To DNF: in which you Do Not Finish a book. Once upon a time, I was a diligent reader who started a book and then finished it dutifully, whether I liked it or not. There were times when I was the one of only a few people in my book club who slogged through a long tome or truly dismal narrative because I felt some sort of duty to the author who took the time to write a book. Ah, to be young and not as cynical. Now, I have a job that entails reading every single day (what a bore, right? Kidding, it’s a dream!), I’m a mother to a very precocious daughter (she’s a clearly a genius), I like to binge-watch TV (I will neither confirm nor deny that I finished the latest season of Nailed It! in one sitting), and I’m also trying to write my own book (it’s still a work in progress). Not to mention, we’re in the middle of a global pandemic and concentration has suddenly become a concept I can’t seem to grasp. But one thing has saved my sanity, one thing has brought me sweet relief. I’ve started to DNF books. Sometimes…