Does anyone else do this? You’d think it wouldn’t matter so much, but wow. When I reach the last page of a good book (and sometimes even a bad book, *ahem*cough* Twilight 1-6), I feel like IT’S OVER. THE END. THE BOOK IS OVER AND SO IS MY LIFE. I don’t know what to do with myself for a while, and I feel really despondent for a while, too!
I mean, I guess this varies with the book, the context (anything fun going on?!), etc. Still! Whew! I’ve even read super, super-touching non-fiction books that do this to me!
And no, I’m not feeling that way at the moment, although I was feeling that way a few days ago when I finished “My Father’s Daughter: Memories of an Australian Childhood,” by Sheila Fitzpatrick. Certain criticisms notwithstanding (although, how do you go about criticizing a (well-written) memoir?), I had no idea it would be so touching (the author seems to pride herself on being quite the opposite)! When I finished, I was like, “Okaaay, that was the childhood. Where’s the rest of the hood?!”
In fact, I’m a little apprehensive of finishing my current pleasure read, “Esperanza’s Box of Saints,” by María Amparo Escandó. It’s great so far, and it’s one of the ONLY fictional stories (well, that’s to say nothing of misremembered and/or manipulated history books! LOL) I’m indulging in this summer.
Sigh. And my family wonders why I’m NOT a fiction writer — it’s because I could never kill off my characters, or probably even end a story! 😛