Pointing fingers and stealing endings

Helen Fielding deserves the blame here, folks. She won my heart through “Bridget Jones’s Diary” and then crushed it with “Mad About The Boy.” The former is one of my favorite books of all time. When I heard the news (spoiler alert), it felt like a punch to the gut.

I am sorry to say I did not give the book a chance— such was my misery. Instead, I listened to some crackpot critics and pushed its existence from my mind. However, my friend Moose was not to be deterred. She read the book and said it was better than she expected.

(So maybe we can blame both Fielding and Moose. They can be the Diabolical Duo in this story.)

Moose’s brief review (just a sentence really) bounced to the forefront of my mind as I wandered the library aisles recently. A thought came to me suddenly. An urge soon followed. What if I just read the last bit of the book? After all, Helen Fielding had done me wrong.

It was jolly and pleasant and awkward and dramatic and just as Bridget Jonesy as ever. ‘Maybe,’ I thought to myself, ‘I should have given this book a chance.’

I immediately wrote to Moose about my actions.

Her reply:


I am so angry at you for reading the last several pages!!! 

You know better than that, woman. 

You don’t deserve an ending unless you’ve read the whole book. 

How could you.”

How could I? Please. How could Ms. Fielding destroy my trust? I bought into her characters and the zany-fun format. As far as I could tell this series was not supposed to cause me pain. So, yes, when I considered the backstabbing turn of events, I thought it perfectly acceptable to read the end of the book.

You don’t deserve an ending unless you’ve read the whole book.

Is that really true? Maybe it makes me a better Bookworm to see a story through to the end in spite of the twists and turns, but does skipping really deem me undeserving of the ending? …It probably does. However, I still maintain this situation is partly Ms. Fielding’s fault. She did not control my actions, but she did trigger my frustrated response with her betrayal.

The two books prior to “Mad About The Boy” were filled with relationship woes, ridiculous friends, mortifying moments, and much f***wittage. There were no signs of true tragedy. Sadness is not what I signed up for when I fell in love with the first book! (As a teen I purposefully avoided Lurlene McDaniel and Nicholas Sparks books #notworthit). How dare she try to make me swallow that pill in the final installment.

And you know what? I completely understand tragedy popping up in odd moments— provided it fits with the storyline pattern. Is the book in question set in a dystopia? Characters will die. Are you reading “A Series of Unfortunate Events”? The title kind of gives a HUGE hint. Can the book be found in the thriller, action, horror, etc. sections? Read at your own risk. Have you fallen under the spell of the frizzy-bearded wizard George R. R. Martin? The guy barely gives you a chance to mourn one death before the next slaughterfest.

All I am saying is most of the time there is some time of WARNING and sometimes there is not (coughFIELDINGcough).

Feel free to unleash any blistering arguments in favor of Moose’s judgment. I’m sure you’ll have no problem (and maybe a little fun) knocking down my defense. And you know what? I’m probably going to add the third BJones book to my #readinglist2015 anyway.

Point to you, Fielding.


Hello, my name is — and I’m a Bookaholic.

My favorite hideouts have always been found nestled between the pages of a good book. There is nothing quite so thrilling as a new world unfurling and growing roots in the imagination. Characters shift from strangers to companions to confidants with each flip of a page.

I have been a lover of good (and sometimes not-so-good) books since I was in first grade. It actually came as quite a surprise. Ear issues and school transfers almost slated me for special education. My mother would not hear of it— and not because it would have made me less to be in a comprehensive development classroom. She just knew with that innate parent sense all I needed was a little extra TLC.

She was right. It wasn’t long before I was scouring the library shelves for my next Reader’s High. The feeling was addicting.

A small part of me honestly believes my love for books (and OK a slight shyness around males) blinded me to puberty for a good four years. My friends regaled me with tales of their romantic entanglements and I was all #immaletyoufinish, but #letmetellyouaboutthisbook.

Bookworm Problem memes seriously get me:

No. 37: Pronouncing a word incorrectly because you’ve read it hundreds of times but never heard it said aloud.

There is never enough space in your bag for all the books you want to bring with you.

#430 Having to find the perfect position that satisfies the right angle of reading while keeping your entire body warm under a blanket.

And, of course: Leave me alone to mourn the deaths of fictional characters I have become overly attached too. (I’d glare John Green’s way, but I’m pretty sure he uses our fiery stares to keep warm during these long, cold months.)

So, yeah, I’m a Bookworm. My idea of a good evening involves a book. If you add a good movie, some fellow geeky friends, and a bookshelf bursting with old favorites then the night is bumped up to fan-friggen-tastic.