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Just can't finish the silly thing

I was brought up by hippie intellectuals, or intellectual hippies, I'm not sure what the correct order is for those descriptors.  We had no TV. We had bookshelves full of an astonishing variety of tomes covering topics from anthropology to fine art, science fiction to popular social treatise work. There were no banned areas; if I wanted to read something, I could.

Not that there was porn or anything age-sensitive to speak of, but you know what I mean. My parents were about broadening perspective, always, regardless of whether it made a person uncomfortable in the process. Social awareness isn't always pleasant, after all.

Did I mention I was an only, too? I am. Solo. No sibs. Lots of good friends within a 5 minute walking radius of our house, but no sibs.

Anyway, I'm a voracious reader. I had to learn at an early age to entertain myself, and I did, of necessity. I admit, I snuck in TV watching when I could, but for the most part, reading was my escape. So I treasure books, treasure stories, appreciate the work that goes into developing a complete piece of literature, and enjoy the journey from opening page to conclusion.

Recently, however, I've become impatient with certain types of literature...I'll allow myself to be carried along by a first book by an author, then be halfway through the second piece and decide that I really don't want to hang in there for the rest of the second (or third or fourth..) book.

This is new for me, the active decision to just not finish a book. Last night I did that, and shoved the book in my backpack, to be returned to the library today.

I'm not sure if this means my brain is full or I just plain don't want to waste precious time (there seems to be so very little) on an escape effort that only nets mediocre results.

Or maybe I just recognize when a writer has opted for intensely formulaic over moderately creative approaches to characterization and plot development.

In any case, I appear to have become a snob.


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