Nine months, one paperback, and a genuinely satisfying final chapter
Dear diary, I finally finished the novel I started back in January, a genuinely embarrassing nine months for a book that is, in total, not even particularly long, a pace I can only explain through a combination of a busy painting schedule and a genuine, if slightly self sabotaging, habit of starting three other books in the meantime instead of simply finishing the one already in progress.
The ending, once I actually got there, was genuinely worth the wait, the kind of quiet, understated final chapter that does not announce its own significance but that sits with you properly once you close the book and simply stare at the wall for a moment processing what you just read.
Why It Took Me So Genuinely Long
If I am honest with this diary, I think the middle section simply lost me for a while, not through any fault of the writing itself, but through my own scattered attention during a particularly busy stretch of commissions, and once a book loses momentum with me it tends to sit on the nightstand for considerably longer than it deserves before I finally circle back properly.
A Small Comparison That Occurred To Me
I found myself thinking, oddly, about a piece of London satire I read recently that made a similar point about patience and payoff, in a considerably sillier context involving public transport rather than literary fiction, but the underlying observation about good things eventually rewarding whoever sticks around long enough felt genuinely relevant to my own nine month reading journey.
What I Am Reading Next
I have promised myself, with the same confidence I bring to most of my reading resolutions, that the next book will not take nine months, a promise I fully expect to break given my established track record, but one I intend to make sincerely anyway.
More reading confessions and slow literary journeys always documented at Satirical Top.
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