I’m reading The Fault in our Stars by John Green, and I’m pretty much obsessed with it. I’ve basically given up eating, bathing and talking to my husband because I can’t put it down.
I’ve always loved to read, but a lot of the time, books are somewhat predictable. You can tell right away what’s going to happen, or else it starts out really well and you start to get excited, and then the ending feels rushed and contrived, and it’s really disappointing.
I should probably finish reading it, I suppose, before I write something about it, but writing a book is hard. Like really hard. It’s easy to get distracted, or to get pulled away from your original idea, and before you know it you don’t have any idea who your characters are, or why they are doing what they are doing.
A lot of the time I will read a book and think “That’s not how I would have done it” or “I could definitely write a better novel than this.” It’s easy to criticize when it’s not your work.
But sometimes I read a book like this one, and instead of being filled with questions or criticism, I am just utterly content because somewhere out there is someone writing the story exactly the way you would do it, and it gives you hope that it is actually possible to do, and to do well.
It seems like all of the good stories have already been told, every movie you see is a sequel or a remake, every book you read follows the same plot lines and has the same type of character. But this one is special. I almost don’t want to finish it because either it will not be as good as I thought it was and that will be sad, or it will be, and then it will be over and that will be even sadder.
loveliness. 