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Having finished a book with a touching character, I have spent the past two evenings scanning Amazon book lists, Apple iBooks, Good Reads, and other reading lists to find my next book to read. I feel so unable to commit to another character or experience a new adventure. When pondering this situation with my husband, he suggested that I am "between the bookends". This seems to capture my emotions. Do any other readers find themselves in this situation and what term to you use to describe the period of time spent searching for a book to read? As an aside, this span of time seems to get longer in relation to the enjoyment of the previous book.
Greetings southernbygrace, and welcome to the forum. I've heard the phrase "between the bookends" many times, usually as a metaphor for "being on hold" in any endeavor. A Google search brings up 60k+ hits, many of which are the names of book clubs or blogs.
Personally, I rarely find myself in the position of having to "commit" to my next choice ... at least when it comes to actual reading. I'm almost always back-logged on that. When I do run outa material, I just accept the pause until the next magazine or book arrives. And when it does, I eagerly embrace the new characters/author/experience. No angst about that for me.
So just pick your next book and dive into it. If it's well written, the characters will do the "commitment" work for you.
I do have experiences of books lingering with the effect of slowing interests to restart, which is just fine- a good book deserves a proper hiatus . Some books even compel me to slow down mid-streaming.
One other great way to read though, is going through several books all at once. (But which has nothing to do with speed reading). When you do that, even books of diversed genres (or especially they) will interplay and make you think more about each one.
I had a weird experience with a beautiful novel about repressed memories. Unlucky for it making some good impression on me though, I was also simultaneously reading Elie Wiesel's personal account of the Holocaust. The beautiful novel was blown away just on account of what memories can mean. It was still a good novel, but Wiesel's book made me suddenly more critical of its novelistic artifices.
Martha Barnette
Grant Barrett
Grant Barrett
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