This has happened to me a few times, even with a few of my favorite authors. The first time was with a book by Chuck Palahniuk, Pygmy. I love all his books, I love the way he writes, but with all the damn Pig Latin in that book I was going crazy! Reading the broken sentences and the complete disarray made me dread picking it up again. I eventually gave up about half way through.
This happened again with another of his books, Doomed, which is the second in a series about a snarky little girl who has died and gone to hell. I liked the first book, it was different, edgy, but when I got half way through (again) the second book, I was like, "I really don't give a shit about what happens in the end." I felt bad that I lost interest in a perfectly fine book by an author that I adore, but I just couldn't make myself care enough to finish it.
The third time it happened was with a highly anticipated book by Anne Rice, Prince Lestat. I was geeked about, it, I love the Lestat stories because he's such a scum bag and I was thrilled that another one was coming out. Again, I struggled through that book and got about three quarters through, and gave up. I really, really tried to be engaged by it, but it just wasn't gripping me.
These three books I gave up on, I may revisit in the future. Maybe all I need is a different mindset, a different perspective. Well, honestly, I'll probably never revisit Pygmy, but the other two stand a chance.
So, I started reading The Killer Next Door by Alex Marwood and right away discovered, it's British. Nothing against the British, but sorting through their slang and dialect is exhausting. I find this rang true when I read Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh, holy shit, was that a task! I got through 9 chapters, that's it. I was not excited to get to read this every night because those 9 chapters were so choppy, I didn't know what the hell was going on. Some chick disappeared from one of the "flats" in this house, presumably murdered by the landlord and one of the neighbors, I don't even know. This other chick moves in to the disappeared chick's flat with all the former chick's shit still in there and starts wearing her clothes because the only thing she showed up with was a bag of cash. Some of the other chicks that live there were all like, "Who are you? Why are you wearing Rebekah's clothes?" I don't know man, those 9 chapters were drivel, I couldn't make myself continue. Maybe this really is a good book, I mean, book reviews are just a matter of opinion, am I right? Maybe one day I'll get through the whole thing and find that it's amazing. I just don't see that happening any time in the near future.
However, this lack of interest might also be because a new Stephen King book came out on the 3rd, A Bazaar of Bad Dreams. A huge collection of short stories that he hasn't done in years with notes on each one as to how he came to write the story, pretty neat if you care about that sort of thing, which I, of course do. I'm burning through this book and find myself reading much later than I ought to.
I'll probably throw a review out for that one, to possibly bring some more King followers over to the dark side.
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