Wednesday, May 4, 2016

My Love-Hate Relationship with the Series

I love reading a book series. It means I get to read more about the characters. I get to learn more about their lives, their dreams, and their nightmares. I get to travel with them longer. I get to partake in more of their adventures. I get to live their lives vicariously for another 600 pages. But I also hate them. Vehemently. With a passion.

Why? Because I am a very impatient person. I hate the wait between one book and the next. It always seems to take authors forever to release their next book (though I think that the publishers are really at fault for this). And then there’s the fact that when I’m done with a series, it feels like I’m missing a part of me. I’ve spent a rather large part of my life with these people and now they’re just ripped away from me, never to be heard from again. Occasionally, I run into a series from which I choose to drift away. I find that sometimes a series, like movie sequels, drifts so far away from whatever I fell in love with in the first book that I stop reading it. I may read it, for a while, out of a strange sense of guilt I feel, but eventually, I will put it down.

 There’s also the occasional series that just goes on too long. That emptiness I feel when a series ends and the characters ripped out of my life... that’s part of what makes those books so special to me, I think. Sometimes, when an author hits book number 12, or book number 37, or even book number 5, they’ve unfortunately crossed a threshold where the series has either played out its arc too many times or it has gone so far out into left field that it doesn’t even resemble the first one anymore. Sometimes, it’s just time for a series to die.

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