It's not you, it's me

In an effort to put off my annual summer book-buying orgy, I took out a hefty stack from the library.

The first one was from an author who is killing her series. She's jumping sharks and burning bridges. It's starting to retroactively affect the enjoyment I once had. She's actually trashing my memory of her books and characters because of the bullshit she's heaping on the pages. At the halfway point, I started skimming because I don't like to leave books unfinished.

The second one was testament to the fact that hitching your wagon to a trend is a big old slap to the reader. I'm still waiting for the steampunk romance that fits the expectation I have in my brain. I've read steampunk that fulfilled all my expectations of the genre, but they tended to be too dark for the likes of me. I want a steampunk heavy on the pretty clockworks and brass and lighter on the soul-scorching punk. I do not want some wannabe bullshit with goggles and airships thrown in last minute. Despite my cardinal rule of finishing all books, this one fell into the life-is-too-short-and-isn't-there-something-on-instant-watch-that-could-eat-up-my-time? category.

The third book is a modern day fairytale and I've stalled on page 127. I don't want to give up because I'm afraid what failure might mean. What if I've lost my ability to enjoy books? What if these three books are really great, and I'm too cynical or ignorant to partake of them?

I have four more in my stack. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.