The Subversive Joy of BookTok

New York Times

a day ago

My professional life revolves around reading and writing books. But for years, I carried a little secret: I didn't read much for fun or pleasure.
This wasn't always the case. As a teen I devoured books, and my library card was my most prized possession. In college, I passed the slow hours of my part-time job at a hotel gift shop lost in works of magical realism — where ghosts lingered, kitchen spices conjured heartbreak and love defied the laws of nature.
But somewhere between graduate school and professional academic life, books became objects to analyze, critique or assign. After I spent my days deciphering dense academic jargon and grading student papers, the last thing I wanted was to crack open a book at night. Slowly, without realizing, I traded reading for binge-watching Netflix and doom-scrolling social media.
But after November's election, the doom-scrolling that once numbed me only fueled my anxiety. I needed an escape from the barrage of dread. In a bid to improve my sleep and reduce the time I spent staring at my phone, I bought an e-reader. At first, I loaded it with books I thought I should read — prizewinners, critical darlings. But that just felt like homework. Soon, I was back to social media.
Then, late one night, the algorithm led me to a whimsical and hilariously dramatic corner of TikTok known as BookTok, where people gush about novels that supposedly altered their brain chemistry, or that they wish they could inject directly into their veins.
The algorithm caught on, and soon my feed was full of people speaking passionately about the thrill of a good story — reading on lunch breaks, or in moments where the joy of reading overpowers exhaustion. Of course, the algorithm also recognized my personal usage, filling my feed with queer and BIPOC creators and providing a different picture than someone else might get.
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