Gave Up on Giving Up Until ...

How often do you give up on a book you've started? 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, my response to that question - asked of me recently by a new friend - is different today than it would have been if asked of me at earlier points in my reading life. How about you? Can you identify any discreet phases you've moved through as a reader when you were either more or less inclined to give up on books you'd started?    

As a young adult, I routinely gave up on many books I'd started. But until I carefully considered how to answer my friend's question, I didn't fully realize how my impatience played a large part in that. Then, as I dug deeper, it became clear that much of my impatience was closely tied to immaturity as a reader and insecurity as a thinker. Well into my thirties, any book that regularly challenged me via references I didn't immediately comprehend was impatiently abandoned. Bottom line: If an author knew a lot of things I didn't, I gave up. Aside from insecurity, what could explain this? 

Although not certain when this earlier-in-life reflex began to shift, I do recall a few things that I now equate with my growth as a reader and thinker. The first was a deepening respect for the views of John Leonard, a prominent NY Times book critic. Also, I started trusting the opinions of people who read more widely than me, like my sister. This led me to work harder at finishing things that I would have jettisoned a few years earlier. I can even remember the first book I returned to after giving up on it at least twice before - One Hundred Years of Solitude. Soon after finishing that and recognizing some of my other earlier surrenders were likely a mistake, I decided to give up on giving up if either a respected critic or a trusted reader told me a book was worth some effort. I've never regretted that decision and use the same reasoning to this day. But the full answer to my friend's question now has a third act caveat.

Early in 2010, I stopped working full time, began a book journal, joined my first-ever book club. A year later I started this blog, a decision accompanied by a commitment to become the best writer I could be in my remaining years. How to do that? Devote all my precious reading hours to the best possible prose. As a consequence, when I give up on a book I've started these days - which I now routinely do, again - it's no longer related to impatience, or its malignant first cousins, immaturity or insecurity. Clunky sentences, cliched metaphors, tired dialogue? Give up. Excessive exposition, unidimensional characters, cliff-hanging chapter endings? Move on. Verbs that don't caress, adjectives that add no value, adverbs run amok? Next. These days, even when a book comes my way via a respected critic or trusted reader, if the writing has nothing to teach me, I'm done. 

How often do you give up on a book you've started?  

Forgive Me, In Advance

About a week from now I'll take my once-a-year look at the analytics that Google collects for bloggers. At this point - almost fifteen years in - I'm able to manage my expectations far better than in the early years.

But no matter what those numbers say, my blog gave me more joy in 2025 than in any previous year for a few reasons.

* The number of offline conversations connected to something I mused about here was satisfying. This included an instance when a new friend and sometimes reader used one of my posts as a prompt at a writing workshop and another instance when a few of my Mt. Rushmore entries and goyim journeys into Yiddish ignited a conversation with several people during an extended hike. 

* Though the number of comments received in 2025 were about the same as in years past, the insights were uniformly richer. In addition, several new readers became frequent commenters - online and off - and the number of anonymous comments published here increased enough to be noticeable. Though I recognized some of those "anonymous" folks, there were just as many I couldn't identify. That's kind of fun because it allows me to harmlessly fantasize that someone I don't know stumbled across my blog somehow. Even better - and just as harmless - maybe that new reader will hang in there for a while?

* My joy was most enhanced by the unwavering support of people who have been by my virtual side now for years. I can never thank any of you enough. During a recent phone conversation, I was overcome with gratitude when one stalwart supporter said how much he appreciated me "... putting yourself out there all the time ..."  I hope all of you know how your support sustains and energizes me.

In the meanwhile, wish me luck with those analytics. If it sounds at all like I'm licking my wounds early in 2026, forgive me.      

Reading Re-Cap: 2025

Given my previous two posts centered on music and film, featuring some of my reading highlights from 2025 seems right for today's reflection. Except for people I love, nothing in my life has sustained me as predictably as literature, music, and film. Which of your passions works that way for you?

As in years past, use my headings or invent your own when sharing with me and others some books you finished this past year that you're reasonably sure will remain with you. 

Novel most likely to be recommended to casual readers: Kitchens of the Great Midwest (2015) - Ryan Stradal. To be redundantly clear: My use of the word casual is not meant to diminish any book or author. Since this once-a-year series began in 2018, every novel recommended under this heading has been exceedingly well-crafted. And though each can be enjoyed simply for the surface story being told i.e., read casually, all of them also reveal the way talented authors always have more on their minds than hooking a reader via a compelling surface. These books are page-turning literature. 

Novel most likely to be recommended to discerning readers: Trust (2022) - Hernan Diaz. Casual vs. discerning? Means a reader may have to work a little harder to extract the essence and the surface is not always quite as clear. A musical parallel, perhaps? I'd suggest it's easier extracting the essence of If I Fell than it is doing the same with So What. In the end, does that make that exquisite Beatles song any less than the Miles Davis opus? Of course not. Same goes for the two books under these first two headings.   

Novel and non-fiction that most deepened my experience of living:  Heart the Lover (2025) - Lily King and The Trail of Tears (1975) - Gail Jahoda.

Most worthwhile re-read: The Garden of Last Days (2008) - Andre Dubus III.

Most intriguing: The Glutton (2023) - A.K. Blakemore. Note carefully here the word intriguing. This slice of little-known history from the waning years of 18th century France is clearly not for everyone. But I was riveted and plan on returning to the author.   

Most personally useful: Being Mortal (2014) - Atul Gawande.

Looking forward to hearing which books helped make 2025 a memorable reading year for you. 

Words for the Ages: Line Thirty-Eight

"I've learned how to cry and I'm better for that."

One of my habits when teaching music courses is to ask participants to uncover terse lyrical phrases that strike them as worthy of remembering. While recently delivering an updated version of my course called Tunesmiths, I was caught totally off guard by the line above from a 2007 Sara Bareilles tune entitled Many the Miles. Given there were no songs by Bareilles included in my original iteration of Tunesmiths and, I'd never before closely examined the lyric to Many the Miles, imagine my delight discovering that gem at the exact time I was asking participants to identify words for the ages from any song featured in my class. What a blast!    

Bareilles's succinct phrase from her first-rate song meshes perfectly with criteria established when I initiated this blog series over eight years ago: 1.) It's brief enough to be easily recalled; 2.) It stands alone i.e., needs no rhymes before or after to complete the thought; 3.) It contains a truth difficult to refute. Except for the hard-hearted, who would argue that being able to cry when feeling things deeply makes us more human?

I'm always curious to hear which lyrical phrases you've unearthed fitting the criteria above. Maybe another Sara Bareilles lyric? Maybe something by a favorite lyricist of yours, musical genre aside? One of the clear benefits I've derived since launching this series has been the amount of focused attention I now routinely give to lyrics. Of course, that has helped me with my own lyrics. Further, and more importantly, my listening skills in general have improved. How cool is that? Try it. Then come back and tell me what you notice.   

#76: The Mt. Rushmore Series (Re-Purposed #16)

Of the seventy-five Mt. Rushmores I've erected since initiating my most enduring series in July 2012, the one I've most often been tempted to demolish and re-construct enshrined four perfect one-liners from a movie. I hope you'll join in today by nominating up to four easy-to-remember lines of movie dialogue that you think measure up to those below. (To avoid duplicating any of my flawless choices, be sure to also check out the October 2013 originals on Mt. Rushmore #16.) My repurposed monument orders the four lines via release date of the film. Order yours however you wish.    

1.) "I'll alert the media." From the day I heard Sir John Gielgud deadpan this line to Dudley Moore in Arthur (1981), I've used this one-liner dozens of times. Has there ever been a more perfectly sarcastic response to a banality? 

2.) "Well, that would certainly explain the hostility." My Cousin Vinny (1992) has several Rushmore-worthy lines. But judge Fred Gwynne's offhand remark upon learning that Marisa Tomei is the fiancée of hapless attorney Joe Pesci is an unimprovable line from this top-notch comedy. 

3.) "Show me the money!"  The films of director/screenwriter Cameron Crowe are stuffed with goodies like this. The mercenary challenge hurled at Tom Cruise/Jerry Maguire (1996) by Cuba Gooding Jr. is a moment of pure movie magic.

4.) "I love you but you don't know what the hell you're talking about." From arguably the least well-known film in this group - Moonrise Kingdom (2012) - comes this unforgettable gem. How many times in your life have you had this exact thought even if you never said it aloud to someone you loved?

Reflections From The Bell Curve: #16: The Mt. Rushmore Series

Your turn.

Good Company

Over our nearly forty-eight-year history, my wife and I have had some of our worst and our best moments while in an automobile. The worst moments have often been connected to my driving habits. The best moments have frequently occurred on one of the many extended road trips we've taken. 

This morning, while she slept in the passenger's seat on our return from central Pennsylvania, I began reflecting on earlier road trips. Some things have changed since 1978 - the cars, the ways we listen to music, the games we play to pass the time. Much has stayed the same - the ease of conversation and comfort with silence, our planning for the future, lots of laughter.  

I've always enjoyed long-distance driving. For almost a half-century now, almost all of my road trips have had an added benefit - the company of someone I endlessly enjoy. 

  

A Slice of Charles

Sometimes, the richness of my life astounds me. Such was the case this past Tuesday evening.

The day was pleasant if fairly routine. But early that evening, my wife skillfully moderated a spirited discussion of A Christmas Carol for the book club I began in 2017. Few things energize me as much as spending time with readers. If the day had ended with the discussion, I would have been more than satisfied.

But then several of us decided to go out for pizza. How dull would life be without pizza? Looking at the disparate group, the richness mentioned above came into focus. Aside from my wife, there was a musician friend and his wife; she is a frequent travelling companion of ours. Also with us was the moderator of the first book club I ever joined - fifteen years ago - and a couple I met via my music classes who have since become good friends. We've already travelled several times with the moderator - did I mention she is a reading soulmate? - and early next year the couple will be joining us on a Road Scholar trip to Spain.

Rounding out the group were two of the newer members of my club, both of whom we met via a hiking group. Come on! A rewarding book discussion, delicious pizza, stimulating conversation with eight people I enjoy all in the span of a few hours. Does it get better than this? 

Actually, it does. Before the meeting, a new member of the club - met her via a writer's group she runs - spent time with us at our home. Although we briefly touched on the Dickens novella in our pre-meeting conversation, little did I suspect she would soon after help guide her team of four to victory in the trivia contest my wife designed for the book discussion. Definitely helped that she'd finished the book just hours before the meeting. And though she didn't join us for pizza, between slices, one of the hikers - a member of her team - mentioned her crucial role in their victory. Nice, right?        

The Way Things Go

"December 7, 1941, a date that will live in infamy..."

My dad was twenty-three years old on this fateful day eighty-four years ago. And his life - like many young men his age at the time - was immediately altered. I don't recall ever having a conversation with him about getting drafted. What would be on your mind if you were newly drafted at twenty-three as the country was entering a World War? 

I've never faced a situation even remotely as frightening as this. If I try to imagine how I'd react by first recalling myself at twenty-three, it's difficult not to laugh. I was immature and self-absorbed. Serving my country was not a priority; I would have done almost anything to avoid getting drafted. Hero material? Not then, not now.

My dad was too unassuming to ever have thought himself a hero. If he thought about his situation at all after getting drafted, I can imagine him saying something like "It's just the way things go."

Chronicling Overkill

Chronicling overkill: A syndrome characterized by a compulsion to chronicle mundane details from one's life. Said chronicling includes - but is not limited to - books finished, movies viewed, music listened to, places visited. 

The entries in my book journals routinely begin with a sentence describing either how I learned of or why I chose to read the book in question. Straightforward enough, right? If you keep a book journal, do you include something like this to help you recall how you came to read something? Reasonably normal behavior, wouldn't you agree?  

Several weeks back, that straightforward opening to an entry for Elizabeth Strout's Tell Me Everything (2024) catapulted me into chronicling overkill. I quickly filled a full page in my book journal before realizing how carried away I'd gotten. Lest you recommend medication, I'll spare you further details about the cavernous rabbit hole I descended into that morning. One saving grace: I was able to climb out after inventing a syndrome which helped me rationalize my aberrant behavior.

Unfortunately, long before I named it, chronicling overkill had me in its grip. And though I expect no one to join me in the bell curve confession booth - at least not publicly - it's always nice to know at least a few other people share my struggle. Is there perhaps a need for a support group? 

Historians Gone Awry, anyone? 

 

Guest Post: Musings on Language

For just the second time since my blog's inception, I'm pleased to welcome a guest contributor. The post below - written by good friend, fellow musician, and published author Alan Struthers - fits critical bell curve criteria, i.e., it's brief and borders on the nerdy. But it also stands apart from my day-to-day musings with its semi-scholarly whiff. Language geeks: Please comment on this post; helps Alan and me to know we're not alone in our nerdiness. Thanks.

Just for fun, I've been researching the Great Vowel Shift, which occurred from the mid-fifteenth to the late sixteenth century, roughly from Chaucer to Shakespeare. OK, maybe that doesn't sound like fun to you, but it is a huge mystery with few theories to explain it. 

For some reason, all the English vowels changed during that period, "shifting" to new positions in the mouth. For example, the sound of "i" moved from "eee" to "aye", that is, moving from the back of the mouth to the front. (Say these sounds and feel what happens in your mouth.) All the vowels moved in the mouth and took on new pronunciations. In addition to this "shift", vowels generally became diphthongs, where the mouth moves while sounding the vowel. This didn't happen in any other language, nearby or remote - not Spanish, Portuguese, French, Italian, German, Swedish, etc.  

This all made the earlier English dialect (or dialects) virtually incomprehensible to speakers of the new one in the short period of 150 years or less. Put this into a contemporary time frame and imagine the Gettysburg address - delivered in 1863 - being gibberish to today's listeners.

So why did the shift happen in England, and why then?  In Inventing English (2007), scholar Seth Lerer posits the following: During the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the upper classes of England shifted from French to English as their chosen “prestige” language.  The sounds of English may have changed then as part of a larger process of replacing a lost prestige language with a prestige dialect – a dialect not keyed to region but to social class, education, or wealth.  

Will our great grandchildren see a different seismic shift in English grammar or pronunciation? Perhaps today's common grammatical usage or new forms of class or wealth will foment great linguistic changes in the future. Or maybe not.