Every summer, though, for some reason, I start reading a book only to discover that I've read it already ... but cannot seem to recall the outcome; so, I re-read the entire thing. One long novel in particular has been re-read no less than four times, and you know what? I still cannot tell you what it's about. (I just looked up the book online, read the plot summary, and it still doesn't ring too much of a bell.)
Going to the beach, I grab one of the YA novels to take with me. I end up with a twisted book about the Civil War. Sort of. It's also about 1916. Sort of. By the third chapter, I'm reasonably certain I've read this book before, but, since I cannot remember it clearly, I keep reading.
And reading. And reading some more.
I remember the twist in the plot about thirty seconds before I stumble on to it in black and white on the book page, and the let-down makes Deflategate seem like a party. Why, why, why did I spend time reading the book ... again?
I still have a pile of books to get through, but I'm changing gears to something new, something I know just came out from the publisher. After all, I don't have a lot of time to spare, and I'd rather not read the same plot twist multiple times ... again.
