For me there are eight levels of how much I like a book.
One. I can’t read it. I just can’t. I mean, I’ll try if I really have to, but after reading the same paragraph half a dozen times, I’m just going to give up and google my way to a summary. It’s so extraordinary bad that I just can’t read it. My brain goes on a strike as soon as I try. It’s figuratively holding up a small sign saying “What do we want? Entertainment. When do we want it? Now!”
Two. I don’t want to read it. This is the part where my brain and I are sitting at opposite sides of the negotiation table, trying to work something out. My brain is threatening to go on another strike, but I successfully calm her down by promising her entertainment right after this one last job. Sure, neither of us actually wants to read the book, but we’ll struggle our way through it. Teamwork.
Three. Fine, I guess I’ll read it. My brain and I have come to an agreement. Thankfully, our current job really isn’t that awful. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not great either. It’s a tad dull, but we’re no longer counting the hours till the clock strikes four and we’re finally off work.
Four. Huh. This actually sounds interesting. The clock strikes four, and we don’t want to go home. We consider working overtime, but ultimately decides that it’s not worth it. We have so many other things to do, and the wife’s waiting at home with a hot meal. We decide that it can wait till tomorrow.
Five. Let me read this. We get to work. We see our assignment for the day and do an internal little victory dance (of course, every victory dance my brain does is internal). This is a Good Assignment. Thank God, we have eight hours before we have to go home. We hope we can finish it before then.
Six. This is pretty good. It’s four o’clock and we decide to work overtime. Just half an hour. Surely, the missus can keep the food warm for us? Finally, it’s a bit over five and we reluctantly put the book down. We really ought to be making our way home.
Seven. Who needs eight hours of sleep anyway? We certainly don’t. The clock strikes four and we ignore it. We really plan on just finishing this one paragraph. Then the clock strikes five and six and seven. Before we know it, it’s two o’clock and works starts at eight A.M. sharp. But who needs eight hours of sleep anyway? Finally, the words are dancing on the page and we declare defeat. Sluggishly we make our way home, hoping that we won’t accidentally step in front of a bus. We know that we made a bad decision, but it was just so good!
Eight. I can’t read it. Neither can my brain for that matter. It’s – just – too – good. We read a few sentences, and my brain squeals, immediately breaking my concentration. We sit for a few minutes discussing our work before we read another few sentences. Another squeal. Another discussion. We’re never going to be done by four o’clock like this, but who cares? We’ll stay up all night if we have to. We can always call in sick tomorrow. After all… it’s not every day you find a book this great.
A/N: How many levels do you have?