To All The Books I’ve (Not) Loved Before

I remember the day I bought each of you. Some of you were glossy hardbacks, full-price and startlingly large; others were squat paperbacks that didn’t take up nearly so much space on my shelf. Trust me: in your case, whatever it was, size really didn’t matter.

Maybe you were a fantasy with a too-good-to-be true plot, or a contemporary that had been hyped up by everyone and their mother (and the people at the bookstore, too!) Maybe you were about to be adapted as a movie and I felt the urge to pick you up and read you before parting with my hard-earned cash for a movie ticket (plus, amongst fellow readers, you always get extra points for knowing the source material. Even if that’s the most frustratingly hipster thing I can admit, we all know it’s true). Maybe you were YA, or adult, or the now-rare-for-me-to-purchase but not-excluded middle grade. Maybe you were the only book I bought that day, as a treat, or maybe you were one of a dozen I couldn’t resist adding to an already-overflowing cart, because we both know I see the word “SALE” and completely lose my shit.

It doesn’t matter. When I held you for the first time, I was determined: I would love you forever and always. I would love you so much, I’d recommend you to my friends (with a strict no-borrowing policy, of course!)

I wanted to adore with every fibre of my being (and every single dollar I spent on you, too). I wanted to keep you for my children and maybe even their children (let’s be real: you would have been lovingly destroyed by my hypothetical children. In much the same way I smeared red sauce from that Chinese food all over my original copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire because I refused to put it down and eat like a normal person, you would’ve been loved a little too hard). I fully expected to turn to you for comfort when the going got rough, or for entertainment on a breezy, content day.

But none of that was to be, and you and I both know why.

I wanted to love you. I just didn’t.

Sometimes it wasn’t anything to do with you, sometimes it was just me. I remember, sometimes, you were good, just not what I wanted or needed you to be. You were probably too similar to something I’d read before, or you fell short in a dozen arbitrary areas that only seem to count when I’m digesting someone else’s story.

But then, there are those of you that I can remember parting with. And I remember exactly why.

I remember why I didn’t love you, translated work with the gorgeous art. I bought you in another country, bedazzled by your cover. I was so enraged at your blatant promotion of becoming a plagiarist as something to aspire to (no, no, never!) that you didn’t even make it onto the plane back home. I read you that night and left you on the bed at the summer house. I hope the next person who found you was truly taken by those gorgeous illustrations of yours (when I went onto Goodreads to check, most people were singing your praises, particularly for your strong feminist elements. Really? I didn’t see them. In fairness, I can’t get over the whole plagiarism thing. Thinking about it even now, years after our split, has me seeing red).

I remember why I donated you to charity, new adult book that promised romance, smut, and a tragic love story. All was fine between our two main characters, and then— record scratch.Your male lead hit your female lead. I finished you because I had nothing else to do that particular Sunday, but damn if I wish I hadn’t. You ended on a cliffhanger. I didn’t really care. It’s possible that in your follow-up, your “hero” is redeemed— even though your heroine was a manipulative compulsive liar with borderline sociopathic tendencies that I firmly disliked, I really wish you didn’t include that hitting scene— but I don’t want to find out.

I remember passing you on to a friend of my mother’s, companion novel to one of my favourite books in the world. Your prose was gorgeous, but both  of your leads were awful. One reminded me of a friend from high school, who thought being needy and completely dependent on others was sexy, and the other was just a jackass. I want to try you again because I love your author’s work.. But as an ebook, so I don’t have to commit to giving you shelf-space. You know? I hope you were enjoyed tremendously in your new home; it definitely helps that your new reader(s) won’t have heard of your predecessor. Fingers crossed that I’ll like you the second time around (fingers crossed that I even give you a second attempt, because just your memory is frustrating me).

And most recently, I remember why I let my non-reading acquaintance pluck you straight off my shelf, adult thriller that I truly enjoyed in the moment. It was only when I was ranting about your treatment of the disabled to a friend that I realized I did not, in fact, want anything to do with you. I liked your twists and turns the way new college-goers enjoy their first alcoholic friend (because there’s always some party to attend), but the allure quickly soured. I still want to rip your pages out with my bare hands because disabled people should be more than a plot device, you f*cking knob. But you’re not mine anymore. You were too (and I hate this word) problematic to be worth your cover price. I doubt you’ll be read, just turned into a coffee table book (admittedly, your cover is pretty).

I’ll never forget any of you, all the books I’ve (not) loved before. I wish I could, but I wouldn’t want to revisit the past and buy you again (except for you, companion novel. Though I probably never will). I hope you’re all happy in your new homes and that you’re all treated well (except for you, adult thriller. Your setting was well-researched and your plot fast-paced, but you fill me with true disdain). For all of us, the future (and new books!) await.