One indulges in it. Like a soak in a hot bath. Or sipping a perfectly chilled glass of pinot grigio. It’s that first bite of chocolate, followed by the second, and the third. The wrap of a blanket on a chilly night. Likewise, a good book.

If you’re not savouring, you’re doing it wrong.

We know what that hot soak will do for our bodies. Hell, our psyche. Chances are we’ve tasted wine, felt the comfort of a blanket, and used chocolate to get over a hump or two. How those things taste and feel are no surprise.

Those long walks on the beach, or the trail, or the streets? The paths you’ve walked many times? And will continue to walk? Are enjoyed because we know where we’ll end up back home, safe and sound. The pleasure is found in how it makes us feel. The surprises we encounter along the way. The things we learn about the world around us and ouselves.

Somehow in the world of books we’ve gotten into the habit of trivializing happy endings. And happily-ever-after books? Scoffed at. Disparaged. And belitted. Many will not admit to enjoying them in their many forms. Yet book sales suggest that the opposite is true.

This happens for many reasons, I suppose. The most quoted is the lack of a surprise ending. But like that soak, or walk, or trip to the spa, it’s what we figure out about ourselves during the experience that counts. It’s the need for relief. Or sanctuary. It’s a pause in a busy life. A reset. A chance to forget about what needs doing on the morrow.

One type story is not superior to another. They are simply different.  And one should not be made to feel inferior because one prefers one over the other.

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