Brace yourself. Gifs ahead.
Once upon a time, I was one of those sanctimonious people who’d been notoriously judgemental of readers who loved every single thing they read. Because how is every book that’s ever crossed their shelves of a 5 or a 4 star rating variety? C’est impossible! But then I got to thinking, if a person is meticulous about their reading preferences, this may not be as impossible as I orginally thought. If they’re very specific about the books they buy, isn’t it possible that there’s an 80% chance they’ll love everything? Or perhaps if they’re not an impulsive book buyer like me, they might just be better at knowing what to read than I?
So here I am firing back another question. How can you trust someone who hates everything that she reads? Unfortunately, that’s where I’m at right now. My choices have been nothing but lacklustre than I’m left feeling disillusioned about the books on my shelves. Sometimes, it almost feels like I seek ways to find faults in them, which, of course is not true at all.
It has been a bleak reading stretch. And frankly, I’m getting pretty sick of my self. These 1 and 2 star-ratings do nothing to promote the love of reading. All it does is scare away potential lovers of books that I’ve lambasted on the blog. Okay, maybe lambasted is too strong of a word.
The thing is, I’ve been trying to diversify my reading choices. I figure if I switch between YA and Adult Fiction intermittently, I’m bound to find that fantastic read that has eluded me as of late. So far, it’s been a bust.
I go by instincts when I’m at the bookstore. I’m always looking to test and expand my reading taste. I can’t be stuck at a certain aisle and peruse the same type of books because I know it will get boring in no time. So the dictates of how I pick books have been sporadic.
But things had been so dire lately that I’m considering reading some raunchy Erotica just to spice things up a little. Those that I tend to take pleasure in reading (don’t judge me!), but will never admit to enjoying.
And I do. I really, really do. But it’s been a struggle. It’s been depressing, actually. I’m sitting here thinking that all this hatred has to be counterproductive with the very reason I started blogging in the first place. I’m here to promote the love of reading. I’m not here to crush a person’s dream by writing a 500-600 word essay on how much their book sucked. But if I consider credibility and how translating those ire into a blog post have helped keep my sanity, I feel a lessening of guilt.
All I can infer is that I have to do what I have to do to remain honest, and that I can’t help it if I suck at picking good books to read. It’s a trial and error, you see? The risk of what I have to go through in order to broaden my reading horizon.
Though every time I’m near my bookshelf, I can’t help but throw a prayer or a plea.