The Dread of Reading

I've been suffering from the dread of reading and so close to the first anniversary of my father's death, I started to read a book that I found in my parents house, a book I'd given my mother for Christmas several years ago because she said she wanted to read it but then she tried and she couldn't read it.

The book is still brand new. It's called The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith. There's something in me that wants to keep it brand new. I open it gingerly and try not to bend it too much while I'm reading it.

For some reason, I'm determined to read it even though it seems so far to be a pretty terrible book.

I shouldn't say that it's terrible. It's likeable in a lot of ways. It's tonally energetic. The main character is likeable. The setting (Botswana) is interesting. The premise (a woman opens a detective agency) is bound to lead to lots of good stories. The resolution of the first case (the would-be father) is actually pretty hilarious...but the book, as a whole, isn't engaging me.

I feel like I'm hard to please.
I'm still reading my mom's book. I feel like I'm reading it mostly because my mother couldn't read it and wanted to. What good will that do?