When a book I love is ending—no matter how devastating the final pages, no matter how desperate I am to know how things will turn out, and what the very last line will say to me—I slow down. Like a kid on a bike heading downhill, I use both my brakes and my feet, let the rubber soles burn off, will the book to magically grow longer before my eyes.

One musn’t wait too long before committing to the next book, though: this is how reading ruts begin. …

What I need is a rebound book, a palate cleanser.  Maybe today I’ll search for a thick-but-lightweight, no-strings-attached thriller, something that can rope me in quickly, make me forget, at least temporarily, the heartbreak I felt over the last book leaving me.

Elizabeth Ames Staudt