Maybe I need a medi-patch or something. I mean…you know you have a problem when you start 4 books at the same time and have to skip back and forth between them when you hit a slow spot (or you think you’re going to lose your mind). Or maybe as I get older I just don’t have as much patience as I used to. It’s true, I just can’t force myself to push through a slow spot in a book anymore. So I make sure I’m reading several books and come back to that book another day. It can be a challenge to remember what was going on when I left, but I’m amazed to discover that in doing this I can usually move beyond my lack of interest. There was a time, in my youthful ignorance, when I loved to declare that it was the author’s fault if I got bored. Sometimes that’s still true, but I think a lot of the blame has to lie at my feet. (Maybe it was the act of becoming an author myself that allowed me to see the error of my ways. #:0) If I shy away from a certain part of a novel one day, and easily conquer it on another, that doesn’t have anything to do with the book…that’s me.
Besides, one man’s slow spot is another man’s angsty tidbit. So I proclaim that it’s because I like a faster pace in the novels I read. It’s absolutely true, my favorite authors keep the pace moving along nicely, and that’s how I try to write too. But personal taste aside, I think my problem is deeper than an allergic reaction to thoughtful, deliberative prose, I think it’s my lifestyle. Ever since I set out to create my own success, I’ve been so driven that I rarely stop to smell the roses. Hell, I pass the roses by so fast I couldn’t even tell you what bleepin’ color there were. I count the success of each day by how much I accomplish. And if I don’t accomplish all that much I mentally beat myself about the head and shoulders with a thorny branch (possibly snatched from the unseen roses as I whizzed past them). I have an inner impatience that sometimes astounds even me. It seems pretty likely that this impatience is bleeding into my enjoyment of books. I mean, if a book spends several pages lamenting the characters’ inability to connect in any meaningful way…well…some (me) might say that not much got accomplished during those pages. And if my inner accountant is cataloging how much I’ve accomplished when reading…those pages would definitely count as a fail.
But this isn’t good.
At least I think it’s not good.
I don’t feel damaged in any way by this ravaging impatience. I still enjoy reading. But I no longer force myself to finish a book just because I started it…though mostly I do finish books…because then I can chalk them up as an accomplishment. Oh gawd…I’m a hot mess.
But at least I’m lovable, right? Say yes so I can chalk it up in the accomplishment column for today. Oh yeah, I wrote this blog…check!