So Many Books, So Little Time

I’m a reader. A voracious reader. I’ve been tracking my reading for over 15 years and on average, I read 53 books a year. One a week. This is why That Man calls me “Reado the Reado Wife.”

Now, that includes everything — books I re-read, Kindle editions, and Middle Grade and YA (research, don’t you know).

I read to be entertained and educated. But interestingly enough, I don’t read like a writer. At a recent book club meeting, another member, also a writer, mentioned how he had a terrible time enjoying the book because the author head-hopped and as a writer, it drove him crazy.

I didn’t even notice.

I was swept along in the story, the characters, and the intrigue and didn’t even notice the nuts and bolts of writing. Things I work hard on at my desk, I completely missed on the couch.

And this may be why my writing falls short so often. As a reader, I’m easily swept away into the story. As a writer, I’m easily dazzled by my own perceived brilliance. As I read my own work, the world of my own creation comes alive with just a key stroke and my imagination runs amok in a world where the details aren’t quite there, yet. Since it’s my world, I see it, though my reader may not.

The power of suggestion is strong in this one.

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