Writing Screwed Up My Reading
I have always been a bookworm. But to my dismay, once I decided to study the craft of writing and become a full time writer four years ago, something terrible happened to my ability to enjoy reading. At first, when I was newly in the throes of being bitten by the writing bug, I had no desire to read at all, I just wanted to write. However, after a few months I longed for the escape and relaxation that reading had always brought me.
To my dismay, almost every book I picked up and tried to start reading I had to put right back down. All I could seem to do was pick apart the actual writing, or the plot, or the character descriptions. It was torture, I tell you! That was in the first year or so that I was writing full time. Now I CAN read a good book all the way through and not think about the mechanics of the writing.
Still, like yesterday when I tried to read a book by James Grippando–a writer who usually does a great job–called LYING WITH STRANGERS, and within the first two chapters he unrealistically had twin nurses, cardboard characters, one who was bad mouthing a doctor to her face-right, like that happens–then the doctor shoots a gun through the wall and accidentally shoots the nurse in the butt–oh my God–THEN, the doctor’s coworkers throw her a surprise birthday party a week after her birthday because they said if they had done it on her birthday it wouldn’t have been a surprise–what the hell, ever–I had to lay that sucker down. What crap!
If you enjoyed this post, please consider to leave a comment or subscribe to the feed and get future articles delivered to your feed reader.
Comments
No comments yet.
Leave a comment