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I need to read more. They say that the more you read, the better you write. I’ve always said that a cliché’s a cliché for a reason. Let’s get reading …
I have a pile of books by my bed on my Read Now Bitch list, and even more on my book shelf. Last week I got three new books from a free books shelf, and I have an ever-growing list of books I want to buy. Yet, I have no time to read these stories. I am partially into The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster, The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris, and so on, and so on, and so on.
Most books that I start I WILL finish. Even if I think the book is simply dreadful like Rose of No Man’s Land by Michelle Tea. Warning, spoilers: young girl named Trisha gets a job, loses job, meets a girl named Rose, Rose throws her gross tampon at a guy (I swear these girls never bathe or do anything remotely hygienic), they do a lot of drugs (a lot), drink a lot, steal, Trisha has sex with Rose, then gets a tattoo, Trisha figures out that she’s a lesbian, Rose says she’s straight, this angers Trisha, they part and go back home, Trisha’s sister lost her Real World Audition tapes, The End. The whole thing is written with intense teenage angst and bizarre dialogue formatting, but damn it, I finished the book.
Then there’s a couple that I have never made it past the first thirty – fifty pages. Some of those are considered classics: Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. Other’s are books that looked interesting and were on either a best seller list or employee picks section: The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery.
Still, I need to read more. I need to finish every book I own no matter how nauseating it is. And if I can’t bear the sight of it after completing said book(s) I will donate it(them) to some other person who may in fact love the story. I am not so cocky as to say that my opinion is the best, but I do have high standards. Often I think it’s more fun talking about or buying a book than actually reading one.
However, when a book comes along that defies that norm, it’s something amazing. And my Books I’m Ecstatic Came Into My Life That I Need to Own and Lend to Everyone I Know is much longer than my hate list: Looking For Alaska by John Green, Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie, Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett, Can You Keep a Secret by Sophie Kinsella.
I could write lists of books I love, hate, and want for hours.