From Enduring Boring Books to Enjoying Saying Enough

A couple of years ago, I was sitting in a creative writing workshop at my local university when the tutor made a somewhat surprising confession. “I only give a book a handful of pages,” she said. “If it hasn’t hooked me by then, I put it down.” To me, her approach seemed too hasty. Who could tell what sort of literary marvel might lie beyond a shaky opening? What if the narrative blossomed later? In response to my objections, she replied, “What if it doesn’t? Anyway, you’re young. You’ve got time to read to the end.”

Although I couldn’t argue with her point about youth, the essence of her statement didn’t sit well with me. Leaving a novel unfinished felt almost criminal, like an insult to an author who had painstakingly crafted the work. If I began a book, I wanted to see it through. To form a fair opinion, I felt it necessary to reach the end and fully understand everything it had to offer.

For as long as I could remember, I had a habit of finishing creative works, even those I’d lost interest in. I was a chronic completionist, intent on seeing every average novel, mediocre TV series, and lengthy video game through to the very end, regardless of how much enjoyment I derived.

Yet, the tutor’s comment lingered in my mind. Reflecting on past experiences, I realised many of my efforts had indeed been wasted. I’d trudged through over 2,000 pages of Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time series, assuming I was supposed to enjoy it, only to discover that its intricate lore and unpronounceable names didn’t appeal to me. In hindsight, wouldn’t it have been better to stop watching Netflix’s The Crown after Olivia Colman exited? While I would have missed some notable moments involving Diana, I could have avoided the disappointment of her ghostly reincarnation.

Persevering wasn’t in my nature. Only a year earlier, I had spent months dragging myself through John le Carré’s The Constant Gardener. Despite giving my dad a copy for his birthday, I found my own reading experience quite dull, gaining only a superficial understanding of multinational pharmaceutical companies. Although my dad said he enjoyed the book, I guiltily read it to the very end.

Perhaps it was the tutor’s comment working in the background, but last year, I finally acknowledged that my commitment to finishing everything was a monumental waste of time. Time I could have spent engaging in more interesting, experimental, or enjoyable activities, or even something completely frivolous yet entertaining.

So, I chose to stop my relentless perseverance. I shelved Blood Meridian for when I’d be in the mood for a subversive western. I abandoned my goal of listening to Frank Zappa’s complete discography, concluding that it peaked with Hot Rats anyway. And I uninstalled Assassin’s Creed Valhalla after just a few hours.

Giving up turned out to be a strange mental adjustment. While sticking to something to the bitter end requires stubbornness, quitting demands a quiet confidence and self-awareness to recognize when something isn’t for you. Even now, closing a book midway through or uninstalling a massive game doesn’t exactly feel like an achievement. There’s always a lingering doubt: Is it really as bad as it seems, or is it simply not for me?

Despite my doubts, I’ve found contentment in letting go of my completionist tendencies. I still grant myself several chapters, not just pages – hours, instead of minutes – to decide if I’ll stick with something. But when it starts to lose its charm, I discard it. And somehow, that makes the experience all the sweeter.

Source: The Guardian