A book arrived. I fully expected to put it aside as an unsolicited adult novel, but did look at it first.
Neither the author’s name nor the title was meaningful, but somewhere, deep down in the murky depths of the Bookwitch mind, something stirred. I recognised this. But how, or why?
Ever so slowly, a memory half emerged. This was the second book in a YA series, and I knew I read [some of] the first one. It ‘all’ came back to me. Sort of.
Looking up the author, I found the title of book number one, then searched on Bookwitch to see what – if – I had written. Not a thing. I vaguely recalled giving a book up after reading rather a lot of it. Maybe half or two thirds. But still gave up because I could see no point in continuing. And it seemed I hadn’t even blogged briefly – and anonymously – about it, which I often do. If only to get something out of the time spent reading.
At the same time I was surprised I had forgotten so much, so easily. It’s more recent, I suppose. Because I still remember books from over ten years ago; books I hated but had to read anyway. Perhaps a strong dislike helps the grey cells hanging on to older facts.
The funny thing is, this recent arrival looked quite promising. But there must have been a reason for stopping last time.