I’m the type of reader who almost always has to finish a book. It doesn’t matter if I don’t like it. Someone was brave enough to write this down and put it out there. I picked it up, so I owe it to them to finish it. It’s like the early episodes of America’s Got Talent. You have to watch the bad auditions, too, the ones that make you wonder if that person has anyone in (s)his life who can speak the truth in love to them. I digress.
Every once in a while, though, I will give up. Every time I walk away from a book without finishing it, I feel some level of disappointment in myself, but if I’m honest with myself, I think it’s happening more often now than it used to. In addition to my disappointment, I now also notice a small sense of relief or freedom or something lighter.
I was quite relieved (even emboldened, perhaps) to learn that even people whose job requires them to portray the whole book might not always read the whole thing. Check out LitHub’s post about a book designer who sometimes doesn’t read the whole book. So liberating, although possibly still a smidge of guilt.