I was a HEA person. I mean, I like happily ever afters just like the next person, but I didn’t realize I sometimes needed it.
I just finished a book that left me wanting to throw my tablet out the window. On the ice. So it can break into a million pieces.
Some guy said something like: “Writing is not to let people read but to make them feel”.
Ah. Here it is:
Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader – not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.
This is it. This book made me feel. Like, everything. Their love, their troubles, the beauty of their relationship.
At 80% in the book, I wanted to write to the author to let him know how much I enjoyed his writing. The images he creates with words are so real, poignant, honest and true you can’t help but be impressed. I was saying to myself: “Well perfection’s been done, so I might as well quit writing altogether”.
Then WHAM! Like an old Batman episode. POW! And another hit to the gut. At about 90% the story just crumbles. One minute they’re fine the next their life as they know it is over. And I mean over. I skimmed the ending just because I couldn’t bear to read it. I just couldn’t. No HEA here.
Now I want to write the author to give him shit for putting his characters and his readers through so much fucking pain. I mean, come on! This is the closest I’ve ever been to crying over a book! I NEVER cry! Ever.
Fuck. I guess he did a good job. His book moved me like no other in a long, long time.
No matter. I’m still mad at him. So there.