If this post seems familiar, it's because it was originally posted February 2011 on my old blog. NaBloPoMo is kicking my ass today so I'm cheating a little and publishing a post that I imported from my old blog address, but never published.
I used to think I could forgive an author for a bad beginning but not a bad ending. Like when you've got about 20 pages to go and you start to think "hmm, there are an awful lot of loose ends to get tied up in a pretty bow here." Then 15 pages, 10, crap, she's running out of time, and last page...are you KIDDING me? This limp-fish handshake is your ending?? What a betrayal.
Happily, I don't have this experience anymore. In order to stop being a weapon of massive consumption (yay Lily Allen!), I've started buying only things I love. Not like. Love. This has been great for my finances, and as I was surveying my personal library, which has bloated to over 600 books, I realized I need to start applying this philosophy to my reading habits too.
So now if a book doesn't make me feel like chocolate ice cream's melting across my tongue from beginning to end, I stop reading it. It's a weird feeling to give up on a book that started off well but is now struggling. I still feel like I'm doing something sinful, as if I'm opposing No Child Left Behind for books. The guilt's worth it though. I don't have much time to read lately, and now that little time is spent happily lost in another world, instead of conscientiously plodding along waiting for a mediocre author to hit his stride. And I haven't been subjected to a limp-fish ending since.