It feels too short to feel pressure to read certain books just because everyone else is reading them and you don’t want to be left out. It feels too short to feel pressure to finish a book, even a good book. Sometimes I feel like I’ve gotten everything I’m going to get out of the book and I don’t need the ending to feel satiated. Sometimes it’s losing patience with a meandering book in grave need of a different editor. It’s like making someone your best friend and then saying a day later, “I don’t really like you.” Sometimes it really is me and not the book my mood changes and I’m no longer grooving on apocalypse fiction.
I have a sense the three main characters live some version of happily ever after, but who knows… they could all be dead, hit by a meteor.
I literally couldn’t read the final six pages because I wasn’t enjoying the story anymore. Other times, I’m only a chapter or two to the end when I quit. Since September, I have stopped reading dozens of books. And that’s how I’ve always been with books. But once I had blown a bubble with the gum, I was all in until the flavour was gone. Sort of like spitting out a piece of gum after two chews when you suddenly remember that you don’t like spearmint. Sometimes, if I was only two or three pages in, it felt fair to quit. A long time ago, I would read a book to the end whether I liked it or not.
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