When I was younger, I don’t know about most of you but this could be a testament for my Midwest, U.S. upbringing, I was told to finish everything on my plate. “What about all of those poor kids in China,” someone, usually a relative, would decry. At which point I imagined myself one of the characters from T.V. where they were feeding the rest of vile food to the dog (and the dog soundly rejecting it).
Being older I’ve found myself telling myself the same thing, finish it all because it cost x amount (I guess when you pay for something it is a bit different, eh?). I’ve found the problem is that I apply this concept to other things, namely reading. I don’t know when to put a book down. I feel that I must finish it despite the crap that is in-between the covers.
Maybe its stubbornness that forces me through a book I don’t like. As I labor to stay awake at night while reading and awake the next morning to not being able to remember what it is I read or even really caring, I begin to wonder if it is all worth it (not reading but the book). If I don’t like the book, why do I keep dredging on? Trying to plow through it like some sort of conquest, or a baked potato.
My librarian wife had once told me that a professor of hers told her to give a book fifty pages. If you like it carry on, if not put it down. Is it worth more than fifty pages?
In the end I need to be brave enough to put down a disappointing book, like the last one that I read. I should’ve put that one down and just left it but my want to like an author that has written books with the great King was the driving force in this one, along with the goal to read all that is King.