Reading The Last Page First ...

Much has changed since my last post. (Enough to warrant the supply of peppermint ice cream I purchased today, I think.) We elected ourselves a new president, my little sister turned 21, and the Christmas lights and ice skating rink have reappeared on Pentagon Row. For the record, I like change. Sometimes. In moderation. When I choose it. And usually, when I can see it coming. Which explains why I read the last page first. OK, not exactly first. But almost. I read the last page in any book that I like, as soon as I have decided that I like it. As soon as I forget about my real life and instead curl up on the couch in my pajamas and blanket and read and read and read. And I actually usually read the entire last chapter. I tell myself this would be a compliment to the writer, that I cannot wait until the end to see what will happen to these people who suddenly became real to me. But when I really think about it, no writer would be happy about this. Because as soon as I read the last chapter, and know the ending, happily ever after or not, I hurry through the rest of the book to make sense of it all. And I invariably miss something in the process, some of the magic in the middle perhaps, in my hurry to figure out how The End happened. So I am turning over a new leaf. And reading my current book the proper way, the patient way, the way the writer intended. Just to see what happens ...