The Hubby got back yesterday and boy are Rocky and I happy to have him home! It’s just tough to get another body (besides the dog) back in bed with you after two weeks of “sleeping single in a double bed” (actually our bed is a queen but the the Barbara Mandrell song says double).
Because of the preparation for his return and then the initial return, I haven’t picked up “Nineteen Minutes” since Monday morning. I don’t know why I have trouble getting back into the book when I’ve been away from it for a little while but I am. Maybe it’s bringing back memories of sadder times for me (living in Denver when the shootings at Columbine occurred) or something but my eye keeps wandering to the other books on my shelves throughout the day. I’ll give it one more go and if the same thing happens after putting it down again, then I will have to revisit it at another time.
Does this happen to you? Do personal reasons ever prevent you from being able to enjoy a work of fiction? Which book did you experience this with most recently? I know I’m probably not the only one who this has happened to but I still feel a little guilty for leaving a book unfinished. I have found myself doing this more than usual over the last few months.