It’s Over. The End.


When finishing a great book it leaves me feeling either one of these two things.

1.Happy, excited to discover a new story. I also feel like I’m a bit of a fraud. If I liked the book that much then why am I ready to betray it by starting another one right away? I should at least take a day to ponder the characters, the plot, the writing before I jump into the next one, right? This continues by me either ignoring those thoughts and continuing to be happy about finally reading a book and getting out of a slump or by getting into an even worse slump.


2. Disconnected but inspired. What should I do now? I continue through life with this constant voice in my head. A narrator who mimics the style of the book and retells my everyday life as it unfolds in front of my eyes. “J,K and M heading to the capitol. Nothing like a ‘big city’ to escape from reality.”
Then the feeling of being inspired arrives. One of the main characters writes a book and I decide that I want to as well. I try to come up with a plot but realise that for the book to be perfect I have to sit down and plan every scene before I can start writing. As I have only come up with the basic outline of the story this kind of planning could take ages. Do I really have time for it right now? It eventually stops with me procrastinating until the idea of writing a book is a faint memory of me trying something I most probably won’t be able to accomplish.

I have to admit that movies and tv-series sometimes has this effect on me also. So what inspired me to write this? That’s one secret I’ll never tell.

➢ M


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