Book Review: MY YEAR OF REST AND RELAXATION by Ottessa Moshfegh

My Year of Rest and Relaxation isn’t a novel of either-or’s, but rather of messy middles. It follows a year in the life of a 20-something New York heiress who decides to drug herself into sleep for a year (with the aid of an unethical, conspiracy-addled psychiatrist) because she doesn’t like her life very much. That premise–and Ottessa Moshfegh’s almost gleeful execution of it–will horrify you. It will likely repulse you. And yet, from the first words on the first page, My Year of Rest and Relaxation is hypnotically readable, even enjoyable. My sense of anxiety and distaste never lessened, but it’s still, somehow, one of my can’t-miss novel recommendations of the year.

You can read my full review of this unforgettable novel below.


My Year of Rest and Relaxation Cover.jpg

My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh

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  • publisher: Penguin Press
  • publication date: July 10, 2018
  • length: 304 pages
  • cover price: $26.00

But coming out of that sleep was excruciating. My entire life flashed before my eyes in the worst way possible, my mind refilling itself with all my lame memories, every little thing that had brought me to where I was. I’d try to remember something else–a better version, a happy story, maybe, or just an equally lame but different life that would at least be refreshing in its digressions–but it never worked. I was always still me.

My Year of Rest and Relaxation, page 40

From June 1999 to June 2000, the narrator of My Year of Rest and Relaxation decides to sleep. She’s an heiress to a lot of money. She’s a Columbia art history graduate. She has a nice apartment in Manhattan and a cushy job at a pretentiously “edgy” art gallery. Her parents are dead. She hates her best friend. She is an utterly intolerable person and seems to know it. So she sleeps in an attempt to start over, with the help of a psychiatrist so incompetent it’s almost malicious.

You would be forgiven, after hearing the premise, for thinking that My Year of Rest and Relaxation is a magical realist fairy tale. How else could someone sleep for a year? The answer is that the narrator doesn’t, exactly: she naps and sleeps and blacks out and visits the bodega and watches movies and starts the cycle over again. If the plot is dreamy, the novel’s feel is not; in fact, it is almost oppressively real, especially as it’s grounded in the quirks and side effects of psychotropic medications.

My Year of Rest and Relaxation name-checks all sorts of pop and high culture references with the density and playfulness of a Hollywood satire. (In fact, its closest tonal match is probably Netflix’s depressing-but-beautiful Hollywood sitcom Bojack Horseman.) It skewers the art world, skewers wealth, skewers college, skewers dating, skewers shopping, and skewers psychiatry.

It even skewers the omnipresence of 9/11 in pop culture: as the novel progresses, the clock runs ever-closer to September 2001, and Ottessa Moshfegh gently toys with her readers with references to Zeno’s paradox of ever-halving time and an anti-terrorism taskforce that’s quartered in the Twin Towers. I was torn between marveling at Moshfegh’s talented satire and also feeling profoundly rubbed the wrong way by it. I think that’s the point. (To be clear, Moshfegh does not make light of 9/11–quite the opposite–but if you’re disturbed by reading some dark humor about the event, this novel likely isn’t for you.)

The emotional heft of the novel lies in the narrator’s relationship with her best friend, Reva, who visits the narrator frequently while she is “sleeping.” Reva adores her. She loathes Reva. Their push-and-pull–the (unnamed) narrator’s a WASP, Reva is an out-of-place Jew; the narrator is effortlessly thin, Reva is bulimic; Reva’s mother is dying, the narrator’s parents are already dead–allows Moshfegh to ruthlessly probe at the characters themselves and at broader archetypes about women in New York. Neither Reva nor the narrator is a good person. You don’t particularly enjoy spending time with them. Yet I felt an intense, almost mothering connection to both that kept me tethered to the novel no matter how far out it gets.

My biggest discomfort with My Year of Rest and Relaxation is a profoundly personal one. Many of the drugs that the narrator is prescribed for her “insomnia” are drugs I’ve taken myself for my very real bipolar disorder: lithium, Seroquel, trazodone, and Risperdal, for one, though the list goes on a lot further than that. As the narrator describes her weight loss, her wan-ness, her nausea, her atrophy, I became overwhelmingly angry. Psychotropic meds are horrible. If I didn’t need them, I wouldn’t take them. It’s a deep conflict I have within myself that I am an enormous advocate for mental health treatment, and also someone who loathes taking my meds.

In light of that, reading about a privileged skinny white girl taking those meds and dealing with their side effects for fun–or rather, not quite for fun, as she’s clearly struggling, but also not quite because she needs them–made me irritable. It got under my skin. It gave me bad dreams last night, not to mention all of the other disturbing things about the novel that bothered me, too.

And yet I am immensely grateful to have read My Year of Rest and Relaxation.

Ottessa Moshfegh is a writer so talented that I felt literally dazzled, like I couldn’t look at a page too long or it might burn me. There is not a word out of place here. There is not a single careless joke or plot point, although the narrator as a character is deeply careless. It’s a marvel to watch the pieces fit together.

My Year of Rest and Relaxation is as skillfully, intensely drawn as Escher art. It will befuddle you the longer you think about it, so don’t think: just read. Moshfegh’s protagonist may be busy wasting her life, but while reading about it, I only felt more intensely alive. ★★★★★

Related books you might also enjoy:


My copy of My Year of Rest and Relaxation came from my local library and I was in no way compensated for this review.

Some great songs that make me think of great books

Scene: You’re sitting on the bus, watching the city go by as you travel to some mundane destination. You put your headphones on and crank the volume up. For twenty minutes (or an hour, or two), you’re going to stare out the window and pretend you’re in some trendy indie movie. You can’t read a book–you have motion sickness (er, if you’re me, at least)–so you settle for just thinking about books instead. After all, you’re a well-read heroine or hero, and you’ve got to be ready for your take.

Just me? Oh well. Get your faraway expressions ready anyway, because I’m about to share some of my favorite songs of the moment that put me in mind of some really great books. Headphones on. Buckle in!


#1: “Phone” by Lizzo

Book Pairing: This Is Just My Face: Try Not to Stare by Gabourey Sidibe

My Review |Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

9780544786769“Phone” is a clever, silly song about heading home drunk after a night out. Even “feet all sore” in overpriced Louboutins and a lost phone can’t ruin Lizzo’s infectious self-confidence, just like a difficult home life and climb to fame can’t ruin Gabourey Sidibe’s charm and optimism in This Is Just My Face, her 2017 memoir.

If you’re thinking This Is Just My Face: Try Not to Stare is just another celebrity cash-grab memoir, you’d be wrong: Sidibe is genuinely fascinating. She grew up the daughter of a green card marriage between her tough-as-nails American mom and polygamous Senegalese dad. She went from a 20-something phone sex operator to overnight superstar when she starred in Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire, and her determination to not be a one-hit wonder is palpable throughout This is Not My Face. Luckily, there’s no chance of that. Sidibe continues to be a success on TV and on Twitter. She’s funny, sweet, down-to-earth, and completely fabulous–just like Lizzo. Let’s just hope Sidibe doesn’t lose her phone.

#2: “River” by Ibeyi

 

Book Pairing: Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi

My Review | Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

9781101947135Ibeyi is a twin-sister act whose music is ethereal and lovely, but whose lyrics pack a punch. They’re French-Afro-Cuban-Venezuelan and they’re constantly reckoning with the diasporic, colonial history that entails. (“Ibeyi” means “twins” in Yoruba.) “River” is a trance-like song about sins and redemption.

How fitting, then, that Homegoing also centers on the devastating legacies of colonialism through the lens of two sisters from modern-day Ghana. The novel follows their bloodline for 400 years through tragedies and successes, betrayals and loves alike. One sister remains in Ghana while the other is sold into slavery in the U.S. It’s rare that a novel feels as ambitious and politically relevant as this one while still remaining a damn good story, to boot.

#3: “Waiting Game” by Banks

Book Pairing: Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler

My Review |Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

Sweetbitter CoverBanks slots neatly into the “weird girls getting it on” niche, right alongside FKA Twigs, Peaches, Robyn, and many more. “Waiting Game” is an intoxicating song about an off-balance relationship. “What if the way we started made it something cursed from the start?” Banks croons, and sure, it’s a little melodramatic…but so is love.

I reviewed Sweetbitter so recently that it seems almost redundant to include it here, but “Waiting Game” captures the essence of the novel so well that I just couldn’t leave it out. Throughout Sweetbitter, Tess always seems to be waiting: for love, for life, for the next magical flavor. She knows she can’t compete with the claustrophobic duo of Simone and Jake, but she tries anyway. Headstrong, young, dramatic, and kind of foolish: it’s a typical 20-something cocktail that Banks is the perfect soundtrack for. I love it.


Have any favorite book/music pairings of your own? Would you like to see this become a regular-(ish) feature on the blog? Let me know in the comments!

Book Review: WARCROSS by Marie Lu

In Warcross, troubled teenage hacker and bounty hunter Emika Chen steals a power-up from a Warcross tournament, Warcross being the virtual reality sensation that’s taken over Marie Lu’s fictional vision of the future. Instead of getting arrested, Emika gets invited to Tokyo to help Hideo Tanaka, Warcross’s mysterious and handsome inventor, catch a dangerous hacker named Zero. What follows is an absolutely dazzling sci-fi adventure novel that’s both rollicking fun and a thoughtful exploration of the ever-increasing role tech plays in our lives. I recommend it wholeheartedly.

You can read my full review below.


Warcross Cover

Warcross by Marie Lu

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

  • publisher: G.P. Putnam’s Sons Books for Young Readers (an imprint of Penguin)
  • publication date: September 12, 2017
  • length: 368 pages
  • cover price: $18.99

Some people still say that Warcross is just a stupid game. Others say it’s a revolution. But for me and millions of others, it’s the only foolproof way to forget our troubles. I lost my bounty, my landlord is going to come screaming for his money again tomorrow morning, I’m going to drag myself to my waitressing job, and I’m going to be homeless in a couple of days, with nowhere to go…but tonight I can join in with everyone else, put on my glasses, and watch magic happen.

Warcross, page 27

The line between “young adult” and “adult” seems to blur more and more every year in publishing, and if you need hard evidence that that’s a good thing, you need look no further than Warcross.

Warcross‘s premise manages to be straightforward and thought-provoking all at once: an impoverished New York City bounty hunter, Emika Chen, commits a crime by hacking a Warcross tournament and is then plunged into a world of immense wealth and intrigue when she goes undercover in the tournament herself to uncover the identity of a dangerous hacker. It’s not hard to follow the action, which frees you up to think even more deeply about a world where our economy and our free time are completely controlled by a video game. (That world certainly doesn’t feel very far away.)

Author Marie Lu worked as a video game designer before her turn as a successful YA sci-fi author. That means that she intimately grasps the incredible rewards of gaming. This is definitely a “fist pump” novel: one where the action, both in game and out, leaves you as breathless as a superhero movie might.

That also means her critiques of tech can go way deeper than knee-jerk, dime-a-dozen “the future = bad” takes on virtual reality. In Lu’s future, Warcross is empowering as well as dangerous: underdogs from around the world become overnight superstars who can provide for themselves and their families. Lu’s characters feel effortlessly diverse to the reader, but you can still sense how much thought she’s put into it: How might international stars react similarly or differently to online superstardom? (I loved how many countries were represented, from Kenya to Germany and far beyond.) How might a gamer who uses a wheelchair in the real world adapt to an able-bodied avatar in-game? How would translation work across languages?

I could list dozens of other questions the novel raises, and it makes the whole experience far richer and more immersive than a skin-deep, U.S.-centric novel with a similar premise would be.

Warcross‘s protagonists, Emika and Hideo, are on the older side for YA: Emika is 18 and Hideo is 21. This is where the blurring between young adult and adult comes in: this novel is perfectly appropriate for even young teens (there’s no intense violence or sexuality) but was still completely engrossing for me, a 23-year-old adult. This would be a perfect book for parent or mentors to share with tech-savvy teens: it will lead to great conversations about safety online and be super-fun, to boot. There’s such a dearth of books starring 18-to-25-year-olds out there (it’s like fictional characters just…stop living their lives between 17-30) that I would have been happy to find Warcross regardless, so it’s a nice bonus that it’s so clever and well-crafted, as well.

In Warcross, Lu writes with a light touch, equally comfortable with vivid action, painful emotion, butterflies-in-the-stomach flirtation, and thoughtful observation. Her rich imagination fairly leaps off the page, and her characters are distinctly and lovingly drawn. (There’s a huge ensemble supporting cast in this novel, but I had no problem telling them apart.) She’s preternaturally gifted, and Warcross is a treat.

Perhaps this novel’s only downside is its cliffhanger ending. Thankfully, it manages to feel genuinely open rather than exploitative, but the wait for the second book, Wildcard–coming September 18th, 2018–is killing me. In the meantime, I’m tempted to flip back to page 1 and lose myself in Warcross all over again. ★★★★★


My copy of Warcross came from my local library and I was in no way compensated for this review.

Some recommendations

It’s been an exhausting couple of weeks here at Casa de Tiede! I’ve been picking up extra freelance work, my best friend got married, and my own wedding just keeps getting closer and closer. (Fact: 95% of wedding planning is staring at a calendar and crying.)

The last thing I’ve wanted to do lately is extra reading or writing, so this blog has been neglected. Luckily, I’ve been enjoying lots of other cool media instead, like:

BlacKKKlansman poster

BlacKKKlansman: an extremely intense and interesting movie about a black cop who infiltrates the Colorado Springs branch of the KKK. It’s based on a true story (!!!) and memoir by Ron Stallworth. I checked out the book from the library earlier this summer but had to return it before I could finish it. I really loved the movie adaptation, but be aware that it portrays racism and anti-Semitism in extremely frightening, realistic, and potentially triggering ways, including footage from last year’s deadly white supremacist rally in Charlottesville. It has humorous and empowering moments, plus a great soundtrack, but it’s also tense and upsetting. Your mileage may vary.

Picture of Action Park's Looping Water Slide.jpg

image description: a vintage photo of Cannonball Loop, Action Park’s loop-the-loop water slide that frequently trapped or injured guests.

Defunctland: On a lighter note, this astonishingly well-edited and in-depth YouTube series explores the histories of defunct amusement parks and rides, from terrifying regional attractions like New Jersey’s Action Park to high-profile failures at Disney and Universal Studios. Episodes range from 5-30 minutes. They’ll bring a fun mix of nostalgia and schadenfreude (at the expense of greedy park managers and CEOs) to your lunch break.

Cheapest Weddings promotional image

Cheapest WeddingsThis Australian reality show about people planning dream weddings on tight budgets is available to stream on Netflix. It’s funny, clever, and genuinely sweet. The couples never feel like the butt of the joke, even if their preferences are a little…eccentric, as with an unforgettable LARP wedding. I find a lot of reality TV to be cringey and mean, but this series is just right. (And I’m gleaning lots of DIY inspiration from it, too.)


What movies, TV, video games, and webseries have you been enjoying lately? I’d love to hear about them as I head into another stressful stretch. (I could use all the procrastination distraction help I can get.) In the meantime, happy reading, and expect me back on a regular schedule soon!

I’m obsessed with author bios, especially Shirley Jackson’s.

Today I ran across this charming piece about one of Shirley Jackson’s author bios over at Literary Hub. (Consider this another of my eternal plugs for signing up for their newsletter, which is great.)

TheRoadThroughTheWall CoverApparently the bio–to be included with Jackson’s 1948 novel The Road Through the Wall–was written by her husband, and it includes the following delightful details:

  • “She plays the guitar and sings five hundred folk songs…as well as playing the piano and the zither…”
  • “[She] is perhaps the only contemporary writer who is a practicing amateur witch…”
  • “She is passionately addicted to cats, and at the moment has six, all coal black…”
  • “She does not much like the sort of neurotic modern fiction she herself writes, the Joyce and Kafka schools…”

I’m a die-hard Shirley Jackson fan and would have loved the article no matter what, but while reading it I was especially struck by how much author bios affect my love of books no matter who the author in question is. Shirley Jackson’s witchy reputation made her career (even as it earned her plenty of angry letters from busybodies), and I’m sure that author bios have held uncanny power over many other authors’ careers, as well.

If an author has a long and quirky bio like Jackson’s, that tells you something about their fiction; Jeff VanderMeer has a particularly strange one included in the paperback edition of Annihilation, an extremely strange–and wonderful–book that definitely has whiffs of Jackson to it.

If their bio is barren of anything other than where they live and their previously published titles, that tells you something too: Rachel Kushner’s bio at the back of The Mars Room is no more than one dry sentence long, as if the publisher (and author) are asking you to view the book in a vacuum.

Bios rarely make me feel like I know the author better; rather, they add a particular flavor of mystery that, in its own strange way, can make or break my reading experience. They are an elaborate art form all their own. A long and flowery bio at the end of a book as harsh as The Mars Room would have felt tone-deaf in the extreme, but to be left with nothing at the end of Annihilation–or a Shirley Jackson novel–would be a missed opportunity.

Of course, fairly or unfairly, I put the author bios included in memoirs under even more scrutiny. I read Cheryl Strayed’s bio at the end of Wild over and over, trying to glean some extra mystery and meaning from a book that already offered plenty. I did the same to Leslie Jamison’s bio in The Recovering: Intoxication and its Aftermath, a harrowing memoir-slash-journalistic-deep-dive about alcoholism and addiction. I’m not sure what information I was trying to grasp: that she was okay? That she was writing from a place of healed authority? Either way, my expectations were unfair, but I tried to satisfy them anyway.

Such is the power of the author bio. I don’t understand them, but I can’t stop myself from poring over them.

You can read the rest of Shirley Jackson’s lengthy and mischievous bio, along with some other charming biographical details about her work, over at Literary Hub.

Book Review: INVITATION TO A BONFIRE by Adrienne Celt

Invitation to a Bonfire is a slow-burning reimagining of Vladimir Nabokov’s marriage, told mostly through the eyes of the fictional Zoya, a boarding school employee who falls in love first with “Lev Orlov’s” (the Nabokov insert’s) books and then with the man himself. Over the course of the 1930s, she finds herself in a vicious–and murderous–love triangle with him and his wife. It’s an extraordinary premise that unfortunately feels sordid in execution. The novel careens from a slow first half, beginning in Zoya’s childhood in the Soviet Union and inching through her time as a scholarship student and greenhouse employee, to a breakneck (and murderous) second half that goes off not so much with a blaze as an incomprehensible flash-bang that left me frustrated and dazed. The novel is full of keen observations (especially about life as a Soviet immigrant to America) and razor-sharp turns of phrase, but as a story, I found it extraordinarily unsatisfying.

You can read my full review below.


Invitation to a Bonfire Cover

Invitation to a Bonfire by Adrienne Celt

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

  • publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
  • publication date: June 5, 2018
  • length: 256 pages
  • cover price: $26.00

No one minded theft or inconsistency, even vitriol, so long as it meant you were making a statement. This was my first great lesson in being American, and I took it to heart.

Invitation to a Bonfire

I’m struck by how much I find my gut creeping into my feelings about books, no matter how hard I try to get my reviewing down to a science. I like this because X, I don’t like this because Y, I’ll tell myself smugly when I’m not reading. The problem is that as soon as I start reading, those lofty theories fly out the window. It’s all about me and the book, and sometimes we hit it off, and sometimes we don’t.

I did not hit it off with Invitation to a Bonfire, and while I have a few inklings as to why, the intensity of my dislike surprises me.

Invitation to a Bonfire follows a young Soviet American woman named Zoya who falls in love with Soviet author Leo Orlov, a stand-in for Vladimir Nabokov. Zoya also falls into a standoff with his calculating wife, Vera, based on Nabokov’s actual wife, Véra. It’s framed as a collection of found papers including journals and love letters, a device that I think works not at all, and it’s about as slow of a slow burn as you’re likely to find in literary fiction.

I enjoyed this book most when Adrienne Celt was writing about Zoya’s experience as the daughter of a Red revolutionary-turned-traitor. The Soviet Union holds such a cartoonishly evil and exaggerated place in American culture that the subtlety Celt brought to its politics was refreshing and welcome. The problem is that as soon as Celt turns to the setting of an exclusive boarding school in 1930s America, where Zoya is sent as a scholarship student and where she works after graduation, the tension pops like a balloon and never comes back.

I hammer on this point to the degree that family and friends roll their eyes when they hear me say it, but historical fiction is never really about the past–it’s about the present, and over and over I found myself frustrated with how little Invitation to a Bonfire seems to be about the past or the present. The supposed “historical” documents Celt uses (including oral histories) feel not at all like something written in the 1930s. The boarding school is about as clichéd and cardboard a boarding school setting as it gets; it could have been set in the ’80s or ’90s instead and I wouldn’t have noticed. There’s so little genuine American historical detail–though the Soviet stuff is well done–that it left me unmoored and uncaring about anything that happened.

The novel seems uncertain if it’s expecting you to know about Vladimir Nabokov’s marriage or not. I’ve never read Lolita or anything else of his work, so I went into this novel pretty cold except for a brief scan of his Wikipedia page. As far as I can tell, Celt has based the novel very loosely on actually events, dropping in wink-wink-nudge-nudge Easter eggs: Felice is the novel’s version of Lolita; in Orlov’s love letters, he refers to names as having colors, and Nabokov himself was a renowned synesthete. The problem is that they felt to me like the literary version of after-credits scenes in Marvel movies: cool bonuses, but utterly unnecessary. In a novel that’s already agonizingly slow, that Celt chooses to devote so much energy to establishing her almost-Nabokov is frustrating.

Celt also spends a lot of time establishing Vera’s background as upper-crust and Zoya’s as a half-step above peasantry; class is a crux of the novel even after Zoya comes to America, a poor student at an overwhelmingly rich school. But in real life, Véra was Russian Jewish and faced overwhelming anti-Semitism that very much shaped her life and Nabokov’s. It’s not so much that I think Celt has an obligation to include every real-world detail–as I said, Invitation to a Bonfire is an extremely loose adaptation–as that I think it’s odd she includes so much peripheral detail about Nabokov and so little about Véra. The imagination of the novel feels lumpy, coming in clumps when I don’t want it there, yet feeling oddly barren when it would be most useful.

I could have forgiven most if not all of that if the core murder mystery were more effective, but it’s not. About halfway through, the novel goes from extremely predictable to off-the-walls nuts. I could see Celt’s motions behind the curtain so clearly that it made me roll my eyes. Zoya and Lev’s love story is as flimsy as tissue paper; there are plot holes so big you could drive a tank through them. I had to read over the final couple of pages several times just to understand what I was reading because it was such a polar flip from what the first half seemed to be leading up to.

I don’t like being made to feel stupid while reading a novel, and Invitation to a Bonfire made me feel somehow simultaneously stupid and overly smart. There’s so much here that I wanted to love: a fascinating history, a fiery love story, crimes of passion. Celt’s prose is perfectly serviceable and sometimes even stunningly beautiful. The DNA is all there. So why didn’t it come together for me?

I think I can place the fatal flaw in the novel, but it might really be in me as a reader, and I hate that. I hate writing negative reviews because they remind me of the subjectivity and mundanity of my own opinions more than anything else, though they’re not fundamentally different than my positive ones: expressions of how a particular book struck me at a particular time, expressions that are affected by a smorgasbord of things that are not actually the book or the author’s fault.

No matter the root cause, for me, Invitation to a Bonfire fizzles instead of blazes. What a shame. ★★☆☆☆


My copy of Invitation to a Bonfire came from my local library and I was in no way compensated for this review.

How do you combat reading slumps?

person covering woman with blanket
Photo by Min An on Pexels.com

You might have noticed that my blogging and reading have slowed down considerably of late–or you might not have. (I am my own harshest critic, after all, and just a tad self-centered about these things.) Either way, I’m undeniably in a reading slump right now and it’s hard not to get so irritated at myself that it makes the slump worse.

The fact that I run a book blog is just the cherry on top: I hate going too long without writing a post or two, and it’s hard to do that when I don’t have any fresh reading to inspire me.

I’ve noticed that I experience a couple of different types of reading slumps. In one, I’m busy or ill and simply don’t have the brainpower to read. Netflix and video games are my “comfort food” relaxation activities, even if I find reading to be more rewarding in the long run. When I’m too tired to read, I just…stop reading, tuning out in front of a screen instead, which causes a slump.

The other type of slump happens when I’m reading a bad and/or difficult (read: dense nonfiction) book. I’m gradually curing myself of the sunk cost fallacy–I’ve become much more willing to bail on a book if I’m not enjoying it–but again, book blogging means that I have to tolerate bad books a bit more than I would otherwise. I rarely bail on a book once I’m over halfway through, because then I’ve put in a bunch of time and won’t even get a review out of it.

Right now I’m in a dreaded double-slump: I’m exhausted and I’m reading something I’m not loving. Wedding planning is fun, but it’s a huge mental drain. Ditto my job right now: what no one tells you about going into freelance writing is that it’s also a lot of reading, for research and communication with clients and such. I’m also finding my current read to be shockingly bad (for the curious, it’s Invitation to a Bonfire by Adrienne Celt) and it’s making reading a total chore while I rush to finish it before its library due date.

I know that this slump will pass in time because the wedding will be over soon (gosh! so soon! I have so much to do!!!), work will cool down eventually, and Invitation to a Bonfire will soon be a distant memory…but it’s so hard to not throw a mini reading tantrum. I want to be back to my regular avid-reading self right now, dammit!

Veruca Salt Tantrum Gif.gif

image description: a GIF of Veruca Salt’s epic tantrum from the original Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory movie.

So, I thought I’d throw it out to my readers: How do you deal with reading slumps? I’d love to hear about it, and if you have any surefire cures, I think leaving them in the comments should count as your good deed for the day. Don’t you?