The Life of M

I read the last page of books before I begin. It’s an awful habit but one (as with most bad habits) done with good intentions. Actually, I read the first few pages, to see if I like the writing, then when I’m about a good third of the way in, I read the last page, so I can actually understand what’s happened.

And there’s a reason for this: when I read a novel, I get sucked in. I become some emotionally invested it that often it’s difficult for me to distinguish that these characters that are living in, say Houston, will not actually be in Houston the next time I go. When a character dies, a little piece of me dies. Well, maybe not that dramatic, but it does strike a pretty powerful blow. 

If I had known that Rhett leaves Scarlett (I’m unsure how I managed to go my entire life without knowing this, considering all of the references), maybe it wouldn’t have impacted me as heavily as it did.  

Perhaps this is what makes a novel great: how powerful the blow is. But for me, that’s not what I’m reading for. I’m reading for the story, not the dramatic twists and turns. I’m reading for the characters and the setting and their life. I have to have a story end in a semi-satisfying manner, something that I can accept. If it doesn’t, all hell breaks loose and I’m left mourning the incomplete relationship of two people perfect for one another but who never actually existed.