Yes, the headline question above is an intentionally sarcastic framing in response to this truly idiotic tweet by a garbage human. But apparently, this “men against fiction” phenomenon is a real problem according to recent data, such that Dazed Magazine felt compelled to extrapolate why.

It is a cultural hangover that persists. A “cult of productivity is still imposed more on men than women,” says Dr Alistair Brown, Assistant Professor of Digital Humanities and Modern Literature at Durham University. “[Non-fiction] seems to have more immediate or meaningful returns on the investment of time.” Consequently, men buy more: in 2023, men accounted for 55 per cent of non-fiction book sales, Nielsen BookData tells Dazed.
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Could reading stories offer an alternative route through the masculinity crisis? By creating “a safe space for allowing oneself to feel, with no strings attached,” Professor Keen suggests that reading fiction is the diametric opposite of the stale stoicism of the manosphere.

Now, I’m sure entire research papers, books, college courses, self-help courses and more have been written by other professionals about the benefits of reading. Several are linked in the article above. But the way in which this New Toxic Caveman Masculinity sets itself against reading (and thereby, women, as in so many other ways) is so laughable as to be self-parody, which is why I couldn’t help screen shot that tweet above. Could this idiotic worldview, maybe, possibly, have something to do with men’s decreasing grades and college graduation rates? Hmm, maybe they’re macho-ing their way right out of the future all on their own!

So…
What makes men so afraid of being seen as bookish? What are they hiding from?

How do those of us men who do read books make the case to the men of the future that books are good, actually?

What is it about nonfiction books vs novels that better attracts those men who do read? What are men missing by choosing that reading diet?

I’ve been participating in the annual Goodreads Reading Challenge since its inception in 2011 (succeeded five years, failed three), in which you set a personal goal of books to read that year. It’s a nice motivator throughout the year, and a fun little badge each December once I’ve sprinted to the finish, usually with a few short story collections or graphic novels.

This Atlantic article digs into why we effectively “give ourselves homework” in this way with books so much more often than other hobbies usually considered leisure:

Other forms of entertainment straddle that line—watching documentaries, for example, can be both educational and fun—but reading seems to inspire this gamification, homework-ification, and quantification to a unique degree. Perhaps that’s because society tends to view reading as an intrinsic good, whereas other media—movies, TV, the internet—are often seen as time-wasters. “Given many [people] feel they’re consuming too much media, the goal is usually to limit consumption,” Ayelet Fishbach, a professor of behavioral science at the University of Chicago Booth School of Business who studies goals, told me in an email. “In this sense, for many people reading is a virtue—so you want to increase it—while watching TV is a vice—so you try to limit it.”

Then, it goes a bit deeper into why… but not quite deep enough. Not a single interviewee admitted anything along the lines of, “It makes me feel smart. It’s part of my identity — that I’m a person who reads more than most, which isn’t hard, considering over a quarter haven’t read any and the average is only about 12.” Seems like a reporting miss to not get to why.

Why do you read as much as you do? Or not read as much as you do?

What do you get from it beyond the content of the books themselves, or what do you free yourself up to do by not reading more?

What, if any, inherent value is there in reading books at all?

Early Kindles succeeded at being both revolutionary and revolting at once.

In Aeon magazine, writer Craig Mod reflects on his initial enthusiasm for digital books, and how that enthusiasm has cooled, sending him back to the physical versions for a whole host of reasons.

It was an incredible user experience, full of perceived value, delightful in its absurdity. Most importantly, using the device in these ways felt like an investment in the future of books and reading. Each Kindle book I bought was a vote with the wallet: yes – digital books! Every note I took, every underline I made was contributing to a vast lattice collection of reader knowledge that would someday manifest in ways beautiful or interesting or otherwise yet unknowable. This I believed. And implicit in this belief was a trust – a trust that Amazon would innovate, move the experience forward unpredictably, meaningfully, and delightfully. This belief – that Amazon was going to teach the old guard new tricks – kept me buying and reading and engaging.

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From 2009 to 2013, every book I read, I read on a screen. And then I stopped. …It was a stark reminder that pliancy of media invites experimentation. When media is too locked down, too rigid, when it’s too much like a room with most of the air sucked out of it, stale and exhausting, the exploration stops. And for the intersection of books and digital there’s still much exploration to be had.

In his case, it’s not the lack of willingness or enthusiasm for the idea that has turned him off. It’s the lack of momentum on exploring even newer possibilities.

What differences have you perceived in your digital reading vs digital reading, in terms of reading experience, or how you engage with the material?

What are the most meaningful strengths of each format? Do any of these make you a die-hard advocate for one or the other?

If in another 20 years they were to stop physical book printing outright, what would you miss most? What would we lose as a culture?