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.