By: Nicholas Sparks
I realize in some ways that my literary life this month is as girlly as can be. My reading was on hold as I prepared for The Vagina Monologues, a production that opened only a few days before. Before bed, I’ve been reading a chapter here and there of a Jane Austen novel, my first. Tonight though, I decided to take a break from both of those things, when I found my unread copy of The Notebook in a box.
I must say that my initial reaction was disappointment. Another story about a woman emotionally cheating on her intended with a man she loved a lifetime before? Am I missing some important female gene that makes this not appealing? As the story continued though, I became more and more invested. I did care about these characters, and I found myself believing that their love was something special.
Then, right as I was about to give the book a chance, Nicholas Sparks threw me and the story became spectacular. Those who have read the book or have seen the movie (which I will be watching sometime within the week) probably know of what I speak. A drastic time jump, which suddenly made the tale heartbreaking and tragic in an all too real way. I felt tears stinging my eyes, tears that fifteen pages before I would have found improbable.
And I suppose, that’s really what the story is about. Not the first 150 pages, which merely introduce you to our characters, but the final 60 pages, which I feel, read like a true love story. Not a romance novel, which was what I felt I was getting into at first. But a love story.
There’s a difference.
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