My highly personal metaphor

In Laurie's world, Books = Men.

I love books. I love men.

I can find something good, valuable or fun in even the silliest, lowest-brow volume of chick lit. I can find something attractive and endearing about most men, even the ones I know I should dismiss as time wasters.

There's an instant chemistry between me and a book; within the first few pages it either grabs me, or it doesn't. There are men I "click" with right away, and men I simply don't.

Once I choose a book, I want to like it, and can be very stubborn about giving up on it. A recent example of this is End of the Dream by Ann Rule. I usually like Ann's books and this one got good reviews. But this one introduces too many characters too quickly (who is he again? why do I care?) and the plot, while a true story, is just too convoluted for this old brain. I tried to like it, but it took me two weeks to go 50 pages and finally I just gave up. It's now sitting on my dining room table, taunting me.

Unfortunately this stubborn streak is more virulent when it comes to men. I wish I could say that I have had the self awareness to give up on a relationship after just two weeks. After all, I spent my twenties on Stevie!