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Bookworm.


Last night I finished a book I’ve been reading for the past few weeks – and I only stuck with it to the end out of politeness.

I don’t know why I didn’t give up on it sooner. It's probably partly attributed to my slight obsessive-compulsiveness; I don’t like starting something and not seeing it through. It also cost me the best part of a tenner, so I was determined to get my money’s worth. Part of the reason for my disappointment was I didn’t realise it wasn’t a full-length novel until I’d started; I’ve never really been one for short stories.

I’ve been an avid reader for as long as I can remember – and always tend to have a book on the go. It’s how I unwind: if I haven’t had the chance to read during the day, I’ll always get through a chapter or two before bed.

The last few books I’ve read prior to the one-that-shall-remain-nameless were Phil Kay’s autobiography (crazy and inspired), Ian MacDonald’s Beatles tome ‘Revolution in the Head’ (a comforting rereading of a subject close to my heart), a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories (nice to dip in and out of), and the most recent installment in Susan Hill’s Simon Serrailler series (a real page-turner). I’m particularly fond of the work of Robert Harris; his stories never fail to keep me gripped.

One day I’d like to write a novel. It would be a Hell of an undertaking – but completing one must leave you with a real sense of achievement.

(…and exhaustion, probably.)

It turns out that I’m glad I didn’t give up on my most recent book, as out of all of its five stories, the final one was more to my taste. It may not have been entirely worth the tenner spent on it – but at least £2 of it hadn't gone to waste.
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