You know that feeling, when you’ve just finished a novel that touched your soul, that made you think, that made you laugh and cry at the same time–and then you turn to the stack of books to read next, and your just feel so depressed?
No? Just me? All right then…
I’m a person who gets really overly invested in my imaginary people, so when I finish the book its hard to let go. Unfortunately, this means that I can have unrealistic expectations of the next book I pick up. Sometimes I end up abandoning two or three books before I settle on a story that really resonates with me.
On the one hand, I think this is good because life’s too short to waste on mediocre stories. On the other hand, maybe my expectation of greatness makes me impatient with slow-building stories, or I’m just too easy to bore after having read a rollicking good read.
It’s a puzzler.