I am now up on the times, having finished the book of the day: Paula Hawkins’ The Girl on the Train. As I was reading it, my response seemed to alter in waves:
1) The beginning: I was captured by Megan’s voice. I loved the contrast between the way Rachel had painted her in her mind, and the way Megan actually was.
2) The middle: I knew this part was supposed to be exciting and suspenseful. I knew the pages offered all the elements of excitement and suspense. I knew, from raving reviews, that other people felt excitement and suspense. And yet I wasn’t feeling these feelings in my bones. I was able to put the book down. As Rachel herself said, “It’s removed from me. It’s like it doesn’t belong to me.” Why? I’m not certain. I think maybe Rachel’s poor-me attitude and Anna’s extra-sweet goodness started to drag, plus I got confused with Megan’s unnamed he’s.
3) The end: The book picked up steam again. I started getting involved: could it have been him? could it have been her? Everyone’s a suspect and my mind started churning with possibilities.
By the time I finished the final pages, the book had become a solid thumbs-up, my middle-stretch iffyness faded. Maybe the hesitation was me: I was distracted by life’s goings-on, or had mistakenly skipped over a vital part that kept me at arms’ length. I plan to read it again to find out.