One step forward, two steps backwards

I have the worst time reading contemporary fiction. Unlike other genres (memoir, travelogue, political writing) it is really very hit or miss, or worse a bit of both all at once. Despite my love of writers like Steinbeck and Hemingway, and graphic novels and comic books (yes there is a difference, yes you will probably judge me if I try to explain it) I find it hard to take a chance on a novel. A few months ago I was checking out the two dollar section of my local bookstore and decided to take a chance on Stribes by Stephen Foster, partially because it was only two dollars and partially because it bore a review comparing Foster to Nick Hornby.

So far I have a love hate relationship with it, kind of the way I feel about jalapenos — they are delicious but eventually I just can’t take the heat and regret it. The writing is good, and so is the plot but the thing is the main character Winger has grown to annoy me. The thing is he spends inordinate amounts of time thinking about/complaining about/pondering his trousers (it is a British book) and every he does I check out. Shopping for pants can be a challenge, which is why I buy all of my pants from the same place — once you find something that fits you may as well just run with it instead of trying on more and ending up hating your body. See you got bored there, because cares that much about pants. Nobody wants to listen to me rant about how they don’t fit quite right or are made of the wrong material. Let it go. Winger becomes like that friend who for the life of them cannot edit out the boring details of a story and has to include these things. I drift and want to slap him. I want to put it down and count my two dollars as a loss. I stop caring. That is the problem with novels. That is why I don’t take these chances.

But then I know I am like this. I start a book and get bored with it and never touch it again so I bring it on the bus where I will have no choice but to keep on reading. And bit by bit, clever line by clever line I want to keep reading again. I’m in, I care. I can see the Hornby a little bit. Then Winger complains about his trousers. I am trying to ignore it. I can’t help but think that I’d rather be reading a memoir or my book about Islamists in Asia or the Justice League of America showcase collection. Who knows.