I am one of those annoying people who, when I have started a book, no matter how rubbish it is, I have to read to the end of it. Part of the reason is because I think the next page might be where the book gets really good and if I give up on it, I miss something amazing. Part is probably just because giving up without getting to the end would be quitting, right?
It would seem I'm not the only person. At Uni, in my third year, I shared a house with two friends. Two of us fell into the reading to the death catagory, the other didn't. She didn't understand how we could sit there, complaining about a book being so annoying and boring but still insist on finishing it. 'Enduring Love' by Ian McEwan, one of her favourite books. I read it and it just moaned on and on and on. I endured it though so that I could honestly say I had read it and that it was awful.
The problem now though is that because I don't get as much time to read, my 'to read' pile is forever growing and I seem to keep starting awful books that I then don't want to read because they are so dull then they take me longer to read so I take ages to finish them and never get onto a potentially good book.
While in Saltaire at the weekend, we obviously went to the amazing Salts Mill. The building alone is amazing but then you walk inside. Not only does it display the works of David Hockney, it has one floor dedicated to books. All books. Clearly though, with all of the rubbish books I had to finish, I decided that there was not even any point in looking for books for me until I decided that life was actually too short to read books I don't like.
So on Monday morning, when I woke up really early and it was raining and cold, instead of ignoring 'Making Babies' by Anne Enright (I know, it doesn't sound great but it had an amazing write-up in the paper the other week!), I started reading 'The Help', Kathryn Stockett and I remmebered what it was like to want to read and stay in bed all day reading.