I’m really hoping that when this post is published I will be hit with an onslaught of readers who tell me this isn’t silly at all, that every one who reads feels this way. But I ain’t too sure…

So here it is, I cannot leave a book unfinished. Even if I hate it. Even if it is written in the most convoluted ugly prose ever. Even if it is full of misspellings and grammatic errors the size of the grand canyon. Even if there are plot holes big enough for Pluto to fall through and put an end to this whole planet/not a planet bull. I can’t, I can’t put it down and walk away.

It’s like they call to me. “Come back, I know I’m the worst friend you ever had but you won’t know what happens if you don’t keep reading.”

And that’s how they lure me back in. I have to know. No, seriously, I HAVE TO KNOW.

I cannot sleep at night unless I know how every story turns out. And books are the worst. Maybe because they are my oldest friends. I need to know each one inside and out so I can put the relationship in proper perspective.

But I did it, finally, recently, I returned a book to the library unfinished. It hurt. A lot.

Behold, the miracle, I left a book undone.

So tell me, am I alone in this compulsion?