I must confess something. (Until recently) I always finish a book. Even if it’s not a very good read. Once, outraged with bad writing, weak plot, annoying characters, I hurled the book across the room. Disgusted. But half an hour later I picked it up, dusted it off and finished it. Afterwards I had the same feeling I get when I demolish a bag of chips at one sitting or eat a whole package of red vines. Sick. Upset that I wasted the time. I am certainly guilty as an author of over-writing (especially at the beginning of what I guess you could call my career), and I have a sneaking suspicion that there are some overlong (bordering on tedium) passages in my first book. Certainly in the manuscripts I have shelved, but that’s what editors are for, right?! I won’t just read anything. Although as a pre-teen I was stuck in my aunt’s house for the summer and all she had were those weird abridged reader’s digest compendiums of classic books bound in red leather. So I read those. Oh, and a whole slew of harlequin romances…which were much more entertaining. I’m picky. I browse. I’ll read the back cover. If the cover design irritates me too much I won’t get it. The books that I pick up, choose and borrow or buy, I read. Every time. From time immemorial. Sometimes if they’re badly written or full of cliches but somehow engrossing, I’ll read them twice just to make sure of my opinion. I’ve been reading a lot recently because I’m between projects and I’m tired of this long winter, and the almost-3-year old hellion lets me look at books because she loves them too. She cuddles up in the crook of my arm or my leg with her book, making announcements every so often about the monkey or the elephant or the scary scary shark. It’s all very domestic and cute. I devoured three of David Almond’s boy-centric novels: Skellig, the Savage and Kit’s Wilderness. I read Ysabeau Wilce’s Flora Segunda and loved it. Cassie Clare’s City of Ashes. Maureen Johnson’s Devilish. Catherine Fisher’s Snow-walker. Then (and I’m to going to mention titles or authors) I picked up and put down three books in a row. They weren’t awfully written. I just got bored. It hurts to write that. I could have made myself continue but you know, I’ve got a few stacks of glossy, shiny new books in my to- be -read piles beckoning, calling to me in those dulcet voices. I’ll tell you something else. I just finished Stieg Larsson’s Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. If I hadn’t read the reviews, had friends recommend and rave about it, I might have put it down unfinished. It took a while to get going. But I persevered and I loved Lisbeth and now I can’t wait to read the next one. I don’t like books or movies or bands that win you over immediately. I like the books, bands and movies which slowly build up to something, are well-constructed, beautifully paced, they draw you in and then blow your mind. The other sort is kind of like a summer crush. Pretty insubstantial, frivolous and over quickly (and finally disappointing in a way). But lately, I don’t know. I’m not so willing to hang in there and plow through hundreds of pages if nothing is happening for me. How about you? Easy, patient, willing to go the distance? or ruthless, impatient critic?