I pause, then restart, reading more slowly. I savour every word, reluctant to let go, longing to create a story as gripping as this next time I sit down to write. Sometimes I look back at the beginning, in order to keep the end at bay for longer. I work through it again, trying to guess, without actually wanting to, what the outcome will be.
When I reach the end, I hope I won't be disappointed. Often I love it. Occasionally I feel slightly let down, cheated out of my high expectations.
The problem for my own writing is that I race through it when I edit. I feel almost embarrassed, as if this can't possibly be any good. Thankfully I'm often surprised and pleased with it on the whole. I remind myself that the whole point of this is to find mistakes and make improvements. I can't expect the perfection I find in other people's work. I'm always my own harshest critic.
I hope that one day, perhaps after putting a story away for a while, I shall read one of mine and slow right down, putting off the end until the last moment.