After dropping off and distributing my ‘World Book Night’ books I found myself in that awful position of not having anything to read and a long journey ahead of me. You see my family had dropped me off and my friend needed to get back into town and so I found myself with a 30 minute bus journey and not a word to read. Naturally I headed for the nearest second hand shop (which happened to be an Oxfam Bookshop) and scoured the shelves… nothing took my fancy, and believe me there were loads to choose from.
Four more second hand shops down and still nothing. The idea of travelling and simply watching the world from the window didn’t appeal but I thought I was going to have to grin and bear it. Then I spotted a sneaky Cancer Research (my second hand shop of choice anyway at the moment for obvious reasons) shop and dived in, I didn’t care what it was but I had to leave with a book. After toying between ‘Trust Me, I’m A Junior Doctor’ by Max Pemberton and ‘The Yiddish Policemen’s Union’ by Michael Chabon for quite some time I went with the latter. After all Chabon is one of the many ‘authors I need to get a wriggle on and read’ and would reading about hospitals in rather a too honest way be a good idea at the moment?
I got to the bus stop, where I had a twenty minute wait ahead, and started reading. I got on the bus and carried on reading. I got home and stopped. Well, I say stopped… I actually tried to pick the book up several times but for some reason it simply wasn’t holding me anymore. The writing was great, the plot interesting (if a little confusing) and even all the chess stuff wasn’t bothering me. Yet I was no longer held, fifty pages in and I was floundering… but why so suddenly?
It could possibly be in part due to the pile of advance books that have suddenly arrived, which I will be discussing later in the week, or it could be the fact that I had been so desperate for a read that anything would do. Yet is was well written, it was interesting at first and I did, sort of as the plot hadn’t full got rolling, want to know what was going on. Is it one of life’s great mysteries or do I just have to resign myself to the fact maybe this wasn’t a book for me or a book for me right now? Is it because I bought it on impulse?
Any thoughts? Has this ever happened to you? Do you get as cross with yourself as I have over the whole thing? I feel a bit of a failure reader to be honest, and so far having picked up anything since… help!