I finished reading a book yesterday. It’s a pretty well distributed and reviewed book, and it was good. Really it was. It didn’t pull me in and make me stay up late to finish it, but I liked it and was concerned about who was going to be killed with a broken broom handle.
But then it got to the end, and it was just over. It wasn’t a lights out — everyone is dead, or an epic walk into the victorious sunset. It didn’t even leave me questioning the meaning of what I had read. It was like the author got to her decided word count and said, “Yay, me, I finished!” and then there was no more story.
This frustrates me on two levels.
First, I have the whole I’m going to end a four book series soon and what if my readers think I’ve done the same thing to them but I know I can’t possibly please everyone gut-wrenching fear.
And then I have the I just wasted my time reading your book and you left me with a heroine with a super natural, most likely fatal disease chained to a wall with a video camera frustration. Are you trying to leave it open ended in case you decide to write a sequel (which I Googled, and there isn’t one currently planned)? Are you trying to let people decide if her boyfriend eats her or not?
I wasn’t given enough clues to know which way it was going to go. And there wasn’t even a clear thing to hope for and decide that in my head that definitely had to be the way it ended.
So I’m left with nothing. Not even a gut-wrenching end where the people I love most are dead. I don’t even feel conclusive enough about what happened to write a decisive blog post. I’m not even left empty enough by the experience to declare myself empty. Just a little paranoid as an author and with the distinct need of a palate cleanse as a reader.
So I’m gonna go… I don’t know, do something. Maybe with a potential outcome of something or other. Yep. Like that.