When I was a kid, I used to always read the last page of a book first.
I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stand spending an entire book without already knowing the ending. You know that saying, ‘it’s not the destination, but the journey that matters’? I thought those people were CRAZY. I wouldn’t go somewhere without intending to reach a destination (this is why I hate exercise, because it’s largely about the journey, not the destination).
To me, it was never about the journey. It was always about the destination. I hated taking the scenic route. I hated wasting time. I just wanted to reach my destination faster.
However, my habit of reading the last page first often spoiled things. That was the whole point. I was a fast reader, but I was too impatient to wait for the ending. I needed to know how it ended.
The last page also often didn’t make much sense. An author had spent time, often years, crafting a beautiful story with the perfect ending, only for me to blunder in and see who was still alive and which plot points were still relevant. Often there were characters on the last page not even mentioned in the blurb. It was confusing.
Somewhere along the way, I cured myself of this terrible habit.
This is part of why I really like thrillers on audio and don’t really read physical copies, so I can’t spoil it for myself. I’m forced to go along with the narrator’s pace. Sometimes I go looking for spoilers from fellow book reviewers, but often no one mentions the thing I’ve noticed, wondered about, obsessed over.
But the temptation is always there.
A few months ago, before I got really sick, I caught myself flipping to the last page, looking for a spoiler. It was a typical unrequited romance book with a queer twist, and the blurb was pretty enticing: but I didn’t want to get invested in reading it if I was going to end up being disappointed by who the character chose to be with in the end.
The funny thing is now that I don’t even remember the ending, but I must have been satisfied because I bought the book!