As a child, I could read anything.
As a teenager, I could read anything with an interesting story.
As an adult, I can read read anything with an interesting story… So long as the writing is well written.
Much like discovering your favorite childhood snack tastes like plastic or that the overcrowded waterpark off the highway doesn’t hit like it use to, I have found, in all my pretentious confessions, that I developed taste. Now I’m not saying it’s good taste mind you, but gone are the days where I can pick up literally anything and read. I have become, to my chagrin, a picky reader.
I use to be an avid reader. I would read when walking, read between classes, even at times hide a book in my textbooks just to read. But through college and a large chunk of my adulthood I took a hiatus. Between getting my first job out of college, dealing with relationships, COVID, and a whole host of other mundane issues that come with being an adult, hobbies and interests took a back burner.
My reentry came at an interesting time, a time when I was feeling unfulfilled at my job and longing for a new creative outlet. Cue the romantasy series every girl knows, one that was introduced to me by a gushing friend and one that you probably already know the name of based on the title of this ramble.
I love romance, I love fantasy—I should love this, right? She let me borrow her book, told me to tell her once I finished so I can start the second. I opened it, excited and a little nervous to be reading again after so many years without a book in hand, and…
“Her bowels turned to water.”
I remember reading that phrase and frowning. Odd choice of words. Then I saw it again. And again. It was so jarring, I took a snapchat of it and sent it to my friend who lent me the book. “What, is she just walking around with constant diarrhea?”
I knew from context clues what the phrase was trying to convey, but it did not hit. And that one awkward phrase that was brought up again and again made me ask: why did this sentence turn me off from the story as soon as I read it?
I didn’t ‘hate’ the book, but I didn’t love it either. Still, I read the rest, partially out of obligation, partially not wanting to experience FOMO, and ended with a lukewarm opinion. My friend described it as like reality TV, something fun and silly you’re not meant to look too hard behind the curtain of. It’s not suppose to be taken seriously.
I found another series, similar in theme, that I did end up falling in love with and, wanting to chase that high (or obsession, because that’s what it feels like when the story is that good), I started browsing through recommendations. I read a few but none captured the true essence of what I liked about the first series, and one in particular really caught my ire.
At this point I realized writing style was a huge contingency point for me. If I don’t like the authors writing style, I can’t get into it. End of story, it’s a no go. This story, however, had a different fatal flaw.
To paint the picture it was a trilogy and I was on book three. Writing style was passable but I already had issues with the story. First, too many POVs (I think this story had around four), and second, which was painfully obvious in book three, there was too much telling, not enough showing. I was around half way through the book when a character, who is central to the plot but introduced much too late, went on a multiple page explanation about his backstory. Pages. I was so irritated I tossed the book aside and still haven’t finished it. It was not the worst book I’ve ever read, not by a long shot, but it was at that moment I thought: If they can write this, surely I can write something too.
And so my slow descent into hyper fixation began. I started to write, a story with no plans but with tropes and wording that I like. I went back and revised, rewrote parts, added details. I wrote that story for a year and a half before I put a pause on it and decided to pivot. I wanted to create something new, influenced by the stories I have fallen in love with, inspired by great authors like Kristin Hannah and R F Kuang.
I am far from a good writer, hell I’ve only been writing seriously for two years at this point, but I’ve found a passion that I lost and want to reclaim. I live to create things, not the other way around. Whether it be a painting, a story, a song or a poem, this is my passion and purpose in life. And I’m so glad I discovered it again.
Thank you for listening to my ramblings.