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I finished a book last night!
No, no, not writing. Reading.
Sadly, it's the first book I've finished since I started an editing job nearly two years ago. I used to read voraciously for my own pleasure and edification. Generally speaking, these days it's hard for me to get through "Talk of the Town" in The New Yorker without getting bored or edgy or distracted. I'm not helping myself, probably, by trying to tackle things like The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, and Discover (okay, Science it ain't, but it's not exactly fluff). Or by trying to get through Tagore, Proust, Nabokov, or books about the American Revolution.
The book I finished las night was awful. It was a paperback romance my mom left behind on her last visit. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing inherently bad about either paperbacks or romance novels, but this is one of those that you could probably read in one day at the beach (or, like my mom does, during commercials) and never think about it again. The only reason I am still thinking about it (except my relief at finally finishing something) is that it really was so badly written. The characters were poorly developed and unlikable. None of them were described physically to anything but the barest extent (some people can get away with this; the author of this gem could not). Of course, our heroine hated the leading man from the moment they met all the way up until he asked her to marry him. There was some tragedy, some reconciliation, and a Happily Ever After.
At least the dialog was terrible. (The very same dialog from which I was to glean ethnicity and sexual preference - no, really.) At one point, our heroine is being teased by her boss/nemesis/future husband about a bad date the night before, and in response to her groaning and saying she didn't want to talk about it, our leading man says "Was he a real rape artist or what?" My mental wheels came screeching to a full stop. Uh, pardon?
Anyway, it's over and done now, and hopefully to be forgotten about soon. I almost wish I could remember the title or the author so I could look up reviews on line, but, at the same time, relieved and delighted that I can't.
So the book didn't change my life. And I don't even think that finally finishing a book is a turning point or something symbolic in my life or any horseshit like that. It's just nice to know I still can, you know?
No, no, not writing. Reading.
Sadly, it's the first book I've finished since I started an editing job nearly two years ago. I used to read voraciously for my own pleasure and edification. Generally speaking, these days it's hard for me to get through "Talk of the Town" in The New Yorker without getting bored or edgy or distracted. I'm not helping myself, probably, by trying to tackle things like The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, and Discover (okay, Science it ain't, but it's not exactly fluff). Or by trying to get through Tagore, Proust, Nabokov, or books about the American Revolution.
The book I finished las night was awful. It was a paperback romance my mom left behind on her last visit. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing inherently bad about either paperbacks or romance novels, but this is one of those that you could probably read in one day at the beach (or, like my mom does, during commercials) and never think about it again. The only reason I am still thinking about it (except my relief at finally finishing something) is that it really was so badly written. The characters were poorly developed and unlikable. None of them were described physically to anything but the barest extent (some people can get away with this; the author of this gem could not). Of course, our heroine hated the leading man from the moment they met all the way up until he asked her to marry him. There was some tragedy, some reconciliation, and a Happily Ever After.
At least the dialog was terrible. (The very same dialog from which I was to glean ethnicity and sexual preference - no, really.) At one point, our heroine is being teased by her boss/nemesis/future husband about a bad date the night before, and in response to her groaning and saying she didn't want to talk about it, our leading man says "Was he a real rape artist or what?" My mental wheels came screeching to a full stop. Uh, pardon?
Anyway, it's over and done now, and hopefully to be forgotten about soon. I almost wish I could remember the title or the author so I could look up reviews on line, but, at the same time, relieved and delighted that I can't.
So the book didn't change my life. And I don't even think that finally finishing a book is a turning point or something symbolic in my life or any horseshit like that. It's just nice to know I still can, you know?