I have been a reader for my entire life. I have devoured books as readily as some might scarf down a pizza or memorize the words the their favorite song. I could spend hours perusing the shelves of book stores, never ceasing to find something (often more than one something) that interests me. Reading is a massive part of my identity.
So imagine my surprise to discover in the past year that not all books are worthy of my time. I know. I was as shocked as you are.
If I’m honest with myself, it started years ago. I’d start a book that had all the right criterion for something I’d love. Historical fiction. Trashy beach read. Bestseller. Young adult fiction. Dystopia. The list is endless, really. I see it, it grabs my attention, I buy it.
And for a variety of reasons, I wouldn’t get drawn in. I’d get distracted (I tend to do that sometimes). I’d get bored. Another book would become more appealing. I’m fickle, I suppose.
But I have always had guilt. I am a reader. Readers read books. I can’t leave one unfinished! I have forced myself to trudge through books I don’t love simply to be able to say that I finished them.
It stops now. Life is too short for crappy books! My reading time is limited. If I don’t want to finish a book, it’s time to stop reading. Put it away. Donate it. Loan it to a friend. But finish a book I’m not interested in? Why torture myself?
Life’s too short to read books that are crappy.
It’s too short for friends who aren’t real.
Too short for movies that I don’t enjoy.
Too short to spend a sunny day inside cleaning.
Too short to choose TV over playtime with the girls.
Too short for my iPhone instead of real people.
Life is too short.