I think I have a problem.
I
start to read, I rush the beginning, the opening sentence. I glance over the
characters. Details are revealed, usually clothes, and I just jump over them. I
land in the dialogue, properly wake up.
My
imagination starts to fizz. Is this American author writing in an English
voice? Is this clearly a male short story writer trying to sound like a woman?
Is this literary cross-dressing? The questions die down and I'm comfortable.
Then
the description returns. Exposition. I have to go over the previous sentence or
else it feels like I'm losing something even if it's only a few prepositions. I
cling to the exposition, waste time on going over it again and again. I try to
put myself into the scenario, remind myself of what certain sequences of words
mean and have I read them before? From this writer or someone else? This
happens a lot with genre fiction but it's not exclusive to it.
If
the story is literary then I slow down to soak it all in. If the story is genre
then I zip through. If the story is literary then I'm stewing in my own pretentiousness
as well as the writer's. If the story is genre then I'm conscious that some of these
characters resemble cardboard.
I
cheer up every time dialogue comes along, even rehearse it for a voice acting
job I'll never even apply for, let alone get. I wade through the details,
thankful for every simple sentence and uncomplicated word or idea. I stop if I
start judging words by their singular complexity.
I
finally get into it, the plot, usually midway between chapters. I know what's
going on and it's terribly exciting precisely because I know what's going on. I
stop and check - thirty pages. That means it's a good session. I try for more.
I
become conscious of the time limit I need to abide to: got a dog to walk or a
train to disembark in three stops. I lose my place. Other thoughts intrude. My
fault. Snippets of prior conversations return to me, quick retorts finally
occur. I have to focus on individual lines. I am an idiot.
My
imagination keeps floating back to the movie depiction of the character. The
character suddenly doesn't seem real anymore. I'm too attracted to him/her. I
think about the actor, what they'll be in next. I try my hardest to forget
about them, dress the character up as someone I know that fits the rather
unflattering aspects of the physical description. This works for a while but
the face develops soft lighting and healthy Hollywood pores.
I
put the book down, I don't close it, just lower it onto my lap. I look around,
remind myself how boring reality is, that it's not snuck off just yet and I
don't need to worry about this happening anytime soon. I pick up the book again
and find my place. My imagination remains on the fritz but I'm back in the
story, back in the character, back in the plot.
Nevertheless
I keep checking how many pages I have left to go till the end of the book. Is
this text actually very small? Is the line spacing too regular? Am I an idiot
being led along by hand? Is the author fully aware of my short attention span?
Why not do more about it then?
My
imagination is working on the wrong thing here, I bring myself back on topic.
The self-made time limit is coming to an end. This is turning into a fitful
sleep, I'm waking up ahead of time and checking that I still have long enough
to make something of it.
The
character says something philosophical at the end of the page. I'm trying my
best to consider the deeper implications but it doesn't feel honest. I'm
flummoxed. I think I get where the character is coming from though.
I'm
drifting off so I stop. I regret it. I think perhaps I'm going about the whole
process in the wrong way. I never would have known I was so neurotic if not for
this healthy passion for reading. I feel alone and that's fair enough, it's just
me and a writer who has long since moved on. Now I'm the only one putting in
the work.
I
want to be a writer. It would just be nice to immerse myself in something.
