One week ago, I read a book that was not exactly well-written, but I was still pretty fascinated and tore through it (and requested the next two books in the series from the library). I announced to Facebook that I felt split in two, my reader-self warring with my writer-self.
I generally don’t read poorly-written books.
I know that’s a bold statement, but I figure that I have so many wonderful books on my list to read that I just won’t waste time with a book that doesn’t hold my interest or isn’t written well.
There are a few exceptions. If I hear from enough people that I have to read a book which I have deemed as sub-par, then I have been known to cave to peer pressure just so that I can come back and tell them that I read it and still didn’t like it (since I am a literature snob. I know, I know.). The other exception would be if I have read an incredible book by an author in the past, then I will give the not-as-good book by the same author the benefit of the doubt, reading to the end, hoping for the author to redeem himself. I feel I owe it to the author since he/she has already graced the literary world at one point.
But then there are these strange guilty pleasure books that I don’t even like to admit I read and enjoyed. There aren’t a lot. In fact, I feel like the last time I indulged in such a way was back in high school during the Left Behind series. But last weekend I read a book about demon-hunting teenagers whose lives are full of killing, blood, and sexual tension. I guess I will call it a guilty pleasure.
What are yours?