I have a confession to make. An admission made cautiously in full knowledge of the shock and revulsion it may cause, and wary of the irreversible damage it may do to my reputation* within the literary community.

Prepare yourselves.

I am a serial DNF’er.

It would probably be more accurate to say that I’m a prolific non-finisher. I am the scourge of the first chapter, a voracious consumer of excerpts and free samples. The sort of reader that bolts out of the pen, but invariably falls at the ninth gate. Rarely do I manage to get more than halfway through a book. It’s not that I don’t love them, or that I wantonly abandon them. I just find it inexplicably difficult to get to the last page.

It does happen; I feel I need to clarify that before going any further. Please don’t assemble the mob quite yet. I’ve finished quite a lot of books in my life – just not so much recently. And I have put together a detailed and compelling case for my defence. Which is as so;

I love words. I love stories – love them passionately down to the very marrow of my bones. The world is stories. History. All events. Everything. Reading is the most vital skill we have. There is nothing better than a beautifully bound book. Come to me, you sexy thing, and sit upon my shelf for all eternity looking pretty. And I do read. I’m just rather terrible at finishing novels.

To be clear, this is nothing to do with the skill or ability of the authors in question. Some of the books I’ve started have been works of sheer genius. It’s not them. It’s me. You see, I have a problem with focus. Perhaps there is a term for it that would make me feel rather official, but I don’t like to assume that this is anything more than something I’m simply not very good at.

My maximum capacity for sitting still and not fiddling with things is about fifteen minutes. You know those cats that chase laser pointers around the house, crashing into walls and scratching up the curtains? I have the brain equivalent of that. Have you ever tried to persuade a cat in that sort of mood to sit down and read a book? I am perpetually that cat. My attention span is the shredded curtain. 

Years ago, I was a voracious reader. A good, thick paperback could last me all of two days. Less, if I had some fancy bubble bath and ample supply of my local shops most low-budget-y wine. I was also a speed-reader – so much so that at school they had to put me in an accelerated class for people whose brains moved too fast, with a teacher who taught us college-level literature and told us stories about her cat. We read and talked and debated time travel and politics and the fragility of human nature. It was wonderful.

But somehow, at some point between then and now, I lost something. I changed. My mind changed. At some point, my brain proclaimed there to be ‘no more room at the inn’ and shut the doors. Much to my frustration. Because I want to finish a book. I’ve got theories about why this happened – but they’re probably all wrong. Maybe it is just me, but I digress. I’m stalling for time before judgement is cast.

You see, I wanted to write this post because although it pains me to admit that I struggle to finish books, I also wanted it to be noted that ‘you can’t write if you don’t read’ does not apply exclusively to the excessive consumption of novels.

And I’m done with feeling like a fraud. Writers have enough trouble with imposter syndrome and feelings of inadequacy. Perhaps I’m not a particularly well-known (or even vaguely known) writer but I have now reached the point where people occasionally ask my opinion on things.

And each time they do, I feel this gnawing shame in my stomach, the terrible fear that my secret is about to be revealed. They’re going to realise that I have no idea what they’re talking about. I have favourite authors whose novels I’ve yet to complete. I’m not lying when I say I admire them. It’s possible to marvel at talent, their creativity. I struggle to finish a novel, but I read essays and excerpts. Give me a report on market fluctuations in the cobbling industry in 12th century Europe and I’ll devour it like a snake unhinging its jaw. Nom, nom, words.

I’m an article surfer, subject hopper, and the kind of person that can leave no link left un-clicked. All subjects, any subjects – especially ones I find interesting or that might later help me win an argument. 

I’ll never stop trying to finish a book. But I won’t feel bad if it takes me a month, or a year or a decade. And in the meantime, I’ll read a thousand articles and all the snack-sized stories I want. Bring me a buffet of prose. If I’m following you on Twitter, I might not have read your novel but I’ve probably read your blog. Your poetry. Your short stories. If books are like good wine, I’m over at the bar doing shots.

And I don’t think that makes me a bad writer, nor should it make me feel like one. I simply have a different method of consumption. 

So, if my confession helps someone else feel a little less ashamed of the fact that they don’t read often or at length, when they’re constantly being told that they must read all the books, all the time then I’m happy to do it. 

Just don’t put me in the stocks. 

For those that might like to know, here is a list of some of the books I am currently reading. Some of which I have been reading since January and all of which are utterly brilliant –

The Court of Broken Knives – Anna Smith Spark

In an Absent Dream – Seanan Maguire

Reave the Just and Other Tales – Stephen Donaldson

Always Look on the Bright Side of Life – Eric Idle

The Name of the Wind – Patrick Rothfuss

My 2021 goal is to finish one of these. Wish me luck.

*This is a lie. I have no reputation in the literary community. Unless you count my dad who read my book at least twice and thought it was quite good both times.