Womblin’s World

I know it’s not technically reading, but I discovered this today. Good, eh? It gives me a chance to indulge my weakness for the well-endowed voice — and especially the rough-velvet timbres of Sir Richard Burton — performing auditory massage on my poor, abused ears. Nothing like a Thomas classic while packing ready for a beach-cleaning excursion on the Llyn Penisula* next week. Heavenly.

And while listening is not really reading, (yet can be in some ways better) I do also have a novel near-finished that I started about a week ago. Sounds like I’m a slow reader, eh? Well no. I’m quite fast actually, I just don’t have much time in which to do it. I read in five or ten, sometimes only one or two, minute sections, grabbing a few words in between other Real Life goings on. Having food in the vicinity, such as dinner or lunch, is always a boon though. It means I might actually squeeze a whole quarter of an hour extra out of the day for this little pleasure if no one talks to me.

Evenings, of course, are dedicated to writing fiction, blogging and catching up with whatever editing jobs need doing. I also read and critique for a few fellow writers and, whilst this could be construed as reading for pleasure, there’s always an element of nit-picking and opinion needed from me. As of course is the case when the writerly tables are turned and the critiquer’s hat is on the other foot.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand: what I’m reading. Though my small digression was warranted here, as you will see. The novel is by a British author who shall remain nameless because I once loved what he did. The last time I read anything by him was in the eighties/early to mid nineties when horror was the buzzword all around the Western world and everyone was writing it. Indeed everyone wanted to be Stephen King**. In a word or three: I was young.

I read this book initially when I was 21 and thought it okay, but you know I really do think it might have been the very last thing I read by this particular author. And the reason why became agonisingly clear at around twenty pages in this past week — the writing annoys me.

There are adverbs tripping over themselves to slow the prose down — too many. There is head-hopping galore without a sniff of a transition — two, sometimes three characters in a scene. And the women are blatantly dainty and meek — all the better to strengthen the wimpy male lead, methinks. Erg. All in all, I’ve struggled against my youthful self loving this author, and am using experience and age to ask WTF?

Mostly, I am gutted.

Now, I do not hold with the majority of writers on the Internet who say that all ‘ly’ adverbs should be banished from one’s prose, because one which is well-placed has as much right to be there as any other well-chosen word.

And I’m not opposing a well-placed and suitably transitioned POV swap once, perhaps twice, in a novel should the plot warrant it.

But the thing is this, the reason I am gutted, is that my youth deceived me: I seriously thought that because this guy was a best-selling author (like SK) that he was good. Ah well.

What of the weak female character, I hear you cry? Well, weak female characters will always annoy me, no matter who writes them, male or female.

Anyway, that’s my week’s reading for pleasure — more listening that aught, but hey.

Next week, I’m reading something that has won prizes, just to be on the safe side — Chocolat, by Joanne Harris. Can’t go wrong there. Surely?

And I promise to make this section more reading than writing too, next week. I’ve a fellow writer’s book to review as well as reading Chocolat – a pleasure long ago promised, but yet to emerge from these busy fingers, so this category should be busy.

~Womblin~

*A bit of Wales that sticks out into the Irish Sea. Lovely.

**Everyone still does, I hear you cry? Well, not this writer, though I can appreciate what and how he writes.