You ever have that moment where you pick up a book by an author you used to love – like, capital-L LOVE, formative-level love – and it just… doesn’t hit anymore? You sit there blinking at the page like, wait, when did this happen? when did I stop vibing with you?
Because that was me this week with Robin Cook. I adored his books as a teenager. Outbreak was one of my first “grown-up” thrillers – the kind of thing I absolutely should not have read at that age but did anyway because germs and conspiracies and science! I remember feeling so clever for understanding any of it (I didn’t, but that’s beside the point). His books were the moment for me back then.
So I picked up Viral from the library the other day, was SO excited to read something new by him… and friends, it was rough. I barely made it 30 pages in before I had to give up. The writing felt flat, like there was no difference between narration and dialogue – just one long monotone of exposition and people talking at each other. I DNFed it and sat there feeling betrayed by my own teenage taste. Like – was it always like this? Have I changed that much? (Yes. Probably. Definitely.) Or was it just this one book? All I know is I’m too scared to find a copy of one of his older books and find out!
Then there’s Marian Keyes, who’s a whole other kind of heartbreak. Her books shaped my early twenties; I haven’t read any of her new stuff yet (mostly because I didn’t know she was still writing). But going back to her older novels? Those novels still have warmth and wit, but they’re also so clearly products of their time. The early-2000s corporate world, the attitudes toward women, the casual misogyny, the constant pressure to be palatable, thin, accommodating… it’s jarring now. The heroines who once felt relatable and real suddenly come across as exhausting, even awful at times – not because Keyes failed as a writer, but because the world (and hopefully, I) have changed. Those characters I used to adore now make me want to yell “girl, get therapy and a union!” every five pages.
It’s not that they’re bad books – far from it. They’re just so deeply of their time, and I’m not that person anymore. I think that’s what makes it sting a little: realising that the stories that once felt like home now feel like history.
There’s a weird grief in that, honestly. You don’t just outgrow a book – you outgrow the version of yourself who loved it. The one who was still figuring out what they liked, what they believed, who they were becoming. That’s kind of beautiful, in a messy, slightly tragic way.
Anyway. I’m trying to remind myself it’s okay. Not every author or story has to grow with you – some just belong to a specific season of your life. You can be grateful for what they meant back then and still let them go now.
What about you?
Have you ever gone back to an old favourite and found it just… didn’t work anymore? Or reread something you loved only to realise it hasn’t aged well at all? Which authors have you fallen out of sync with – and which ones have somehow grown right alongside you?
Let’s commiserate. Bring snacks. I’ll be over here gently mourning my teenage Robin Cook era and avoiding eye contact with my bookshelf.
Oh, yes. I completely get that. I’ve found that some formerly favorite authors are now ones I have to be very careful with in order to enjoy their books. It’s partly a case of the books being products of their times, but it’s also partly changes in me as a reader. For example, I no longer like books that are too dystopian or depressing, no matter how well they’re written.