As the years have advanced I have found myself increasingly unwilling to persist with reading a book that I’m not enjoying and this has cropped up big time recently.


Once, in a time that now seems all too distant, I used to persist with a book I wasn’t enjoying in the hope things would pick up. I guess, on occasion, this would turned out to be the case, but I also know that often it didn’t. In fact, I suspect the latter happened more often than not.

Now that I am, er, in the second half of my life I am much more conscious of time being a precious commodity. There are more books I would like to read than I am ever likely to have time for, so I’m no longer happy to stick with a book I am not enjoying because it means there’s another book I’m missing out on reading.

This need and willingness to be ruthless has come to the fore again lately. In recent weeks I have started and abandoned not one, not two, not three, but four consecutive novels. In one I found the plot boring. In two the style in which the story was written was sterile and lacking in engagement. In a fourth, what was supposed to be background music was so loud and persistent that it overwhelmed the main story and was definitely not the better for it.

Grrr! Off to the charity stack they all went. Begone and never darken my bookshelves again.

Still, there are plenty more books on our shelves and the good news is I have now finally found one I am enjoying. Makes me feel a little bit less guilty about having so many books in the first place 🙂

Image by Mirkostoedter on Pixabay









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