I found a post from Writer’s Circle on Facebook – with a 30 day writing challenge. This is day 8: A book I loved. And one I didn’t.
The interesting thing about reading is that it evolves, as we do. Things I loved in my youth (VC Andrews… Need I say more?) are no longer on my top 10 list. Things that moved me as a child (Black Beauty) have good memories but reading those books again doesn’t evoke the feelings I had then. They can’t. I’m not the same person I was then. I’ve been through some shit. We all have.
That said, the writing challenge requested that I list a book I loved and one that I didn’t. So I’ll take a leaf from ‘today’ and not ‘yesterday’.
I loved ‘The Hours’ by Michael Cunningham. I read this book at a time when I thought that life owed me more than I was getting out of it, that if I wasn’t happy every minute of every day (you know, like all those people we know on Facebook), then I was doing something wrong. Turns out the only thing I was doing wrong was expecting a life that I had no right to expect. Cunningham’s book taught me, like a smack to the head, that I needed to appreciate the moments… the hours…
DID NOT LOVE
I don’t want to write ‘hate’ because I don’t think I’ve ever outright hated a book. I’ve thrown a few across the room in total irritation. I’ve dropped some without finishing them, after only a few chapters. But ‘hate’? No. If pressed, I will admit to giving only one star on Goodreads.com to the likes of ‘The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood’, ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary’ and other fluffy-lit, but even then, I have to admit a guilty ‘in the bathtub with candles and a glass of wine’ pleasure in those books. There’s nothing wrong in that, is there?