“It Gets Good Later” Is Not Good Enough for Me

I Want to Love Books, Not Endure Them

I have been reading and loving books for literally as long as I can remember. Babysitter’s Club, Sweet Valley High, Nancy Drew, R.L. Stine, Goosebumps, and Choose Your Own Adventure were staples of my childhood. Books were not an occasional hobby for me. They were my default state.

By junior high (grade 7 in Canada), I was reading at a university level. In grade nine, my book report on The Sword of Shannara was a completely unreasonable number of pages long, and I regret none of it. Looking back now though… I bet my teacher did! My parents read fantasy, so it was always in the house, always normal, always part of life. It was only a matter of time before I gravitated there myself.

At the time of writing this, I am pushing forty-five and I have read thousands and thousands of books. Across genres. Across decades. Across every mood and phase of life. Reading is not something I dabble in. It is part of who I am.

That is why I am very comfortable saying this.

I do not DNF [Did Not Finish] lightly. I want to love the books I pick up. I choose them with intention. I go in hoping they will be good. I give them real chances. But I do not owe any book my endurance. If reading starts to feel like work instead of pleasure, I am done.

A good idea is not enough. A popular recommendation is not enough. And “it gets good later” is not a promise I am willing to wait on.

I read for immersion, not obligation. I read to disappear into a story, not to push through it. And if a book cannot meet me there, I will walk away without guilt.

This is a long one, friends. I clearly have big feelings about this topic, very few chill opinions about it, and apparently no ability to be brief (I tried… 😔). Grab a beverage, settle in, skim if you need to, and know that I appreciate you being here!

Plot Is Not the Same as Immersion

A book can have an incredible premise and still be miserable to read.

I see this all the time. A clever idea, a unique twist, an interesting world, and yet the experience itself falls flat. I can admire the concept and still feel nothing while I am inside the story. That disconnect matters.

Worldbuilding does not automatically create atmosphere. Action does not automatically create tension. A complicated plot does not automatically create engagement. All of those things can exist on the page without ever pulling me in.

Immersion comes from how a story feels, not just what happens in it.

I have read books with brilliant concepts that left me completely cold. The magic system was interesting. The political structure was clever. The stakes looked high on paper. But the scenes felt thin, the emotions never landed, and the world never felt real. I understood what was happening, but I did not feel any of it. That is not immersion. That is observation.

Immersion Is About Wanting to Stay

To be clear, I do not always read for depth and intensity. Sometimes I want light, easy, fast, and fun. Sometimes I want comfort. Sometimes I want something simple that I can breeze through without thinking too hard. There is nothing wrong with that, and I read plenty of those books too.

But when I talk about immersion here, I mean the kind of book that hijacks your life. The kind that makes you stay up far too late because you cannot put it down. The kind that makes you think “just one more chapter” until all of a sudden the sun starts coming up. That is immersion to me.

I want to feel anchored in the world. I want the setting to have weight. I want scenes to land with emotional impact. I want to forget I am reading and start living in the story. When a book fails to do that, no amount of clever plotting will save it for me.

I can respect the idea and still walk away from the execution.

That is the difference people often miss. Liking a concept is not the same as enjoying the experience of reading it. I read for the experience. If I do not like being there, I do not stay.

When the Language Fights Me

Language should disappear when I read. I should not notice the sentences. I should not notice the structure. I should not notice the mechanics. The story should take over and carry me forward without resistance.

When the language fights me, everything falls apart.

I lose rhythm. I lose flow. I lose trust. Instead of sinking into the scene, I start noticing the writing itself, and once that happens, immersion is already broken.

I read to experience a story, not to wrestle with it.

Clunky Sentences, Awkward Phrasing, and Overwriting

Some books make me work far too hard to understand simple things. The sentences twist. The phrasing feels unnatural. The structure stumbles instead of flowing. I can feel the author reaching for effect instead of clarity, and it shows.

When I have to reread a sentence to figure out what it was trying to say, the scene loses momentum. When every paragraph feels heavy, the story starts to drag. When the prose draws attention to itself, the world disappears.

Overwriting drains tension. It slows pacing. It smothers emotion. I do not need every movement described. I do not need every thought unpacked. I do not need three metaphors when one would do.

I want language that serves the story, not competes with it.

Poor Proofreading Breaks the Spell

Nothing pulls me out of a book faster than obvious errors.

Typos, missing words, grammar mistakes, and broken sentences force my brain to stop reading and start correcting. I do not stay in the story. I shift into editor mode. I fix the sentence in my head and then try to find my place again.

That is not immersion. That is interruption.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, drives me more batty than the wrong your or you’re, or the wrong their, there, or they’re. This is by far my biggest pet peeve. The second I see it, I am no longer in the scene. I am staring at the sentence. I am correcting it. I am annoyed. And now the moment is gone.

Every correction creates a break. One or two might slide by, but they add up quickly. Once I start noticing them, I cannot stop. My attention stays on the page instead of in the world.

When I read, I want to disappear into the story. I do not want to proofread it.

If a book makes me work to clean up the language, I lose patience fast. The spell breaks, and it rarely comes back.

Flat Voice and Empty Pages

Some books look fine on the surface and still feel completely empty. The scenes exist, the characters move, and the plot progresses, but nothing has weight. Nothing lands. I turn pages, but I do not feel anything while I do it.

When a story has a flat voice, I never settle into it. The tone stays neutral. The emotional temperature never changes. Everything reads at the same volume, and that volume is low. The book never pulls me in, and it never pushes me away. It just sits there, and that is worse.

I need texture. I need contrast. I need moments that hit and moments that go quiet. I need the story to breathe. When every scene feels the same, the world starts to blur. When the world blurs, I lose my sense of place. When I lose my sense of place, I lose interest.

Some books read like summaries instead of lived experience. This happened, then this happened, then this happened. The events unfold, but they leave no imprint. The characters react, but I do not feel it. The story moves forward, but it never sinks in. I do not read to collect information. I read to inhabit a moment.

If I finish a chapter and cannot remember what I just read, that is my answer. If nothing sticks, I stop caring. And once I stop caring, I stop reading.

Weak or Inconsistent Heroines

This is a big one for me, and it is not negotiable.

I read fantasy, paranormal, and romance because I want strong women on the page. Not perfect women. Not invincible women. Strong women. Capable, grounded, intelligent, emotionally aware, and able to stand in their own space.

When a heroine loses her competence for the sake of the plot, I lose interest immediately.

I see this most often when an author builds a woman as sharp, skilled, and self-sufficient, then slowly strips that away so the love interest can shine. She forgets things she would never forget. She makes choices she would never make. She suddenly needs saving in situations she would have handled on her own ten chapters earlier. That is not growth. That is convenience.

It breaks trust.

When Strength Gets Rewritten

Strong does not mean loud. Strong does not mean rude. Strong does not mean reckless. And strong definitely does not mean acting without thinking. I have no patience for TSTL [Too Stupid To Live] behavior dressed up as bravery. If a character runs headfirst into danger with no plan, no backup, and no sense, I do not see courage. I see bad writing.

I also struggle with heroines who change personalities to fit the romance. They soften in ways that do not feel earned. They lose their edge. They become smaller so the relationship can feel bigger. I did not sign up to watch a woman shrink so a man can look tall.

Inconsistency pulls me out just as fast. If a character reacts one way in chapter three and the opposite way in chapter eight with no internal processing in between, I stop believing in her. People evolve. They do not flip. When an author skips the emotional work, I feel it.

I do not need a heroine who wins every fight. I do not need a heroine who never struggles. I need a heroine who remains herself. I need her choices to make sense. I need her strength to show up in more than one form.

If I cannot respect her, I cannot follow her.

And if I cannot follow her, I will not finish the book.

When Romance Feels Off

Romance can make a story soar, or it can sink it fast.

I lose interest when attraction shows up without foundation, when devotion appears without build, and when emotional shifts happen without reason. Instalust does nothing for me. If two characters fall into deep connection with no shared history, no trust, and no earned intimacy, I do not buy it. I need the relationship to grow. I need it to make sense.

I also struggle with romances where the heroine gives everything and the hero gives very little. She uproots her life. She leaves her home. She sacrifices her stability. She reshapes herself to fit his world. He stays exactly where he is. The relationship may be loving. The outcome may be good. The imbalance still grates.

If a romance requires the woman to disappear in order to work, I am not requied to be interested.

I love shifter stories. Truly. Some of my favorite books live in that space, and many of them have incredible heroines and genuinely great relationships. I am happy when they find strong, loving mates and build meaningful connections with their new packs, crews, clans, or prides. Their lives are better for it, and I thoroughly enjoy those stories.

But there is a tiny piece of me that gets quietly driven nuts by the fact that it is almost always the woman who leaves her old life behind. Sometimes it makes sense. Sometimes it is necessary. Sometimes it is even beautiful. And still, I notice it. I notice that the men rarely have to give up their world in the same way. I notice that this particular sacrifice flows in one direction far, far more often than the other.

That is a whole conversation on its own, and one I will absolutely be digging into.

Dialogue That Breaks the World

Dialogue should deepen a scene. It should reveal character, build tension, and move the story forward. When it does not, it collapses the illusion fast.

I struggle with books where every character sounds the same. Same tone. Same rhythm. Same vocabulary. Same sense of humor. If I cannot tell who is speaking without dialogue tags, the world starts to flatten. Characters lose their individuality. Personalities blur. The scene turns into noise instead of conversation.

Banter can be fun, but endless banter with no purpose wears me out. Conversations that spin in circles, joke without advancing anything, or exist only to fill space drain momentum. I want dialogue to do work. I want it to matter.

I also have very little patience for chaotic POV [Point Of View] switching. I have read books where a chapter starts in one character’s perspective, slips into another three paragraphs later with no break, then drifts into a third, fourth, or fifth POV without warning. It’s even worse when it’s within the same paragraph. No scene break. No visual cue. No transition. Just a sudden shift in internal voice.

That kind of head hopping is exhausting. It forces me to stop and reorient over and over again. Instead of living in the scene, I am busy figuring out whose head I am in. That breaks narrative trust. It makes the book physically harder to read.

I want to know where I am. I want to know who I am with. I want to settle into a perspective and stay there long enough to care.

When dialogue loses clarity and POV loses structure, the world stops feeling real. And once the world stops feeling real, I stop wanting to be there.

Pacing That Drains Instead of Builds

I do not need constant action. I do not need explosions on every page. I do not need chaos to stay interested. I do need forward movement.

Some books exhaust me without ever exciting me. The scenes drag. The same emotional beats repeat. The same conversations circle. The same internal monologues resurface with slightly different wording. I keep waiting for something to shift, and it never does.

Slow does not bother me. Stagnant does.

I lose patience when a story spends ten pages saying what could be said in two. I lose interest when characters think about the same problem over and over without acting. I lose momentum when nothing changes from chapter to chapter. I can feel the book spinning its wheels, and once I feel that, I start checking how much is left.

Pacing should build. It should layer. It should create pull. I want to feel like the story is going somewhere, even in quiet moments. Especially in quiet moments.

If I sense that the book is killing time instead of using it, I stop investing. And when I stop investing, I start drifting.

That is usually the beginning of the end.

The Emotional Cost of Staying

Reading is supposed to be a pleasure. It is supposed to be an escape, a comfort, a thrill, a place to rest, a place to feel. It is not supposed to feel like a chore.

When a book stops giving and starts taking, I pay attention.

Some stories demand effort without offering reward. They drain energy instead of building it. They ask me to push through instead of pulling me in. I start to feel tired instead of curious. I start to feel impatient instead of invested. That is not a temporary slump. That is a signal.

I do not believe in reading as an endurance test (that’s called studying!). I do not believe in loyalty to a book that does not respect my time. I do not believe in suffering through something just because I started it. If a story makes me work harder than it makes me care, something is wrong.

I read to feel something. I read to disappear. I read to be moved, unsettled, comforted, challenged, or consumed. If I am none of those things, I am just turning pages.

And I have learned to trust that feeling.

Reading Should Give You More Than It Takes

Reading should expand your world, not shrink it.

A good book should open your mind. It should soften you in places you did not realize were rigid. It should stretch your perspective. It should make you more curious, more compassionate, more patient, and more aware of lives that do not look like yours.

Stories teach empathy in a way nothing else can. They let you live inside other people’s choices. They let you sit with consequences. They let you understand without being lectured. When a book does that well, it leaves you a little changed.

I want reading to make me more tolerant, not more cynical. I want it to make me more open, not more closed. I want it to grow me, not grind me down.

When a story feels small, petty, cruel for no reason, or emotionally hollow, it does not just bore me. It disappoints me. It wastes an opportunity.

Time is precious. Attention is precious. And reading is one of the few spaces where we get to choose what shapes us.

I take that seriously.

If a book makes me tired instead of excited, that is my answer. If I dread picking it up, that is my answer. If I keep choosing literally anything else over reading it, that is my answer.

Staying in a story that does not want me is not discipline. It is self-sabotage.

And I am done doing that.

Why I Never Feel Guilty About DNF

I do not DNF lightly. I choose books with care. I read blurbs. I check reviews. I pay attention to authors I trust. When I start a book, I want it to work.

But I also do not feel guilty when it does not.

Time is finite. Attention is valuable. Energy is not unlimited. Every book I push through is a book I am not enjoying, and every book I do not enjoy steals time from one I might love. That trade does not make sense to me.

I do not believe in finishing books out of obligation. I do not believe in reading as a moral exercise. I do not believe in proving anything to anyone through endurance. Reading is not a test of character. It is a relationship between me and the story.

Just like in life, if the connection is not there, I let it go.

I have walked away from popular books. I have walked away from recommended books. I have walked away from books I wanted to love. I have no resentment about it. I do not carry a grudge. I simply move on.

DNF is not failure. It is feedback.

It tells me what does not work for me. It sharpens my taste. It protects my time. It keeps reading joyful instead of heavy.

I would rather DNF ten books and find one that lights me up than force myself through ten that drain me.

Life is too short for reading that feels like homework.

What Actually Keeps Me Reading

For all my opinions, I am really not difficult to satisfy. I am specific.

I stay with books that respect me. I stay with stories that trust their characters. I stay with worlds that feel real and heroines who feel grounded. I stay when the language disappears and the emotion shows up.

Strong, capable women keep me turning pages. Not flawless women. Not women who never struggle. Women who think, fail, adapt, learn, and stand in their own space. Women who remain themselves even when the world tries to bend them.

Atmosphere matters. Emotional weight matters. I want to feel the setting. I want to feel the pressure. I want to feel the stakes. I want moments that make me pause and moments that make me race. I want the story to leave fingerprints.

I read for connection. To characters. To worlds. To ideas. To feelings. When a book gives me that, I will follow it anywhere. I will forgive small flaws. I will overlook rough edges. I will stay up far too late and show up tired the next day because I could not put it down.

That is not picky. That is invested.

I am not hard to please. I am clear about what works for me. And when a story meets me there, I am ride-or-die.

The Real Question

At the end of the day, this is not about being picky. It is not about being negative. It is not about tearing books down.

It is about knowing yourself as a reader.

We all come to stories for different reasons. Some people read for escape. Some read for comfort. Some read for challenge. Some read for heat. Some read for worldbuilding. Some read for characters. None of that is wrong. I read for all of these things, but it depends on my mood. What I want from a book changes then, and that is part of the joy of reading. But it does mean that not every book is for every person, or even every person at this moment, and that is okay.

The real question is not “Is this book objectively good?” The real question is “Does this book work for me?”

I am done pretending that struggle equals virtue. I am done pretending that endurance equals depth. I am done pretending that finishing a book I did not enjoy is some kind of achievement. Reading is too personal and too powerful for that.

I want stories that pull me in, not wear me down. I want language that disappears, not distracts. I want heroines I can respect, worlds I can feel, and emotions that land. I want to close a book feeling fuller than when I opened it.

And if a story cannot give me that, I let it go.

Without guilt.
Without drama.
Without apology.

Because reading is not a competition. It is a relationship.

And I only stay where I am wanted.

Join the Conversation

If you made it this far, first of all, thank you. I know this was a long one, and I appreciate you spending your time here.

I would love to know how you read. What pulls you in. What pushes you out. What makes you DNF without hesitation. What makes you stay up far too late because you cannot put the book down.

Have you ever walked away from a book everyone else seemed to love? Have you ever forced yourself to finish something out of obligation and regretted it? Have you ever found a story that hit so perfectly for your mood that it felt like it was written just for you?

Tell me. I mean it.

Reading is personal, and I am endlessly curious about how other people experience it. Drop your thoughts in the comments, share your hot takes, your dealbreakers, your ride-or-die favorites. This space is for all of it.

And if you are anything like me, fair warning. I will absolutely read every word.