AUTHOR Anne loiselle

To everything there is an upside, and a downside. Embarking on the path of authorship is no different, and I didn’t expect it to be. One particular downside, though, has come as a complete surprise to me: as a writer, I find I am much less of a reader. This doesn’t make sense, as reading a lot seems to be a prerequisite to writing, and to improving one’s capability. In fact, being a reader was the thing that drove me to want to write. And yet here I am, writing and not reading all that much.

In the throes – and excitement – of my first book, I remember being afraid that if I started reading a book in between writing sessions, I would unconsciously adopt that author’s voice and style. I also didn’t want to be distracted from figuring out my own plot by others’ dramatic reveals. And of course, I felt guilty spending time reading someone else’s book when I needed to be working on my own. So, I read very little the entire time I was writing, editing, re-editing, and even at the proofreading stage of my book. After that, though, it took me a long time to come around again. Nothing seemed to hold my interest the way I used to love to read: a few big, long gulps over the course of just a day or so! What changed? Part of me wonders if it has something to do with all of the things I learned about the “rules” of fiction writing this past year; am I subconsciously critiquing writers on their adherence to some standard I cared nothing about before? Or have my tastes changed, and my buying habits have not yet caught up?

I’m now working on book two, and while I still have some of the same concerns that I did during book one, they are not nearly as acute. For one thing, I have a solid model of voice and characterization to follow, making it harder to swerve off course. For another, the plot for this one is already formed in my mind (as opposed to book one, when I had no idea how things would unfold until very late in the day). Even so, I’m astonished at how few books I’ve read this year: two, to be exact, and it is now April. I have two others that I’ve started but, very unusually for pre-writing me, I’ve put them down and feel no particular drive to pick them up again.

Reading is so basic, a sine qua non for me. It is distraction, diversion, entertainment, relaxation, and guilty pleasure, and provides me a wealth of information, motivation, and pathways for imagination. Of all things, this diminution of delight in reading is the one that has made me question how long I may continue to write. I simply must have the joy of settling down to a good book as something to anticipate, to relish. If not that, then what? I draw a blank here. I like tv, movies, YouTube, surfing, and a few games apps as much as anyone, but these don’t give me the deep satisfaction of reading, and I don’t look forward to the time I can spend on them in the same way. There is no replacement.

For now, I’m using awareness to nudge myself back to being a reader as much as a writer. I’m turning to authors I’ve loved in the past, thinking tried and true will enchant me again. It’s a strange sensation, though, this ongoing dispassion. I’m not aware of such a syndrome in other writers. Is this some bizarre anomaly, or is this something everyone experiences but no one seems to mention? And how do others deal with it – accept and move on? Or is there something that brings the reading passion back? If there are any blogs or articles about this topic, shoot me a link! Now, that would make very compelling reading.

The Perfect Summer’s Day…