Time, as the saying goes, is of the essence.
We are busy people. We have jobs -- some of us. We have kids, commitments, clubs, activities. We need to cook dinner, exercise off the fat, and indulge in various cultural activities that stop our brains turning to soup.
So what we do not need is to waste our time doing stuff that isn't necessary.
Like finishing books that aren't... doing it for us.
You've probably heard of Fifty Shades of Grey. Its a steamy romance that has struck a chord, somewhat bafflingly, with every second person on the planet. Stacks of them are now available at your local Waterstones. Amazon ship them out by the bucket. The author who wrote them is now richer than Midas (fact).
Well, I got to chapter seven. I think. Crap! I can't remember. I was in a complete... you know. But Crap! I can remember all those Craps!
I've no problem if people want to read about extreme forms of sexual behaviour. And yes, I really do think butt plugs are a bit extreme (call me old fashioned). But just because everyone else is reading it doesn't mean I need to spend time on a novel that is so patently awful -- wooden characters, bad construction, dreary prose -- when there are so many other well written works to, er, get off on.
There are those who disagree. My own sister has read all three of the Greys. She hated them from start to finish (she says). Considers them a waste of time (she says). But wanted to read them so when she criticises them she can do so honestly without anyone coming back saying "ah yes but you never read to the end".
Well, bollocks to that. Life is too short.
If a book really isn't doing it for me... I toss it off. Yes, sisters, it gets dumped quicker than a billionaire with scabies. I see no point in staying in the red room of pain any longer than I have to. Hell, no one is buying me designer clothes and Apple Mac computers.