I’ve recently been labeled something disturbing. A Book Unfinisher… capital B, capital U.
It’s true though. I’d say I finished only 20% of the books I started before graduating college. Part of it was the books I was reading were assigned and there’s something about assigned reading that turns a perfectly lovely Jane Austen novel into the most brilliant, clever kind of torture.
Loving the literature and yet, hating the devilish minion who prescribed the reading.
I did finish some books. Harry Potter. Twilight. Hunger Games. All of the important staples of my child/tween/teenhood. But The Great Gatsby? Lord of the Flies? I was lucky to get halfway.
When I was first called a Book Unfinisher I had an existential crisis. Did I really not finish what I started? What kind of person was I? As a reader was I indebted to finish the books I started? Did I enter some kind of non-negotiable relationship even though I was afraid of commitment?
As a result of being called the big B.U. I’ve developed some kind of OCD-esque obsession with finishing what I start.
And part of me wishes the world still believed in gold stars after the age of 7. Because I would personally love a gold star for every book I finish now, but I guess I have Goodreads for that.
So my dare to you is simple; start something and finish it. Then you have already one-upped a majority of the human population. And heck, give yourself a gold star.