Into the Fire

Depending on what’s important to you about reading a book determines what you are willing to allow. If the plot is the mainstay of your reading endeavors, you will look past mediocre writing for a plotline that sustains your interest. In fact, if the plot is good enough, you might not even remember the quality of the writing. If you read to be engaged with new “people” in the form of characters you somehow feel close to or identify with, or perhaps the unique or quirky characters drive you deeper into their circumstances, then light or lagging plot lines will be easily ignored if the characters strike a homerun in your heart. Such are the lovers of “good reads”—willing to forego different parts of the total novel if enjoyment in all its various forms has been the result of reading it.

So, what will you look past? As a result of reading the technical manuals of novel writing, one can easily look past . . . nothing. We feel somehow proud of ourselves for tsk-ing at the pronounced use of telling, not showing. We shake our heads and scoff at the variations of “to be”—aka “was” verbs—instead of the use of scintillating action verbs thrust into places where they probably ought not to be but this is what the writing gurus tell us should happen more often than not. When we’re all done assessing and critiquing this novel we picked up to read because we wanted to enjoy the thing, we’ve trashed it by the final page and thrown up our hands in dismay, wondering how in the world of publishing-land this novel ever made it through the pub board, let alone the senior acquisitions editor.

I read a few novels with that mindset, after writing several of my own and reading several of the manuals. No more. I either like an author or I don’t. Their style and story appeal to me or they don’t. I’m not trashing anyone’s writing ways anymore. If I happen to find a novel where I really do wonder what the heck the publishers were thinking when they went to the expense of producing the thing, I will not comment publicly. Too many people can say the same things about my own work (if it was published), and it hurts to hear it.

That’s not to say I won’t speak up about a novel I don’t like, but, let’s face it, who can write a novel that everyone likes? Who? I’m convinced there’s an audience for most well-written books, and by “well-written” I mean technically sound, professionally presented, whether or not it’s a romance, historical, lit, or thriller. No one who is a real reader wants to read stuff that reminds them of junior high school diaries or college journals. At least I don’t.

It’s much like certain films. We happen upon them and fall in love with them, yet they’re panned by the critics, visit the box office for a short run before appearing on DVD quickly after their big screen debut. Or the critics loved the film, and it makes us gag. The who’s who in filmmaking cannot understand why no one wanted to see the despicable thing, or when they did, they badmouthed it to anyone who would listen to them—and it’s obvious by the numbers that many did in fact listen to the naysayers.

If you read with critical intent—and I don’t think you have to take this to a high level even if you’re a book reviewer—the ability to enjoy a book is severely impacted. Really it’s all about liking or not liking the story. Know what you like and, if you must review a book that’s not your preference, be fair. Admit to yourself and whoever else is exposed to your reviews that you’re not the target audience. If you think the writer is amateurish, don’t shred him. Maybe state that you prefer a higher level of such and such.

Although novels can accomplish so much more than just a pleasurable read, their first objective is to entertain. If an author fails to do that for you, before you analyze the work, analyze your own approach to the book. Were you looking for failure? Were you expecting too much, considering it was marketed as light reading? Examine your desires for a particular novel before you ever pick it up. We simply won’t like some—even if they come highly touted. They won’t be our style, our favorite flavor. That doesn’t mean the work is inferior. It might mean it’s simply not for us.

And, as writers, we need the ability to look past a book we don’t particularly like—even if everyone else is recommending it, lauding the writing, and anticipating the next one from the author. We don’t have to like it. It wasn’t written for us.

You don’t get points for recognizing current writing faux pas. Just because you can recite verbatim the recommendations of agents and editors as evidenced on so many of the current blogs or professional sites, it doesn’t win you any special favor. While I don’t disagree with current trends, I do disagree with every writer using them. Then we get carbon copied styles and formulaic novels where everyone reading them can point out what was done “right” but with little else to recommend them.

Father, you are the supplier of all talent. You give generously and creatively. Help those of us you’ve called to write do so to honor you and bring you praise. And help us to be grateful for whatever you have for us to do. Thank you for the opportunity to create for your pleasure and purpose. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

*Please continue to pray for Kristy Dykes.*