Oh, you guys, I’ve got literary funk! You know it: the empty void that only gets larger and more depressing as you near the end of a great book — one that you really connect to. I hate that feeling. I know I have already said it, but I will say it again: I finished The Hunger Games trilogy last Thursday. Since then, I have wondered around feeling empty and sad. It’s as if the time spent reading all three books filled a part of my life I didn’t even know needed filling.
As I neared the last one-hundred pages of Mockingjay, I whispered, “No.” It didn’t hear me. I then informed (demanded, really) the book to sprout more pages, that it could never, ever end. Never.
But it did end, and what am I supposed to do now?
I searched online out of mad desperation for THG spoilers. Spoilers? What spoilers? THE SERIES IS OVER. I want Collins to write additional novels, even though they would tarnish the story. I want leaked footage from the next film, but that is less likely to occur than me voluntarily weaning off caffeine tomorrow. It just isn’t happening no matter how badly I want it to. I keeping thinking there must be more, more, more, but I have explored all that The Hunger Games universe offers at this point.
This isn’t my first time experiencing this. I read a lot of books, but I only seem to strongly resonate with a few. I went through a freak-out grieving stage at the end of each Harry Potter book — although I have never officially dealt with the end of the series, as I intentionally stopped reading Deathly Hallows halfway. (Someday, I will get there. It’s on my summer reading list for a reason.)
So I wasted a short while finding a suitable replacement. (I hear good things about Veronica Roth’s Divergent?) As expected, it’s not as though I’m short on my book supply. I attempted to finish Mr. Fox or Half World, but neither are helping me replenish or forget the vast hole of nothingness inside. No, this is something only Katniss Everdeen can provide, but she’s busy existing in her non-existent world and probably hunting deer or exchanging squinty death glares with Haymitch.
The last time I found myself moping over a good book was after I finished The Perks of Being a Wallflower. A book so quotable and difficult to put down, and I remembered there is now a movie trailer floating around!
“It’s strange because sometimes, I read a book, and I think I am the people in the book.”
Which book did you last read that left you mourning its end? Tell me about it.