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It all begins so
casually … a little tryst with a new book. It arrives by
mail, is packaged after the “ka-ching” at a register, or is
passed to me by the warm hands of a friend. But with few
exceptions, the beginning of the process is always the same.
Like a date with
someone you think you might like, but whose company you
don’t yet prefer over other pursuits, so it begins. I fit
the book in while waiting for an appointment, read a little
before bed or span a few pages throughout my day as I have
time. I am in control, choosing when to read in some
sensible, responsible way.
But before too
long, the casualness of this relationship begins to take a
turn. The number of times throughout the day I deem reading
“convenient” gradually increases. I find myself considering
the characters and their challenges when I’m not reading. I
begin to anticipate my next opportunity to open the covers …
Soon this
heightened interest evolves again. I read when I ought to
be doing something else. I arrive late with nothing heftier
than finishing Chapter 64 (and 65, and 66 …) as my secret
excuse. I turn off my
“itty-bitty” book light only when my
eyes refuse to remain unlidded. I stumble to pour my
morning
coffee with the tale already in hand.
I ponder the
activities and plights of the characters as though they were
my friends. Knowing what happens next has become as an
urgent need. I weave the persons and the plot into my
activities; in a small way “living the book,” in the midst
of the practical settings of my real life. The business of
choosing when to begin the next chapter has become
pretence ~ it chooses me, relentlessly, as the final
chapters push the real characters and plots of my diurnal
life to the periphery. They are like shadows, and the
fiction alone seems tangible and vibrant.
And then it
ends. The book is over. No matter how good the ending, it
comes as a shock. Am I really to go about my day now
without interacting with these comrades? Will no one
flourish a
sword at me from around the corner of the next
grocery store aisle? Will the same sun I see rising, no
longer light this foreign land of magic inhabitants where I
live … where I lived … until now?
The good ending
of a good book is all we were waiting for: all we wanted it
to be, except for this one part – it ended. It is both
satisfying and disturbing; a relief and a disappointment.
And for this reason: to abate this unavoidable conclusion,
that I sometimes choose
the series.
The series does
not so cruelly abort the reader back into his own world with
no promise of reunion. Rather, it offers a respite from the
frenzied pace of completing the last book and the welcome
promise of a once-again casual tryst with the new. The last
book releases a grasp that has become oppressive. The new
book comes on with refreshing ease. And yet I remain
intimate with the hero, familiar with the
milieu of his world, a
collaborator of sorts in the victories of his past … and the
pain of parting is assuaged by the expectation of our next
adventure.
If there is one drawback to the
series it is this: The turning point from relaxed reading
to frenetic obsession happens a mite quicker with the
subsequent novels.
For those of you who share my pain in the conclusion
experience, consider this list of series’ for your next
reading choice, and be sure to add your own favorites to the
series madness forum. |
