Flipping through my reading journal, I realized that I have read very few bad books for the same reasons that I have never held onto a bad boyfriend. If they were not interesting, were not smart, did not amuse me, did not satisfy me, and, generally sucked, I moved on. However, holding onto good boyfriends always did pose a special problem for me since I had a predilection for reading books that were not in the library, where I promised to be studying. And, if my diverse readings interests weren’t the problem, they later discovered that I was a bad read, returned me, and checked-out another book immediately. Luckily after a few years on the shelf, I found a slow reader with discerning literary taste, who reads me well and often. I am now the beloved, old book with the worn cover on the nightstand that still gets broken in like fresh fiction, hot off the presses.
