“If you could travel back in time, which book would you stop yourself from reading?” (via Writers Write.)

That’s a weird question, especially for a writer. Generally writers hold a belief that they benefit somehow from every book they read – whether they gain invaluable insights into narrative structure or learn how not to make the mistakes of others. But can there be books that writers just wish they hadn’t read at all?

It took me a while to consider the options.

Yes, I read the Twilight books. Would I un-read those? Oddly, no. While the writing was poorer than Oliver Twist, and the plot swirled further and further down into a whirlpool of incredibility, I did learn a bit about the weather in the American Northwest.

I read Catcher in the Rye, which left me with little more than a sense of spoiled, whiny frustration at my place in the world. Why is the world so boring? Why do I have to listen to other people talk? Why can’t people just be something else, like sharknados or potted plants? But even this book has its own spot of importance. In other words, it’s a book you brag about that you’ve read to your other writer friends.

The Notebook was also a contender, but I did experience a couple of emotions while reading it as a teenager, mainly because I’d never been in love myself and couldn’t imagine ever being in love, which made the love story that much more taunting. There’s nothing like dangling a pair of happy carrots in front of another lonesome carrot and saying, “You’ll never be THESE carrots. Doesn’t that make you bitter?”

Then I thought, Oh well I needn’t have read the Bible because I’m not a Christian. But that’s not true either – it’s a book full of wisdom heavily disguised by metaphors (except for the Jonah story. I mean, what the eff was happening there? He did not deserve to be eaten by that whale-fish-basilisk thing).

In the end, after much deliberation, I figured out which book I should never have read. This book is just the worst. On a scale of Jeb Bush to Donald Trump, this book is TWO Donald Trumps. Bet you can’t even imagine such a thing. Well, it exists. And it’s called…

Old Yeller.

Oh the tears! Oh the nightmares! How can a book be so encouraging and sweet and full of human-animal connection and then – *spoiler alert* – they KILL THE POOR DOG BECAUSE HE HAS RABIES. After Old Yeller had completed feat after feat of heroism to save the family, they just KILL HIM. They shoot him in the head! How could they?! How could you ever live with yourself after that? I mean, WHY did Old Yeller have to get rabies? Why couldn’t the book end with Old Yeller dying of natural causes while yelling on some picturesque mountaintop like the grand hound that he was? Or, you know, not dying at all? Why are writers such sadists? Why do they like to see us destroyed? Just… no. Never read that book. Not if you ever want to have functioning tear ducts again.

Run, Old Yeller, run! He’s gonna shoot you with that gun! Oh god nooooooooooooo!