I read voraciously. As is the nature of such an activity, a few books are stunners, many are “good” or “quite wonderful” (I mean, I seek books I’ll enjoy, so this is no surprise), and a few are average or clunkers.
Rarely do I not finish. Yesterday I tackled a memoir by a well-established author, one addressinga theme I’m partial to at the moment, namely grief. (Why I’m drawn to sad stuff right now is a story for another day.) Specifically, the memoir recalled the life and death of a child. Immediately I began the read, I was struck by how disorganized it was (the author went as far as saying random snippets were the order of the day) and, more significantly, how wooden the prose was. I persisted and persisted, then quickly skimmed to see if I could expect any improvement. Nope.
Should I soldier on and complete the read? And then review it on Read Listen Watch? Both acts filled me with dread. After glancing at my massive yet-to-be-devoured pile, I did something unheard of. I deleted the book from my Kindle library! Gone, vanished, as if I’d never bought it. And, reader, I felt fine.