When I say that I couldn’t put a book down, it isn’t necessarily a good thing. I am one of the few, the proud, the weird people who can not possibly stop reading a book no matter how much I hate it. I don’t know why. For me a wall-banger is when I throw it at the wall after I read the end. Why do I do this to myself? I have no idea. It doesn’t matter if the plot is stupid, the dialogue trite and the characters TSTL. I have to finish reading once I start.
Don’t get me wrong, it may take me awhile. Weeks, sometimes even months, but I will finish that gawd awful book. Oh yes, I will. Do not doubt me, my brothers and sister, for there is not a book so bad that I will not finish it
And the weird thing is it’s not like I’m so dedicated to everything. I will abandon craft projects mid-bead with nary a glance behind me. I will walk away from redecorating a room without ever wondering again how that wainscoting would have looked. But that book about the were-octopus who falls in love with a trash collector in a magic purple velvet suit…that I just can’t abandon.
So am I the only one who can’t let sleeping books lie? Or are there others of you out there compelled to read the worst of literary’s garbage merely because you had the misfortune to pick it up in the first place? Maybe there’s a twelve step program.
Dear bad book, I wish I could quit ya.