Chapter One.

Have you ever felt like you are a character in a book which finished and you missed the memo? That feeling as though somewhere you should have made a different decision, because now everything has moved on without you and you are left with nothing but a blank page.

Looking back, I can describe my life in distinct stories. Some earlier ones would be books about horses. A series of books about hilarious travelling mishaps, exploring breathtaking new places and sleeping under the stars. There would be many short stories involving lawless and free-spirited nightlife, and a thriller or two usually resulting in the near death of my heart. Some of the more recent ones are even in different languages.

Each story captivates; beginning with everything is fresh and new. Characters are introduced and evolve over time, deepening and gaining importance. The story builds momentum through emotional moments; sometimes a love interest, sometimes a scandal. The world manifests through the creation of memories and residual emotions carve a map around their story.

Each chapter so deeply rich in its characters and feelings, but undeniably unique. Sometimes a character dies that I am really attached to and those books are really tough. The ones involving animals are almost unbearable.

But as with all stories and feelings and sentences and books; pages turn, chapters end, and the characters trail off into their own stories. In my life I have turned these pages many times. School finished. Jobs change. The tight knit group of friends move away. The horse dies. And like the feeling you get when you finish the final chapter of a really great story, all you have left behind is that ache in your stomach and the world seems rather empty, like that final blank page.

I have put down the book and I am sitting with the nostalgic ache trying to decide if I even like reading anymore. All the characters moved on leaving a Paris sized void echoing memories like ghosts as I walk through the streets alone. I was so caught up in the story that I barely noticed. A juxtaposition of pleasure and pain that I feel inclined to preserve as it is.

If so, which book comes next? Do I have the courage to start a new author or genre, or am I too deeply attached to the comfort of the world and characters that swept me away? The irrational fear that no world could ever come close to the beauty and depth of those I have already discovered.

I look forward to life proving me wrong.