I am a books person. I’ve been reading steadily since I first learned how. I’m also a type A person — a hand-raiser, raised on gold stars and assorted forms of validation. I was taught not to be “a quitter” (though I now question why “quitting” has been branded as an identity and not merely an action). This set me up for a toxic, occasionally torturous mental exercise when it came to finishing, or not finishing books. I tend to keep going just 10 more pages, even as my mind wanders. If I set it down, I let it languish on my nightstand, then demote it to the floor under my nightstand and eventually reshelve it. All the while, it remains for too long in the “currently reading” slot of my Goodreads profile so that I don’t formally have to admit defeat.
I recently had coffee with a literature professor who taught me at school and who made me fall in love with reading. She told me that she is now at an age where she doesn’t have time to read books she doesn’t like. And then I really asked myself, is life really too short to finish books we don’t like?
At last, I guess that the only reading rule should be that there are no rules? Or you disagree?