The Dreaded DNF

Life’s too short to read bad books, right? So why do I feel so obligated to finish a book I’m really not enjoying. And why is it so much harder now as an adult than it was when I was a kid? I’ve started and DNF’d (did not finish) Moby Dick at least 3 times. Probably more like 5. Silas Marner? DNF. Atlas Shrugged? Well, you get the picture. I know there are others, a lot of others. And most were read (or barely read) before I graduated college. So what changed?

For a really long time I only read books I knew I would love. Either they were written by authors I had already read and enjoyed, or they were wildly popular authors with proven histories amongst the people I knew who loved to read what I did. I lived on book recommendations from family and friends. Plus, after reading their backlist I eagerly devoured newly published books by my favorite authors.

Then recently, I hit on a few books I really had to slog though. But I forced myself to finish them, all while asking myself, “why???” I told myself the book would get better as I read. It didn’t. I told myself I needed the background for the next book in the series. I didn’t. And while we’re at it, why was I planning to read the next book if I didn’t like this one? I told myself it was the polite thing to do. And… I don’t even know what that means. Why was I so committed to reading these books I really wasn’t enjoying? Is it because unlike classic novels, the romance novels I choose to read aren’t heavy on philosophical depth that causes my brain to slog through the tedium to get to the end. Was I really justifying finishing a book I wasn’t enjoying simply because it was easy to read and would only take me about 2-5 days versus the weeks and weeks (ok, sometimes months) it took me to try to get through classics like Anna Karenina. So, what’s 2-5 days in the grand scheme of things? I can power through a book with a weak plot or poor writing if it only takes me 2-5 days to read it, right? But should I? And what are the really solid reasons to DNF a book? Do I need a reason? I do. I really really do.

Well, last week I hit my first true DNF since I started reading romance novels. I tried to make it all the way through. I did, I promise. But after putting it down and picking it up multiple times, reading other books each time I put it down, I just had to put it down for the last time even though I was only 30% through. I’m still trying to talk myself through being okay with it. And trying to figure out why I had such a hard time deciding to just stop reading it.

I need to be more like my 17 year old spawn. She doesn’t hang around to see if it gets better. She’s a DNF Queen! She’s so okay with her DFN game that we still haven’t watched the last 2 episodes of Supernatural. As far as she’s concerned, she’s already seen everything she needs to. And I have to say, I agree with her. But that’s plot related. She knows what’s going to happen, she just doesn’t want to see it. So is shucking a book to the side because I don’t like something I know is going to happen okay? More okay than benching it because the writing is stilted? Or there are too many errors? Or I’m 60% into the book and tired of waiting for their first kiss? Shit! Did I accidentally pick up a sweet romance?

Ok, let me try it this way. If I order something at a restaurant and it has all the ingredients I think I love, but then it comes to the table and there are ingredients I didn’t expect, I would absolutely send it back. Or pick around them. Unless it’s anchovies. Because, eeew. And if something was missing, I would send it back, right? I mean, I was really looking forward to those mushrooms. So if a book is missing the steamy scenes I’m expecting (hello, mushrooms), or has a gratuitous sexual assault scene (the anchovies), sending it back is completely understandable. And if the book is written really poorly (we’ll call it the undercooked chicken I was not going to eat no matter what), that’s also completely reasonable to ditch as well, right? Ok, so maybe the poorly written book is more like overcooked steak. It’s not going to kill me, but I’m not going to enjoy it. And now I’m trying desperately to figure out why I ate the overcooked steak Diane that came with anchovies instead of mushrooms. Because I hate to send things back when I can muddle through them.

So, what’s the lesson in all of this for me? I need there to be a lesson. I guess it’s just this: It's ok to not like everything you read. It's ok to let that book go. I can still support the author without writing a review. After all, that book could be someone else's cup of tea. It’s just not mine. And at this point, I am going to be 100% okay with that.