I’ve spent the past few days refusing to admit being hooked onto another one of Nicholas Sparks’s novels. I don’t know why I keep reading them. It’s almost like every time I open one, I immediately think to myself, “This one will be different. No twists. No reasons to chuck this fifteen-dollar purchase across the room. And no death. Just a simple, happy love story. Right?”
It’s okay. I can handle it. And the thing is, I probably will keep reading his work no matter how many times I promise myself I’ll stop. Why? Because what’s the fun in reading a book that doesn’t make you want to throw it down a ravine in a fit of grief and frustration? Exactly. I mean, I can’t write like him, but hey, I can dream. Can’t I?
Or I could just keep writing and see what happens.
I don’t think you understand how sad I am that I didn’t find this one a few days ago. So let’s pretend it’s still the Fourth of July and appreciate our flag-bearer for a moment.
Relevance? No, not really. It’s just a cloudy Saturday afternoon, and I’m procrastinating (it’s Sparks’s fault, let’s boycott!) and know I shouldn’t let myself up my word count any more today until I get more homework done. I have a paper due tomorrow.
Oh. I honestly forgot about that until just now.
More importantly, I’ve passed 8,000 words and my characters have minds of their own. Dana was originally supposed to be quiet, brunette and a non-athlete. Now she’s sarcastic and a 5’10” volleyball-playing blonde. Whatever. I guess they have a right to decide what they look like.
I can’t believe I just wrote that.