I picked up a book yesterday at Barnes & Noble. It’s a novel, the author’s first. I’ve read his other books–non-fiction memoirs on sports–and I’ve been a fan of the author and his work for a good number of years.
I want to like this book.
I just can’t like this book.
And that disconnect between what I want and what I have is driving me crazy.
In some passages the writing is poetic, even profound. But most of the time it’s not. The author has a very distinctive voice, and yet it’s somehow being lost in the shuffle. More often than not I’m reminded of other authors, authors whose work I wouldn’t associate with the novel’s subject matter.
That, too, drives me crazy.
I find myself in a dilemma. I’ve passed page fifty, and I’m not hooked. I have a rule–if I’m not hooked by page fifty, I won’t ever be hooked, and so I kick out. I’m tempted to suspend the rule. I feel, though, in this case that I should press onward and hope for the best.
We shall see. I’ll give it another twenty pages or so before bed.