Reading into the wee hours by Kindle light, I finally reach the end, and close the book, unsatisfied.

As writers strive in the most graphic fashion to portray the sadistic underbelly of our society, I find it difficult to keep reading to the last page. Any chance of any character enjoying a lasting relationship is tossed over the railing and dashed on the concrete below. On more than one occasion, I have stopped a few chapters into a book and deleted it from my Kindle because the author has failed to provide me any thread of empathy for their tortured, misguided characters. I simply don’t care whether the main character finds the revenge or closure that he seeks, knowing that he will undoubtably implode before he learns anything about life.

In the tales I favor evil abounds, but it follows rules that allow the amateur hero to navigate through his quest, wounded but wiser for his experiences. Happy endings are earned by the pure of heart. There is peace after the conflict. Although some may call me romantic, I often find that this is the true rhythm of life. “To everything there is a season…”

Real life can be bleak enough. We cut flowers to sit in vases in our homes, bringing the riotous color of nature into our beige kitchens. For me, it is the same with novels. Even if my path is not colorful and fragrant, the book I cuddle up with in my bed should at least satisfy me with characters that set the world right and live to toast it with their comrades.

I long for a happy ending.