I never used to like reading. In fact, I was behind enough in school that they put me in a special program where an old guy (I’m not sure about the details, I was like eight) came to the school, and we went to the library together where I proceeded to just read a book aloud to him. Now, I have no idea what about this really did it for me, but since then I have loved reading with a passion akin to those annoying Jesus preachers who stand outside of tourist attractions yelling at everyone about how they are going to hell.

This passion has waxed and waned over the years, but it’s always been a part of me. Some of my best memories are finishing a certain book, or learning something mind-blowing from another. Yet, something I have struggled with for a long time is giving up on a book when it’s not really doing it for me anymore. Back in college when I just had loads of time on my hands I could really just force myself to finish a book even if it wasn’t interesting, I would tell myself that this was a classic, or it had something to teach me, and I will be all the better if I just slog on through.

Nowadays, I find that I can’t bring myself to finish a book when it’s not grabbing me anymore. Maybe it’s because I more demands on my time, maybe It’s because I have become more discerning, or maybe I’m just too addicted to YouTube. Whatever the reason, I just don’t seem to have the will to carry on when a book is boring. The problem here is I have held on to this perfectionism of finishing every book I start, so there’s a cognitive dissonance causing trouble when I put a piece of literature down. Half my brain is egging me to carry on, and the other half would rather spend my time with something more worthwhile.

And I see what each brain half is trying to say. There have been quite a few time when I forced myself through a book and really felt like it was a good call (looking at you East of Eden). Many of these I often carry in my head for years after word, mulling over the ideas and characters as they sear themselves into my psyche.

Yet of course there have been plenty of times when I forced myself through a book, only to really think that was a bad call. I’m specifically thinking of A Confederacy of Dunces here. That book was good for only maybe 100 pages. I still don’t remember why I forced myself to finish that one. oof.

So, like many things, I guess it’s a gamble. And I don’t really regret the bad books I forced myself through, It’s fun to be able to trash talk them sometimes. But on the flip side of the coin, I often find myself feeling guilty for not finishing books these days. My brain likes to attribute it to some sort of decline in mental fortitude or downward life spiral.

I know these things not to be true, that I’m just in a different phase of life with different wants, needs, and considerations. But try telling that to the little professor in my head scoffing at the notion that I would only read one passage of Thucydides, and not even the goddam Melean dialogue at that.

Like many things I have learned, acceptance and a gentle curiosity seem to help. Many of us seem to know that wallowing in the guilt or shame is only counterproductive. In the cheesiest way possible, it seems that treating ourselves kindly like a dear friend is a wholesome path away from these negative spirals. It’s not always easy for me to remember, of course, but I do try to remember this often.

So next time I find myself feeling guilt or shame over not finishing a book, I will do my best to remember that the little professor in my head is full of shit and that I will read whatever I want. And maybe someday I will have different enough circumstances to be able to weather a long and tough book all the way to the end again.

That book will most certainly be War and Peace. I will come for you one day you devious son of a bitch.