I love reading books I hate. I used to hate it (which you’d think is the normal way of things) because I was one of those people who would force myself to finish a book, even if every turn of the page filled me with unmitigated dread. Even if each sentence made my brain wince. For some reason, I placed moral value on not giving up until I had reached the back cover.
I no longer do that. I learned that life is too short to indulge in things that do not give a great return on my energy, emotion or time. So you might say I enjoy tossing a book I am disliking across a room (though I’m not cavalier enough to do that: I just snap it shut in a decisive way). The relief of calling time on something one is not enjoying, and which is not enriching, brings a warmth and lightness.
But it’s true that even before that moment of abandonment – during the actual reading of awfulness – some pleasure sneaks in. Perhaps it is a type of schadenfreude. I might think: “Well, if writing as poor as this can be published and sell, I can’t do much worse.” Maybe it’s written by someone I know to be awful as a person and therefore I relish their subpar prose. What is great about bitching about a book is that it doesn’t leave one with a sense of guilt. It is not an ad hominem attack. If I ask a friend whether they have read X and they reply that they hated it – and I did, too – that is the perfect base for a wonderful conversation.
Obviously, I love reading books where I am savouring every sentence. But the problem with being a writer and reading immensely pleasurable work is creeping feelings of inadequacy and envy, ie the opposite of the encouragement and fillip and unattractive competitive streak that the badly written books elicit.
There’s an added bonus, too, one that I think of as altruistic but you will now know is nothing of the sort. After I have dismissed a book, banished it from my hands, I will give it to charity. One time, when I was young and didn’t really understand etiquette (or anything), I put a used toothbrush in a care package that churches collect and then send abroad. I know. Donating a crap book to a charity shop is the literary equivalent. If you have ever picked up a painful novel or a nonfiction title drier than the Sahara, then I’m so sorry; I cannot promise I am not responsible. My advice? Toss it across the room.
