I'm that kind of person; I always have been.
My first "series" was Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House on the Prairie books. From the time my grandmother gave me the first book in 1988 to the day I graduated from high school in 1998, I read and re-read this beloved series a total of ten times. Not a typo--I re-read every one in the 9-book series an average of once per year throughout my childhood and adolescence. I had favorites, sure, but every time I'd start at the beginning, and end at the end, and relish in every single minute of it. I grew up in a rural, desert-like place that often seemed quite removed from the rest of the world. Her stories of the West, of survival,family, and love helped me to romanticize the place where I lived, imagining how I could learn to be self-sufficient, how people could survive in a time without modern amenities.
Probably because of those positive experiences as a child, I've continued as a fan of series books. Unfortunately, as an adult, I've come across an unexpected and disturbing phenomenon-- the unfinished series. Few things have caused me more angst and frustration than starting a series, falling in love with it, speeding through as fast as I can, until suddenly I realize that I've come to a precipice and now have to teeter on the edge, cling on by my fingernails until the next book is released.