Writers' endings versus readers' endings

I finished reading Juliet, Naked the other day.  It was a shockingly fast read, and it was another book that fell into what I've been thinking of as easy reads -- the kind of book I've been admiring lately.  Funny, straightforward, gently observant and sometimes melancholy and imaginative.  I liked it a lot, although I got to the end and (without risking spoilers) thought huh, that's not what I want to happen.  I had a memory, too, of my friend J. reading this novel and asking me if I'd read it and wanting to chat about how things turned out.  (Note to self: follow up on this.)

At the same time, though, the ending as written feels realistic, at least realer than what I wanted to happen possibly could be.  Of course, much of what happens in the novel is improbable and a little fantastic, and I think Nick Hornby could have, if he'd wanted to, written an ending that might have been more satisfying in terms of wrapping everything up neatly.  But I got the sense when I was reading that Hornby was deliberately resisting that kind of ending, and I respected the choice, as much as I wished for something else.  I had the thought as I closed in upon the final pages: this is a writer's ending.  The writer feels some kind of responsibility to the truth, to the truth of his characters or the world as it really is or he sees it.  But as a reader, I wanted something else.  I wanted to know everybody I'd come to care about was going to be okay and get what they wanted.

But then I thought, well... I can just make up my own ending anyway.  That's the beauty of fiction.  I kind of closed my eyes and forgot the last ten to twenty pages and made up something else instead.

feed a cold

Is it feed a cold and starve a fever?  That's the principle I've been operating under today...the feeding bit, that is.  I think I have a cold that's starting to take hold.  Apparently, it makes me want to rhyme when I haven't got time, too.

I'll stop that.

It has been an interesting week.  Some late nights, some good chats, a power dinner, an old friend visiting from Hawaii.  Not nearly enough sleep.  Lots of plans being made for the next few months.  Ironing out the hiccups of some of the book launch plans (keep your fingers crossed for me, please).   

I haven't read any Truman Capote, though just this morning on my Goodreads feed I saw that somebody I'm friends with there gave five stars to In Cold Blood, which I've been meaning to read.  But I love this photo of him below at his home that I stumbled upon today.  I love the warm colours with the pops of turquoise and the mix of patterns and flowers and curios.  It's my favourite from this series on Buzzfeed of writers at home.  

I admit it: I love brocade wallpaper. 

I had ambitions of finishing my hat tonight in front of the television, but I was too zoned out to pay attention and I kept making mistakes as I began to do decreases towards the crown.  Oh well.  

Right now I'm going to go boil water for Neocitron and get into bed and read Juliet, Naked.  This morning on the metro I was wishing that there were enough Nick Hornby books to read every morning on my way to work.