I admit there’s some glee in typing that rhyming title. Anyhoo. I wanted to like The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz, I really did. I figured, I’d always wanted to read this, so why not read it? Hello to the New Year, and all that jazz? My mom got it for me for some Post-Christmas loving, and we had a round of rock-paper-scissors to see who would read it first. I won.
I’ve been stalled around page 120 for days now, and that really pisses me off, haha. I’m a fast reader: I usually sit down with romance novels four-five hours, literary fiction’s from ten hours (as with Revolutionary Road) to overnight (as with The Post-Birthday World). The longer a book stays in my “Currently Reading” side of the nightstand (or floor, as the case may be when I’m at The Boyfriend’s), the more likely I won’t ever find the drive to finish it. I’m a momentum-reliant kind of reader, I suppose.*
It’s not entirely the book’s fault. I mean, the holidays officially came to a close this morning; tomorrow, school begins again for me. I have a ton of work I need to catch up on, midterms and long tests and readings galore.
Then again, it’s not entirely my fault either, haha. The language requires me to adjust to it, for one thing, although I think I bypassed that problem pretty quickly. Even the bits of Spanish threaded into the narrative weren’t that much of a bother. It was bearable. It was okay. It was okay.
And I think that’s one more reason why I need to put this book down, at least for the meantime: I know this is a good book, and I want to like it. And I can’t trust my judgment of MEH right now, with all the crap cluttering my life. So. Some other time, perhaps–I’ll get back to you, dear, I swear.
* With exceptions, of course–I tend to read short story collections/anthologies over a period of weeks, sometimes months–My Mistress’s Sparrow Is Dead, for example, or Chekhov’s Ward No.06 and Other Stories. I suppose it’s because I like savoring short fiction. And most of the short stories I read are kick-ass (oh, my conceit, haha) that I need to pace myself. I mean, the last time I read a collection straight through, it was No One Belong’s Here More Than You by Miranda July, and man, did I get drunk on that one.