DNF, DNR, just.. no.

DNF.  This is a bookworm term that stands for "Did Not Finish".  It's a really difficult thing for a bibliophile to admit, even only to themselves, that a book just isn't going to be part of their life.  Most of us will struggle through, gritting our teeth, cursing under our breath, and hating every single moment.  We put the book down.  Slowly move it back to the bookshelf.  Succumb to the guilt.  Move it back to the bedside table.  

The guilt doesn't fade.  It builds to a crescendo until it becomes overwhelming.  So we decide to pull up our proverbial bootstraps and give it another go.  We are certain that the creaking spine can be heard the world over, as we open it up to where we left off.  Within minutes we remember why we put it down.  But because we won't admit failure, we soldier on.  

Before long, the book returns to the nightstand.  It sits there, staring at you from beneath a lovely stack of books that make us smile and remember why we love reading.  But if you sit very still and listen very closely you can hear it, accusing us of giving up.  Trying to make us feel like a failure.  So we move it back to the bookshelf.  Stop taking it's calls.  

The dance continues until we finally decide that the time has come to either

a)  just be a grown up and finish it already OR

b) admit defeat, don our trench coat, and drop it in the "donate" bin at the local charity shop, hoping no one sees us


This, my friends, is my proverbial White Elephant.  I bought "The Historian" almost a decade ago.  I took it with me to Ontario when I went to visit my grandmother and actually managed to read about 1/3 of it.  Then I came home and for some reason, promptly lost interest.  It could be that I didn't bring anything else to read on the trip and thus I was desperate.  Or perhaps it's because the book started off pretty well but fizzled out rather quickly.  I tried several times to pick it up again, but the interest didn't last very long.

After promising myself I was going to read more and watch less NetFlix, I decided that I would finish this 704 page behemoth once and for all.  So I opened it up again, went back a couple of chapters to refresh my memory and got to work.  Tedious, heart wrenching work.  I wanted to love this book.  I swear I did.  But - UGH.  I just can't.  

A book should be enjoyable.  Sure, not all of them are going to be "OMG, I can't believe it's over.  That was AMAZING!  I have to tell EVERYONE!!!  What am I going to do now?  Did this author write anything else?"  But it certainly shouldn't be 'absolute tear-inducing, toss yourself on the ground and pitch a fit worthy of an Oscar' torture.  You are an adult.  You don't have to read anything you don't want to.  That's right.  I said it.

So, I have decided that this book is officially a DNF and very soon it shall be released out into the wild, hopefully to find it's way to someone who will appreciate it.  I have to admit I am relieved.