Reading Can Be Hazardous...

…to a writer’s mental health.

I’m serious. Since jetting back from Reno, I’ve read two of the conference freebies. First was Lani Diane Rich’s “Time Off For Good Behavior,” and second was Eileen Rendahl’s “Do Me, Do My Roots.” Both are chick-lit.

Lani’s is quirky, poignant, and wonderful. I mean, tell me how it’s possible to write a book about an abused woman that makes a person laugh out loud?

Eileen’s is funny, poignant, and wonderful. I mean, tell me how it’s possible to write a book about a young widow that makes a person laugh out loud?

I think I hate them both. The authors, that is—not their books.

Okay, just kidding. I WILL NOT succumb to author envy. But it’s hard not to question whether you’ve ever written something compelling enough to pass the bathtub test (you know what I mean—when you find yourself lying in a bone-dry tub, the water drained away, because you can’t put the damn book down long enough to climb out--and, yes…both books passed with flying colors.)

Have I mastered the knack of keeping my reader glued to the page? Dunno. The jury’s still out. Yes, I open with a hook. Likewise, I open and end each scene with one. And it goes without saying my chapters end the same way, but what about in between?

Alas, Grasshopper, that’s the hard part. For just like many books suffer from a “sagging middle,” so can any scene.

And, as much as it pains me to read a really good book that makes my writing pale in comparison, I’ll continue to do so and hope to God these authors I admire will osmose (oh hush, it should be a word) some of their talent to me.