Ever get a book home you’ve been wanting to read for a long time, like you’ve seen all the hype around it, around the author, and you’ve been anticipating the joy of it, and then you can’t get past the first page? There’s something wrong in the voice, or the thing doesn’t move along, it doesn’t move you, or there’s something small, like a typo or choice of words, that sets you grimacing. All of the above just happened to me the other day, and it was a jarring experience. I was surprised at how strong of a negative reaction I could have to the writing. I had to put the book down and forget about it. Maybe it was just the wrong day to start on this book. Maybe a lot of things. Maybe it’s me, not you, author who will remain nameless. Art is a subjective experience, and this reminded me how rare it is when something truly connects.