Jan 11 2008
The Mystery of the Book Blahs
I did a book purge, including a revisit of the Tower of Unfinishables (still unfinishable, even the two I forced myself to finish because I had quit more than halfway through them), and I believe I have discovered the source of my impatience with those books that frustrate, anger, and occasionally incite me to violent outbursts that damage the drywall.
At the beginning of 2007, which is when this heightened intolerance began, I turned a serious eye toward becoming published. This involved a lot of investigation into “What do they want?” and “What are they looking for?” and “What’s an instant turnoff?” and etc. (”They” being the agents and editors guarding the hallowed gates, and the answer to all those questions being “it varies, except when it doesn’t.”) Basically, I began trying to look at my own writing from more of an editor’s perspective.
Then followed a lot of cutting and tightening and reworking to strengthen those areas where my manuscript was clearly falling short. Not changing the story to make it fit a popular trend or to meet one particular person’s requirements, but ”this is a stronger starting point” and “less emphasis on this secondary character” and “this is unnecessary filler” kind of adjustments that made it even more the story I wanted to tell.
I can’t turn off the new reading style when reading for pleasure. Now when I read a book in which nothing happens in the first 50 pages or there’s idiotic chitchat (What year were you born?/1974./How old are you?—She can’t do the math? Why does she need his age, anyway? Is she filling out a freakin’ insurance form?) or there’s an intrusive amount of description or contradictory characterization (allegedly badass-warrior heroine stands around wringing her hands while her beloved sister is murdered five feet away) or any of the things I’ve had to work to weed out of my writing, I dismiss it as sloppy and lazy and don’t want to waste my time reading something the writer didn’t care enough about to shape up and the editor didn’t insist upon shaping up. I won’t invest my time when they didn’t, and I get grouchy that I invested my money.
It seems my enjoyment of reading has been permanently diminished. Which sucks, frankly. Used to be, every book I met was my friend, and now I view each one with distrust until it proves itself to me. But I feel better having Nancy Drewed the matter of one day at least liking 90 percent of what I read and the next day plummeting to half that, a threshold I can’t overcome.
It’s not you, Unfinishable Book That I Might Have Enjoyed Prior to 2007. It’s me.
But even though I may be judging you too harshly, I’ll still let the dog savage your carcass if you really piss me off, so watch your step…
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