Saturday, August 21
There is nothing as disappointing as a book you can't stand to finish. I've been giving this book my best efforts, but turns out, it's not worth it. I hate the prose -- it's distracting and ugly. It seems to be too self aware, as if it wants me to know that it's artful and deep. The descriptions are vague. I'm sorry; lack of cohesive writing is not "neat" or "modern": it's lazy. As the writer it's your job to paint a picture for me, to draw a character for me, to tell me a story -- not make me guess as to what is going on or who is speaking or where we are. This is not to say that I need everything spelled out for me like I'm eleven, but let's find a happy medium. Anyway. I'm giving up. The book is going back to the library, scarcely sixty pages read. I hate to be a quitter (I rarely don't finish a book, even if it's not exactly riveting) but I have far too many potentially good books on my list to stick with it. On to the next, which I hope will be worthy of my time and thoughts.