I was reading a book and my inner witch began to emerge. She’s a snarky girl who sneers at the characters, provides a sarcastic running commentary and picks apart the author photo (or lack thereof).
And yet, I finish the story.
It must be my inner masochist (nestled closely by my inner witch because she’s a, you know, masochist), she wants me to finish every book I read because ‘think of the poor authors labor of love, which too months if not years to complete’ (at the thought of years spent on such drivel my inner witch emerges until my masochist distracts her with some raw meat).
Of the thousands of books I’ve read, I’ve only stopped reading about a handful. Interestingly enough, the same logic doesn’t apply to movies which I’d leave in a heartbeat (think of the millions spent on production!), or Youtube videos (the hours editing!), or music (the files mastering!). But with books I’ll go the distance even if there’s a sex scene before page twenty five, a vampire book with vampire in the title, or a main character as insecure as heck. I’m always holding out hope that it’ll get better by the next chapter.
Sometimes it does.
Sometimes my inner witch emerges.