for one more.
Instead of reading All Fours, the latest Emily Henry novel, or Ina Garten’s memoir (no shade on any of those! I’ve read them, too, or am currently reading in the case of Ina’s memoir) what if we focused on something else entirely? Something less hyped, less celebrated, something eliciting feelings that are more…complicated? I’m thinking we could meet on Zoom once a month, and/or have a weekly chat thread where we can discuss what comes up as we’re reading. And because embarrassing reads span the gamut, our selections could be nominated by members. Would you be interested in joining?
And while we’re on the subject, have you ever found a book embarrassing? Or, say, a whole stash of them? I’d love to discuss!
Card of the Week
Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.
When the Queen of Cups showed up this week, I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew why it was here, and exactly what it wanted to say.
You see, the Queen of Cups was the very first card to appear in the very first issue of this newsletter. I started BRCP during a quietly tumultuous time in my life, a season of bad news and waiting and unanswered questions, marked by that curious commingling of hope and grief. It feels akin to what I’ve heard from many in recent days.
If you’ve been feeling it all, I hear you. It’s…a lot. So today, the Queen of Cups arrives with the same words of guidance she offered up all those months ago. May it meet you wherever you are.
The Queen of Cups is emotional intuition personified. She is your wisest friend. The warmest guidance counselor. Your friend’s aunt who just so happens to be a therapist. The pet who knows when you need comforting. The book that somehow speaks directly to you.
Picture it: She offers you a seat and fixes you a snack and a warm drink, while listening to your deepest thoughts, worries, and troubles. She nods without judgment, then tells you exactly what you need to hear.
When the Queen of Cups looks at you, she really sees you. She sees the essence of you — your innate gifts, your best intentions, the parts you sometimes struggle to see for yourself.
This week, the Queen of Cups comes to the table with one piece of wisdom for each of us.
Maybe it’s an affirmation of your worth.
Maybe it’s counsel on how to speak up or set a boundary.
Maybe it’s the encouragement that you’re doing the best you can.
Maybe it’s simply a reminder to unclench your jaw, relax your shoulders away from your ears, and breathe.
This week, meditate on what you wish such a figure would say to you. What permission do you want to be granted? What praise do you long to hear?
Before you part, the queen instructs you to take a deep breath — in through your nose, out through your mouth — holding each inhale and exhale for a count of four.
When you feel a bit better than you did before — slightly more present, slightly more you — she leans in to whisper: She’s a figment of your imagination. That wise voice whose guidance you’ve been heeding? It’s been yours all along.
Thank you, as always, for reading. x
Love this! Since the start of the pandemic, which coincided with the start of a tricky family support worker job, I’ve only read romances. I was feeling overwhelmed and anxious and the genre made me feel good. Hopeful, comforted.
My annual reading has increased exponentially (think 90-130 books a year), which makes me excited. When friends and family ask what I’m reading, though, I feel embarrassed. I never want to mention a book by name (often I can’t remember their names, admittedly, as I listen to them so fast on Libby), and when asked what I’m into I say sheepishly, “the equivalent to fluffy rom coms,” as though they’re indulgent junk food. I really dislike that I do that, as I admire the work of the authors when I come across such a book that makes me swoon, feels unexpected, or is especially creative. I wish that the genre received greater respect, not only from the wider public, but also myself, their avid reader.
Yes, I’ve read Zadie Smith and Dave Eggers and Toni Morrison and Abraham Verghese and other books that I display proudly on my bookshelf and recommend frequently. (Actually, not the Zadie Smith; I never could get into Swing Time…) But just Friday, as I walked through an airport display, I found myself pretending not to look at the romances. Next time, I want to do so unabashedly. Life is short and I want to read/listen to the books I enjoy.
I keep my embarrassing books on their own shelf in the bedroom (far from the cool books) with their spines turned inwards so even I don't have to see them.