I am having a bad streak. A bad streak of the worst kind. A bad book streak.
I’ve been trying to clear off my bookshelf and so I’ve been reading through a bunch of books people have given me over the past year.
I read nearly always on my Kindle, so it’s rare for me to actually read paper books. But in the past two weeks, I’ve read three. It’s not convincing me to switch back to paper. All three have been terrible.
I’m 11 books behind. pic.twitter.com/rpukquOxET
— Molly Quell (@MollyQuell) May 28, 2017
It’s whiny rich white people complaining endlessly about how difficult their lives are. A book by the CEO of a well-known brand (How did this even get on my bookshelf?) explaining his corporate motto of doing good. And then citing Sam Walton (founder of Wal-Mart, not know for its treatment of workers or environmental consciousness) as a business hero. A book by a feminist writer decrying how hard it is to figure out what being a woman means. Because she isn’t sure how to put on makeup. Or, by far the worst, a novel written by a male author about a female protagonist who is rich, white, has a great husband. two good kids, a job she is talented at and yet spends the entire book being utterly miserable and refusing to do anything about it. Instead, she cheats on her husband, buys cocaine with which to frame her lover’s wife and, in the end, is cured by, and I am not fucking making this up, hang gliding.
It’s not that I am so much mad at the author’s for writing these books. (Actually that’s not true, I’m mad at the hang gliding book.) Which annoys me is that there is a seemingly endless supply of these books being published. Why does the world need yet another book like these? And why do people keep buying them?
(Before you cry hypocrisy, all of mine were either checked out from the library or passed on to me by friends.)
But someone paid for these suckers at some point, feeding this cycle of mediocrity in publishing. And, as someone who is aiming to read 100 books this year, I am annoyed.