I’m the sort of reader that once I start a book, I feel like I’ve made a commitment to it – a promise almost. Once I start, I’m in it for the long haul. I will stick around through the good times and bad, the happy and the sad. The flawless spelling and the flawed. But sometimes, despite the best intentions, the relationship just doesn’t work out. It’s not you, book, it’s me.
I had this happen to me this week & it always makes me feel a bit guilty. I tried to stick it out, I really did. But I found myself having to read sections over a second and third time to work out who the new, unexplained, character was. Or going back over the last passage of dialogue to work out who it was that was actually talking. When I realised, I had to call it a day. I said my goodbyes and moved on. It was time to look towards the future and leave the past behind.
And I don’t know about you, but once this happens, I get kind of nervous. My next book choice will be careful, cautious, meticulous – there will be nothing blase about it! I will hold myself back a bit, reticent, reserved, taking only slow, tentative steps towards that new commitment. I won’t be pushed. The next one is going to have to have something special to make me willing to try again.
But when I do try again – and it becomes apparent that it was worth the wait – the feeling is beautiful, almost euphoric! That beautiful moment of comfort, relaxation, confidence, that comes from realising that I won’t be let down this time – it’s like a weight has been lifted off the shoulders, accompanied by the biggest sigh of relief. To know I will be safe within these pages.
And it reminds me, once again, why I will always keep going back to try again.