In response to a comment from a fellow writer, I wrote that I find I benefit from studying books that don’t work for me to understand what about them bothers me. I’m not talking about what I refer to as a floor model (there, that gives you an idea about my age. Used to be if I didn’t like a book, I’d toss it on the floor and start a new one. If I did that today, I’d have to go searching around under the furniture for the Kindle I’d just tossed.)

I explained that I’m currently reading a book written by the daughter of a very famous, accomplished author. The story is set in the same world as the original series, with many of the same characters. The writing is acceptable. In other words, I wouldn’t consider it a floor model. It’s good enough to keep me reading without me groaning, rolling my eyes, and/or flinching.

However, it’s not one that would make me want to read the rest of the series. I was nine years old when I read the mother’s first Nebula Award-winning book. When I reached the end of that first novel, I had to find the next book in the series. I begged my mother to take me to the library, hoping the next book would be there. And then I had to read the next one. I was the kid waiting on the library steps for the next book in the series to come out. All 26 books.

I lived in that world. I daydreamed about being one of the characters and followed my imaginary self around as I went on adventures in her world. Can you say budding author? I wish I had written some of the hundreds, if not thousands, of daydreams I had in her world when I was a kid. What a backlist I’d have by now!

Anyway, back to my original point. The daughter’s book is good enough to keep me reading to the end. It’s not good enough to make me want to do all the things I just mentioned. By studying what is lacking or what is different between the two writers, I hope to improve my own writing. It’s just one more tool in my toolbox, and I need all the tools I can get.

In case you’re interested, one lesson I learned is that, at times, the daughter went into too much detail on issues or ideas that didn’t matter. It’s entirely possible that she was adding unnecessary filler to increase her word count. I can’t say for sure, but that was the impression I had while reading.

As a reader, the best way I can describe the feeling is that it’s as though my mind is a wheel being turned by a strap attached to a motor. The strap is looped around the outer edge of the wheel, and every so often it slips out of place. The wheel stops turning until the strap catches again.

The strap is the storyline. The characters are running through the story, feeling, caring, being brave, getting killed, killing, and then suddenly, the strap slips, and the wheel, that undefinable entity that keeps me wanting to move forward in the story, stops while the author adds a paragraph or a page of really boring stuff. It’s easy enough to skip through and find the spot where the strap gains traction, but as a reader, I shouldn’t have to do that. I don’t want to do that. The author unnecessarily pulled me out of the story, probably for someone’s—or more probably for some editor’s—word count.

I learned this lesson in some class a long time ago. Getting pulled out of a story is obviously something I’ve experienced many, many times. But I’ve never had the wheel analogy in the back of my mind before. The wheel is what I discovered while I was trying to figure out what wasn’t working. So, in my writing, if/when my subconscious feels the strap slipping, I hope it will automatically go where it needs to regain that traction.

I can’t explain it any better than that. Finding what doesn’t work in a book that actually works on some levels helps me in my writing. Maybe it could help you with yours as well.

 

©Alison Naomi Holt Alison Holt Books