Some of you are thinking I’ve finally realized that February’s twenty-eight days have got me and my pitiful blog beat—so I’m bailing out.

Oh so no!

What I’m bailing out on is a book I’m reading.  Am I the only one who has trouble doing this?

I’ve made appointments with myself.  I’ve laid down on my own couch and asked myself penetrating questions.  I’ve even paid myself for the counsel and booked another appointment.  But no answers.

Why do I feel compelled to finish a book?  It might be a hope-the-best-part-is-still-coming attitude.  Or it could be a simpler desire to not quit—a thought that somehow the quest of finishing will be worth itself.  Or it may be simple stubbornness that says, “This book isn’t going to get the best of me.”

Well, I’m getting off this train.

I’m 2/3 into a memoir.  You could even label it a “spiritual” memoir, if you’re into labeling.  It’s not a bad book.  I’ve read much less fruitful pieces.  But I know the hours I already sunk into its pages, and I know the more that finishing will require, AND I know that my available hours are only decreasing.

So I’m saying, “Enough!”

“Of making many books there is no end”… that’s from Solomon, 3000-ish years ago.  He didn’t know the half if it!  So I’m upping the power of my screening process.  If I AM what I read (or something like that), then I just want to maximize my page consumption.

And current memoir… you are out.

To the authors out there, you’ve got about thirty pages to get me.  Being flooded in writing, I’ll gauge your tone, character, and substance.  If it’s what I need, I’m in.  If not, there’s plenty of shelves where you can hang out with friends.