I’ve been known to take a book off the shelf and skip right to the last page. I don’t care about how a book ends so much as how I feel at the end. Some would say it’s the same thing, but I’d disagree.
I don’t need a plot to know there is joy, tragedy, and death. I don’t need characters drawn out in order to know that their lives will be filled with disappointment, inequality, and experiences of both real and artificial love. I don’t need to relate to the premise or the time period to know that all lives are inextricably intertwined with and without the grace of approval.
All I need to know is if I might cry, because that is the emotion that makes the words real, even if only for the amount of time it takes to live within several hundred or several thousand pages.
When I meet people I look in their eyes, feel something, and in my heart turn to the page of goodbye, then envision myself to see if I’m crying. That’s how I know. That’s how I knew. And I did cry, and I do cry.
That’s a good story and a real love.
Don’t ever apologize for knowing the end and still having the courage to play a main character.