I’ve never been one to flip to the end of the book and read the last chapter first. Frankly, those people aggravate me. I want to develop with the characters, struggle with them, love with them, and enjoy their experiences as they happen. There’s a nervous energy and anxiousness to see what unfolds next, but I never rush the story.
The plot may take an unexpected turn, but I turn with it, live it with the character, and even enjoy it.
For some reason, I don’t read my story that way. I have an overwhelming desire to become those readers I hate–flipping to the end, missing the beauty in the unknown, rushing the story.
I’m in a chapter of my life that has a huge mess of unknown.
Instead of living my chapter, I look to other ones. Other chapters in my life when things made sense. Other people’s chapters. I desire to be in a place that is not this one. Here and now, I hate this chapter. I desperately desire to be in another one.
But those other chapters are not mine. This is my story. This is my chapter.
The novel isn’t complete if I decide to skip this chapter. I won’t see how these current circumstances develop and shape the character. I won’t see chaos or lessons learned. I won’t allow for character stretching and growth.
Instead of enjoying it, I’m rushing it.
I’m flipping to the end when i should be playing my part in this chapter.
Because this chapter is mine . . . for now.