Confessions of a Book Abandoner
Madelyn Edwards
A certain shame comes from an admission of not finishing a book. For some reason, it has been normalized that leaving a story unfinished feels like breaking an unspoken promise with the author. For others, it can feel like failing an assignment that the literary world has imposed on them. I would argue we have all been there: halfway through a novel that was acclaimed by critics, recommended by professors, praised by peers, only to feel a creeping dread. The feeling that you would rather do anything than keep turning the pages.
The guilt comes naturally. There is a tendency to value perseverance with reading, often seen as a virtuous act. Abandoning a book alludes to disrespect, ignorance, and even sheer laziness. But here is my confession: I abandon books all the time. And I have come to believe that putting a book down is not only allowed, but understandable and even necessary.
The external pressures often come from the need to uphold the idea of “cultural capital” understood as a journey toward empowerment through reading. Cultural capital heightens a reader’s self-doubt about reaching their literary potential, while respect for the canon reinforces the expectation of possessing historical literary knowledge. There is discourse around books that “everyone should read” as a rite of passage. If you cannot force yourself through Moby Dick or The Great Gatsby, you begin to worry that you have missed something essential, that the race for sophistication will never be in your favor if you do not make it to the last page. We are taught that literary classics are sacred, so putting down one of these texts could almost be sacrilegious, disrespecting centuries of critical praise.
My argument is: what if abandoning a book is actually an act of respect? When I put down a novel, I am not saying that it is bad but rather that it is not for me—at least not now. Writers and readers exist in a creative ecosystem where not every story is meant for each person. By stepping away, I am showing my respect to the author and their message, allowing them the space to find the readers who will connect with their work, and giving myself the freedom to seek out voices that speak directly to me. Every hour spent slogging through a book you resent is an hour not spent falling in love with another. By pruning our reading lists of halfhearted reads, we can leave space for books that surprise us, challenge us, or even change us.
If you looked at my shelves, you would find plenty of novels bookmarked halfway through, gathering dust. Some were too slow, others did not catch my attention, and the rest left me admiring the craft but unmoved by the story. A few were highly recommended by people I trust and respect, which made me second-guess myself. Am I missing something? Am I gaslighting myself into pretending I enjoy this?
But over time, I realized that unfinished books can be teachers too. They force me to reflect on my tastes. Instead of shame, I have started abandoning with curiosity. What is not working? Was it the pacing, the prose, the characters? Or was it when I tried to pick it up? The answers would help me guide my next choice. Maybe I would need a piece with leaner, sharper prose. If a book wore me down, maybe I would look for something more hopeful. Abandonment becomes less about failure and more about fine-tuning my reading list.
Next time you put a book aside, ask yourself not, “Why could I not finish this?” but “What does my choice reveal about what I am seeking in literature right now?” This change shifts the focus away from guilt and toward discovery. Being a reader is not about completing every book put before us, but cultivating a relationship with words, characters, and ideas. Sometimes that relationship deepens not upon finishing the novel, but by knowing when to walk away.
Here is my confession: I am a book abandoner, and I am proud.