When I DNF:
Watch the signs.
By Thio Isobel Moss
Since entering my review phase, I’ve—fortunately—had no DNFs. Knock on wood. I’ve been intentional about my ARC requests and try not to keep more than three or four books on my shelf at any given time. Still, like most avid readers, I have on occasion chosen not to finish a book. It’s slightly traumatic every time.
I am, by nature, a people-pleaser. I hate confrontation and will endure considerable discomfort to avoid it. Even so, I eventually have to face the inevitable: closing a cover or backing out of an eBook. It shouldn’t take much effort, but it does. I sometimes feel like I’m letting another indie author down, or that by not finishing, I’ve wasted hours of my life.
A few years ago, I reached a breaking point. I don’t remember which book it was, but I was about 80% through and felt trapped—depressed and resentful of every character in the thing. I was seriously not okay. I gave myself permission to stop reading. It was a small but important victory, and I felt immediate relief for standing up for myself to myself. Since then, I’ve developed a habit of checking in while I read, scanning to see if I’m actually okay with what I’m consuming.
Often, it’s not the book at all. It’s family stress, work, the news, something I ate—or didn’t eat. But the feeling clings, tainting my memory of the book, and I often never return to it.
Sometimes, though, it is the book. Recently, I picked up a new title from an author I’d read and enjoyed before — one that was blowing up in a big way. Excited, I dove in and stopped three pages later. The text was indecipherable to me. There were sentences. They had meaning attached to them. But from one to the next, that meaning failed to carry over. Important information was missing. It was surreal. I actually read passages from other books just to make sure I wasn’t having some sort of health crisis.
Every now and then, I realize about 20% in that I simply don’t care about anyone in the story or what happens to them. I’m fairly tolerant — though that tolerance is relative, at least compared to other members of my family — of typos, missing words, and the like. Such errors rarely cause me to close a book. Although “than” where it should be “then” does grate.
These are the easy cases. I’ve become sufficiently hardened — and respectful of my own time — to DNF without remorse.
But…there are other times.
On rare occasions, I come across a book that is well, even beautifully, written. The plot is strong, the characters intriguing, the pacing precise, the worldbuilding evocative — and yet, I’m just not clicking. It’s probably still me, not the book, but what can you do?
Reading is a safe filter for examining ourselves and others. It’s a powerful tool, capable of altering our thoughts, mood, and spirit for a moment or a lifetime. I’ve revisited books I once cast aside and found in them a welcome reprieve. I’ve also returned to familiar favorites only to find a stranger. We are dynamic beings.
Having now been on both sides of the review coin, I find the experience fascinating. I’ve received at least one review that was clearly a DNF, though the reviewer didn’t say so outright — for which I’m grateful. My book wasn’t a good fit for them, and they said so plainly, but kindly.
Perhaps I should write a post about when low reviews are actually helpful?
DNFs are inevitable. “Read responsibly” may have started as a bit of wit, but it’s sound advice. Tastes are specific, and they change over time. Words can scar or heal. I’m careful about what I carry into a book, and even more careful about what I carry out.
My best advice is simple: choose your books with care. You know yourself best. If you’re not clicking with a book, or it’s making you feel bad, it’s okay to stop. Books should move us and reveal truths, even disturb our inner peace — but not to our detriment.
