To be entirely honest, I debated posting this. In part because it's vulnerable, a little embarrassing, but also very human. However, it is that last point that ultimately pushed me to share. So, here we are.
Dear reader, I did not like my October book, and therefore… tossed it to the side. Kicked it to the curb. Broke up with it. And before anyone comes for me, allow me to explain.
For October, I thought I was in the mood for a little more romance. Having started the year with a slightly romantic beach read, and fresh off the heels of The Master and Margarita, I thought I'd return to the familiar theme of falling in love. But as the leaves changed colors and the weather wavered between Alaskan cold and teasing reminders of summer, I too wavered in my commitment to the book.
Somewhere around page two, I realized that I did not, in fact, want to read about love. At least not in this format. And that was assuming I picked up the book at all. Half the time, I grimaced, procrastinated, or found myself reading the news instead. On the occasions when I did manage to pick it up, I caught myself daydreaming while flipping pages, growing irritated with the characters, or simply feeling bored. Not exactly the makings of a great love story.
Now, in the book's defense, I don't think it was necessarily a bad book. In fact, I suspect there's a version of me, perhaps one with a different disposition or a little more patience, who might absolutely adore it. But that version of me was nowhere to be found in October. And I was beginning to realize that forcing myself to finish it wasn't doing either of us any favors.
Eventually, the only thing keeping me invested was pure stubbornness. And even that was beginning to feel suspiciously like resentment. So, on day fifteen, I decided to call it quits. A literary breakup, if you will. Although, for the record, I'm not ruling out a reconciliation. Sometimes the timing is simply wrong, and I'd rather return to a book with genuine curiosity than finish it out of obligation.
I'm glad to report that I've since found a book that isn't giving me nearly as much trouble. Our union is one filled with eagerness, mutual respect, a little spookiness, and just enough warm intrigue to match New York City's current autumn mood. I'm now reading Frankenstein. Slightly inspired by October, Halloween, and the general atmosphere of the season, I decided to give Mary Shelley a chance. I'm almost finished, and I can't wait to share my thoughts here very soon.
Moral of the story? Don't be afraid of change, as the cliché goes. But really, I think there's something to be said for knowing the difference between giving something a fair chance and forcing yourself to enjoy it. Not everything we put down is a failure. Not everything we walk away from is necessarily bad. And sometimes, the things we aren't ready for today might be exactly what we need tomorrow.
So, to my October book: no hard feelings. Perhaps we'll meet again under better circumstances.
After all, it's not you. It's me.
