Twenty- and thirty-somethings aren’t hanging out with friends the way we used to. We’re drinking less because of anxiety, health, or recovery, so we’re not going out as much. We go on dates via apps we hate. Post-pandemic, many of us are out of practice when it comes to meeting new people or sustaining old friendships. But the want and need to connect hasn’t gone away. We’re just not sure how to do it anymore. Enter: the reading series.
Across the country, the number of untethered readings disconnected from a specific publisher or magazine has skyrocketed over the past couple of years. These series act as dedicated, consistent spaces for people to come together and listen to three to ten minutes of prose or poetry written by writers on the subway that day or extracted from their published Big Five novel or somewhere in between.
In New York City, one could attend a reading every night: Sunday at Readings at Parkside followed by Confessions, Monday at Franklin Park Reading Series, Tuesday at Patio, Wednesday at Stage Break, Thursday at Limousine, and Friday at Straight Girls. And then repeat some variation of that the following week.
Everyone needs an excuse to gather, a structured place to connect to both new and familiar faces offline.
And it’s not just in NYC, where readings have always been a part of the literary scene. In Philadelphia, Bring a Blanket hosts free readings in the park to promote access and community. In Cleveland, the Plum City Reading Series brings together local and national writers for three readings and a party. In Boise, there’s Storyfort. In Baltimore, Hidden Palace. There’s Small Press Nite in San Diego and Light Jacket Reading Series in SF. Empty Trash, Car Crash Collective, and Casual Encounterz are all based in LA. The list goes on. And it’s not because people suddenly love writing and reading more than they used to. It’s because everyone needs an excuse to gather, a structured place to connect to both new and familiar faces offline.
Bronwen Lam and David Dufour weren’t ready to let go of the sense of community and camaraderie that Bud Smith and Michael Bible’s fiction workshop provided when the course ended last fall. So they put on a reading of six of their fellow workshoppers at TJ Byrnes, tucked away in FiDi, to continue to get together and nerd out about writing. They were surprised, the night of, to find the bar fill up with eager attendees, all excited to listen to readings and meet people. The night turned into the monthly series Patio, drawing consistent regulars who love the warm and inviting nature of the curated Tuesday event.
A similar situation occurred when Leah Abrams and Heather Akumiah finished Tony Tulathimutte’s crit class in the summer of 2022. They weren’t ready to leave the creative, communal environment that course fostered, and even wanted to extend it to others, so they organized a reading at Unnamable Books. Again, the turnout was great, and it evolved into a series at Berry Park as an ongoing space and resource for the writing community.
In DC, missing the inspiring environment of their MFA at Sarah Lawrence post graduation, Rachel Coonce and Courtney Sexton decided to put on a reading at a local bar. 75 people came to hear ten local writers read their work aloud. At the time, there was no other free, consistent series in the city at the time, and they decided to keep the series going to unify the city’s scene and foster inclusivity.
Many people show up solo, hoping to meet someone, and the readings are the icebreakers.
Again and again, reading series were birthed out of a desire to continue to hang out and connect with fellow writers, a manner to hold onto and later grow the community that the organizers had become accustomed to. And, judging by the number of attendees that showed up each time, they were not alone in craving the in-real-life connection. Cassidy Grady and Annabel Boardman, who host the Sunday night series Confessions at KGB (Chloe Wheeler has recently stepped in and Annabel has left), noted that each weekly event is always packed, a mix of regulars who crave the consistent space to come together and new attendees eager to find something to do with their Sunday nights. When Jodi-Ann Burey hosted her first Lit Lounge this past January at Seattle’s The Station, her worry that no one would come was shattered when almost 100 people showed up, including a friend she hadn’t seen since pre-pandemic. Tickets for Evan Hanczor’s Tables of Contents, a series that sits at the intersection of literature, food, and community, always sell out.
While some are definitely there to hear the readings themselves, many are there with the hopes of fostering community. Post pandemic, it’s hard to talk to someone new at a bar. For many of the reasons listed above, and the role that lockdown played in our ability to socialize. It’s a muscle we either didn’t get the chance to build or that weakened during years of forced neglect. But at a reading, there’s structure that fosters interaction. There’s a schedule, an activity, a reason to be there. Many people show up solo, hoping to meet someone, and the readings are the icebreakers. Everyone’s heard the same story and now they can talk about it. Plus, while alcohol is often available, it’s not the central theme of the night like it often is on a night out, so people who don’t drink are equally included.
And even for those not going to readings to meet new people, the event can act as a crutch to reach out to people you already know. It’s easier to send someone a poster of an event (one that fulfills the bohemian dream of attending underground literary events) than to ask to spend time together one-on-one. It’s a non-vulnerable invite: “Do you want to go to this reading?”, instead of “Do you want to continue to be my friend?” In a time when people are scared to take social risks, the structured reading series makes the first move for you. It creates a space to feel cool and interact with people without having to put yourself out there as intimately.
Organizers too get to use their reading as an excuse to reach out to people. They’ve created a platform to talk to and meet writers they admire. Ann Stephesen calls Parkside a fan club and a lovefest, an excuse to interact with and spotlight writers she loves. “Do you want to be in my reading series?” instead of “Do you want to be my friend?”
Although reading series are often more about gathering than the act of reading itself, there is something uniquely powerful about literature in creating the community. Unlike a running club or a Volo match, other activities people are turning in hopes of meeting new people, reading and listening together invites emotional vulnerability and reflection. There’s a particular intimacy in hearing a story and then being able to talk about it with the writer and with others who share similar interests that brings people together. Annie Lou Martin notes that the poetry itself is essential in fostering the unique energy of Club Wonder, part of whose goal is to “tend to the hearth of poetry” and feed the literary fire. Mikey Friedman of Page Break swears that reading out loud is the “secret sauce” of building connection. Em Brill, who ran an ahead-of-its-time series at KGB Bar in 2021 and 2022, shares that readings are unique environments in which artists and freaks who should be meeting are finally able to come together and meet. And “every time writers meet, the literary world changes.” While it might be less intimate to invite someone to a reading, the intimacy of the reading itself fosters a rare environment that makes the rise of the reading series as a mode of connection make even more sense.
A reading is an ephemeral event that takes place in a specific location at a specific time for a specific audience. It’s contained.
The closeness of the space also offers something unique for the writers/readers themselves: the chance to share work they might not be ready to or comfortable with putting online. The internet today is a very permanent place. Once something is published, it’s nearly impossible to ever remove it. In contrast, a reading is an ephemeral event that takes place in a specific location at a specific time for a specific audience. It’s contained. This therefore gives readings a bit more room for play, for controversy, for experimentation. The setting might embolden readers to share something a little more out-there or just something they aren’t fully confident in. At Confessions, Annabel and Cassidy even promote this, intentionally fostering a transient space for writers to read something that might be too risky to publish. In a time when people are so worried about being canceled for their online presence, it’s nice to have space that feels safe.
At first glance, the rise of the reading series might seem like evidence of how messed up we are, that we need structured excuses to connect, that we’re too stunted to simply call a friend or say hi to someone at the bar or coffee shop. But it’s also a sign for something else: a new kind of confidence and a belief that if the space you want doesn’t exist, you can just make it yourself.
Cassidy was not satisfied with the uncurated series happening in downtown New York in 2023, so she decided to start Confessions. Riley Mac and Montana James Thomas created Straight Girls for similar reasons, craving thoughtfully considered lineups. When Jules Rivera couldn’t make it to a Lactose Intolerance reading in the fall of 2023, she decided to put on Herbal Supplements at Cherry on Top to bring POC writers together. After the pandemic and the closure of Brews and Prose, Matt Weinkam at Lit Cleveland started Plum City Reading as the new melting pot series to connect local with non-local and emerging with established writers. Mikey created Page Break (and later Stage Break) because there wasn’t the gay book club or contemporary reading retreats he desired.
Today, the individual has the confidence to create the space they think should exist. So while the series’ rise might highlight the fact that people are having a hard time connecting and need the excuse of a social structure to hang out with people, it also indicates that all hope is not lost for our generation.
