So I hit the finish line. Satisfied in an odd way. Completed a novel in a long while. It took around Six years to be precise! Make no mistake, it is about reading. Not writing (can't imagine how long that would have taken - a lifetime, may be). I always wanted to have a thing for reading novels. But guess it was more of a wannabe thing. You want an ideal version of you. And you try to be that for a couple of days under constant fear of the "real you" watching. And then, one tiny baby of a reason flips it. "Ideal you" is thrown out of the window. That key fob of the gym becomes a relic of the older golden age. The book you bought rests forever face down on the lower shelf of your coffee table. Real you is such a bully. "Ideal you" awaits for the next immediate reason for a turnaround. That reason can be anything, say an eyeopener talk with a friend, like "we've got to workout else we may end up getting a heart attack!" or a new year resolu...