The Sunk Cost Fallacy
I learned about the sunk cost fallacy sometime last year, at work. My understanding of the concept is that basically people have a tendency to continue on with things——projects, relationships, what have you——even when they’re negatively impacting their lives, because they believe the time, effort, and/or money put into the thing in question is too valuable to simply turn your back on.
I totally understand that. It hurts to give up, even if it’s the right thing to do. It feels like loss. It feels like failure.
I’ve been thinking and talking about the word should a lot this year. I turned 30 in March and it feels like I’ve hit an age where there are a lot of shoulds——I should have a partner by now, if not a spouse; I should have a child before it gets too late; I should own a home; I should be doing more to build my career, my “brand,” my life.
My number one fear in life is probably failure. I look at these shoulds and, as much as I’m trying not to, I still see whispers of failure. I’m not “out of time” yet, but I’m getting there. Maybe. I think.
But I’m trying very hard to let go of should and focus on what I’d like to do. Do I like doing it? Does the thing itself or the idea of it bring me happiness? Can I see myself taking that step?
It’s taking a lot more searching and interrogation than I usually care to engage in, because I’m trying to decide what I actually want from my life. I’m trying to sift out the shoulds and see what’s left. I’m trying to understand what I want to do and what I like to do versus what I feel I should want or like.
This is all an incredibly heavy and existential and far too emotional way of introducing the idea that I’m absolutely blinded by the sunk cost fallacy when it comes to the books I read. (I know, I’m sorry, just go with it.)
In addition to my fear of failure, I also consider myself a completist. I think that’s why I enjoy the idea of the Moratorium Library so much: it gives me an excuse to read through every single book, to complete a massive project, to clear some shelves and rearrange and, maybe, start fresh. I can check something big off my list and feel like I’ve accomplished something. This blog will keep me accountable and hopefully keep me away from failure.
I almost always finish books. I’d have to scroll back through my Goodreads shelves to make sure, because I’m sure one or two have slipped through the cracks entirely, but typically, if I feel like I’m in danger of setting down a book forever, I simply set it aside to “try again later.” I’m a big believer in being in the right mood for a book, or any kind of media, really. It’s like food—you have to be in the mood for a certain something in order to consume it and enjoy it. Or maybe you’re just really, really hungry.
Anyhow, the Library is going to force me to face this nasty habit of completionism. Though I don’t have a deadline for the project, I will have to “finish” eventually, especially if I ever want to purchase any new books ever again. One day, if I stick to my guns (from here on out . . . ), I will run out of books to read.
And I know some of these books sitting on my shelves right now are going to be duds (not for everyone, just for me—I also believe every book has the right reader). I may push through a good number of those not-so-good titles. In fact, I know I will——I almost gave up on Devil House. I’m an avid skim-to-the-end-er, because I like to see if a story can redeem itself. But I’d also like to learn how to let go. Some books will be a simple no, and that’s absolutely fine. I don’t owe anyone an explanation. I can simply quietly set the book aside to be donated or sold or shared with a friend who might actually enjoy it.
Easier said than done, though. I set these books aside and promise to return to them later because I don’t want to feel like a failure. It’s a silly little thing, but it feels weak to give in. It feels like cheating not to turn every page and make it to the end. If you’re working on a project for work, you can look at a ballooning budget and make profit projections and decide—coldly, clinically—that it’s time to throw in the towel. The sunk cost fallacy might make it hard to give it up, but math doesn’t lie.
I feel like books don’t lie, either, but somehow . . . differently? Or maybe I just personally misinterpret whatever they’re trying to tell me. Books aren’t an amorphous work project or life goal. They’re physical objects, sitting on your coffee table or desk or bed, staring at you, judging you. Waiting. There’s the bookmark or the receipt or the dog-eared page now, showing you exactly how much time you’ve wasted trying to get to the end of the narrative. There’s a physical representation of the time and effort you put in. If you already made it 250 pages, why not push through the last 100 or so? Then you can add the book to your read list, and grimace when someone says they absolutely loved it. When they ask, you reply with a noncommittal, “Yeah, I . . . read that once.”
You sunk so much time into reading that book. You learned how to read years, even decades, ago; you got a degree in something literature-related, where you read books that were much longer or more difficult to get through. You’re going to let not enjoying one little story stop you? You should really just finish it.
(See, it all came back around.)
With this project, I’m hoping to reach myself about fiscal responsibility, and about appreciating what I have. I’m also hoping I learn to see the fallacy behind the perceived fact, and to acknowledge that some books simply aren’t for me. I hope someone else loves the ones I don’t; I know they will. But I will learn to move on from that which does not work for me, sunk cost be damned.
