It is a terrible thing to me to not like a book. I can recognise bad writing most of the time (except when it’s my own, apparently), which is a definite reason to quit out on a book. But disliking the book in general? That’s something that bothers me on a much deeper level.
The book in question that has prompted this little bout of pontification is Full House, by Janet Evanovich. Originally written in 1989 when Evanovich was a romance writer rather than the action and crime novels that she is better known for, Full House was re-released, slightly updated, in collaboration with Charlotte Hughes.
I read two chapters, and couldn’t bear it any further. Romance isn’t my genre of choice; in fact, it’s a very long way for what I’d generally read, but I thought that I’d attempt to expand my horizons a little. Part of me is tempted to find some other examples of the genre for comparison and contrast to see whether it’s the genre or this specific novel, but at the moment, I really need some literature sorbet. My reading palate needs cleansing.
So, what do I do? Explore this nuance of my reading personality further? Poke and prod, push and plot, find the boundaries and limits of my tastes? Or do I return to what I know, what I find acceptable?
Considering those questions, I’ve left this post in Draft state for a few days to ponder. I haven’t reached a satisfactory conclusion, unfortunately, and shall push this out to Publish instead.