Since I shared some of my favorite books, I thought I'd share a list of the books I started to read this year and just could not finish.
So I set the book down and picked it up later to try again. And again. Each time, I fell into a coma. The doctors were extremely worried. Thank God I pulled through.
This year I tried again and then I decided that this book, the girl with the stupid dragon tattoo, and every person who has a bunch of unnecessary consonants in their last name (I'm looking at you, every single person in Sweden) can just bite me. I'll see the movie instead. Not because it looks good but because it has Christopher Plummer in it. Hello, Captain Von Trapp. How you doin'?
It started out promising. The setting is unusual and intriguing. The main character is likable.
Maybe it was too whimsical. I've worked with copy editors who hate that word and I see why. It's just too full of damn whimsy. The book attempts to straddle a line between reality and fantasy and it does a good job. Maybe I got tired of the fantasy.
Honestly, I don't know what happened. I didn't hate it. I just lost interest about halfway through, set it down, and never went back. Sorry, Swamplandia! Maybe we can try this again another time!
I didn't get very far into it. I didn't feel bad about it, though. The reviews were only so-so. There is no rule that says I have to finish every book I start.
I used to always finish books even if I was hating them. Then I realized that reading for pleasure is not homework. I can put that boring book down if I want to. It's not like that awful week I had to trudge through William Faulkner's As I Lay Dying and felt like I was lying down dying from boredom in my dorm room twin bed. I had to finish that book so I could write a paper on it and take a test and pass a required course at Louisiana Tech. But school's out. Boredom is not a requirement of my adult life. And, thank God, neither is Faulkner.
My friend Lollie got tickets for me and my friend Stephanie to hear Pat Conroy speak at an event in downtown Birmingham celebrating the release of the novel. It was my first outing after Charles died. It was spectacular. We each got autographed copies of the book.
I started to read it right away but it begins with a suicide. I couldn't do it.
So I tried again this year. I got a little farther this time but, still, I set it down and didn't come back to it. I realized that there is a suicide in Beach Music, too. There is also one in The Prince of Tides. Pat's brother committed suicide and he keeps writing about it in some form.
I have had the sad realization that I might not be finished once I complete my own book. I might have to keep writing about what happened. I might make it happen to fictional characters in various places around the world. And, still, I might never make sense of it. I don't know how I feel about this.
Because I love Pat, I'm going to try again to finish South of Broad in 2012.
I tried. I really did. But I will never finish this book. Never ever ever ever. EVER.
I don't give a rat's ass who John Galt is. John Galt can suck it. Ayn Rand can suck it. Objectivists can suck it.
My father-in-law, however, is one of the world's most loving and wonderful people. Because of this, I will forgive him for his poor taste in bumper stickers.