I do not consider myself a quitter.
Rather, if there is a problem, I seek help to get it fixed.
When D and I were arguing, I sought out a counselor.
When G was having issues, we sought out a therapist...and an occupational therapist...and a psychiatrist.
When I have a toothache, I see my dentist.
When the pipes go haywire, I seek a plumber.
Many, many problems can be fixed.
But there is no fix for a book you simply can.not.get.all.the.way.through.
Now I've met many books I've been meh about.
Some of them I've had to read for school, and some of them I've read because the people in my book club picked them, and some I've read because I feel like I should be denied my English degree by rights if I haven't read them.
(I'm looking at you, Moby Dick.)
Out of the hundreds of books I've read, there has only been a handful that I stopped mid-way because I just could go no further.
And when I say a handful, I mean two.
(Or at least these are the only two I remember giving up on.)
Ulysses by James Joyce was one.
(Didn't finish that one at age 19).
Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy is the second.
(Refusing to finish that one at age 45).
These books have similarities.
Ulysses is stream-of-consciousness, which means lacking those things (grammar/spacing/punctuation/etc) that make words readable and comprehensible.
Blood Meridian does have formatting, but it is a collective of run-on sentences.
Many, many densely packed run-on sentences.
Both of these books makes my head hurt in the same way that reading middle schoolers' short stories makes my head hurt.
I don't like feeling like a quitter, but the older I get, the less time I have to waste on books that make me cuss.
Rather, if there is a problem, I seek help to get it fixed.
When D and I were arguing, I sought out a counselor.
When G was having issues, we sought out a therapist...and an occupational therapist...and a psychiatrist.
When I have a toothache, I see my dentist.
When the pipes go haywire, I seek a plumber.
Many, many problems can be fixed.
But there is no fix for a book you simply can.not.get.all.the.way.through.
Now I've met many books I've been meh about.
Some of them I've had to read for school, and some of them I've read because the people in my book club picked them, and some I've read because I feel like I should be denied my English degree by rights if I haven't read them.
(I'm looking at you, Moby Dick.)
Out of the hundreds of books I've read, there has only been a handful that I stopped mid-way because I just could go no further.
And when I say a handful, I mean two.
(Or at least these are the only two I remember giving up on.)
Ulysses by James Joyce was one.
(Didn't finish that one at age 19).
Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy is the second.
(Refusing to finish that one at age 45).
These books have similarities.
Ulysses is stream-of-consciousness, which means lacking those things (grammar/spacing/punctuation/etc) that make words readable and comprehensible.
Blood Meridian does have formatting, but it is a collective of run-on sentences.
Many, many densely packed run-on sentences.
Both of these books makes my head hurt in the same way that reading middle schoolers' short stories makes my head hurt.
I don't like feeling like a quitter, but the older I get, the less time I have to waste on books that make me cuss.
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