Hubby walked into the bedroom last night and saw me sitting in bed, reading, as I liked to do while I’m waiting for the Tylenol PM to kick in. But he couldn’t resist a jab at me when he saw I was reading one of my own books.
"Don’t you already know how it’s going to end?"
Please tell me I’m not the only person who does this. Please assure me that there are other authors out there who read their own books, not to see how many places they can find where they wish they could re-edit (I know some people who do that), but just for the pure and simple pleasure of reading a story they love, and that they loved writing.
I’ve had people tease me about it. Sometimes their comments sting. Am I being egotistical when I pack one of my print editions to take with me on a trip?
Seriously, I don’t think so. When I go back to read something I wrote two, three, or more years ago, I remember how good it felt to be involved in the characters and their story. The book is almost like Linus’s favorite blanket—it’s comforting, and it’ll always be there for me when I need it, even if it goes out of print.
And, yes, I do know how it ends. Which might lead to a sequel, come to think of it.