Tomorrow is my last day before becoming a working girl, and I don't mean a hooker. Sadly. Wait, what?
I spent most of today reading and laying about the house reveling in my last hours of freedom. 341 pages later, I am out of book. It's really sad; the one I just finished was eighth in a series that I've been reading these last two weeks, and now I won't visit those characters again for a long time.
Reading is like that, particularly when the author is good at their job. You fall in love with a character or characters but the book must come to an end. When it does you feel like you've lost a good friend, or at least that they have moved away to a place with no internet or cell reception (because honestly, who uses snail mail anymore?).
Maybe that's why I'm a writer. As of yet I am unpublished, so I have always known the freedom to revisit my characters whenever I chose, adding more to the chronicle of their lives and fiddling with the minutiae of their selves. But I also feel more fulfilled when I come to know a character written by someone else; it's almost as if I'm meeting a real person. I can't predict what they will do or change aspects of their past to suit myself, and thus the relationship is more two-sided.
Or maybe I'm just crazy.