The story of an unsuccessful binge

Let me walk you through three days of binge-reading.

It starts off well. I've got a new book and a lot of enthusiasm. I've heard good things, and I know from previous experience that I like the author. I'm not worried about the upcoming seven hours of reading; reading is what I do. I grab my tablet and get started.

The story is fantastical and complex. I enjoy it, but it doesn’t get any easier to follow as the story goes on. It's no Game of Thrones, but it's not exactly Green Eggs and Ham, either.

I'm still reading at the speed of light because that's how I read, so I just grow more and more frustrated.

The first two days, which entail fourteen hours of reading, pass like this. I enjoy the sessions with a group more than reading alone, but either way the story tires me. But I can tell it's a good story, so things are going okay.

On the second day, after I devote the entire day to reading, I really miss the motions of everyday life.

Then the third day comes. I'm tired, and reading with the group takes a lot of effort.

 

Later, as I’m reading, I'm completely distractible. We're supposed to read in chunks of a few hours, but I'm reading more in bits. I just can't accept the idea of reading taking over my life for yet another day.

In the end, I don't even finish the book. I've lost all my momentum. Under different circumstances, I would have loved the book.

It's possible I psyched myself out somehow while analyzing my reactions for research and talking to other people about it. It's possible seven hours each over three days is just too much time to be forced to read a book. It’s possible a book that was easier to digest would have led to more success, or that a physical copy would have been easier for me to keep reading.

No matter what the problem was, those three days of bingeing won the battle and brought a self-identified reader to her knees.