Literary Obligation

I always used to feel that when I started reading a book, I somehow owed it to the book, or the author, or the universe, or something like that, to finish the book - that if I started it and didn't finish it, I had somehow committed a Great Wrongdoing, or unbalanced the scales of the world. No matter how lousy it was, or how utterly against my tastes, if I made it past the first page I'd persevere and slog my way through, come what may.

I'm not quite sure what has changed in the past year or so - maybe I've just become busy enough that I've had to rethink my priorities; maybe I've just become more discerning in my literary tastes, or maybe I've just finally encountered *truly* egregious writing for the first time - but I have finally exchanged that philosophy for another; namely, that there are too many interesting things to do with my life to waste time reading bad books. And there are too many things in the world that are unpleasant to spend my leisure time engaging in something that is also unpleasant.

This means, among other things, that I will never finish reading "Unnatural History," by Johnathan Green, a novel which looked like it should be deliciously turgid and hilarious on the shelf, but which just turned out to be, while turgid, neither delicious nor hilarious. Alas.

Right now, what I want more than anything is literary comfort food. My world is uncomfortable and unstable and scary, and I want safety and security and to know that what I read is going to give me what I want.

I want comfort food in everything, right now. I want safe, comfy Elizabeth Ann Scarborough and Charles DeLint novels, I want to eat macaroni and cheese, and fried egg sandwiches. I want to wear my old battered sandals and watch reruns and sit in my favorite spot on the sofa and listen to songs I know all the words to.

Someday I'll be experimental again. Once my world and my life are no longer in constant turmoil. I hope.