I didn’t think I was a picky reader. I mean I know what I like, and I won’t veer too far away from my genres. Very occasionally I read a novel that goes back in history but only so far back. I’ve been known to take a rare venture into sci-fi but am uber-selective when I do. The definite and unconditional (thus far) no’s are fantasy and certain speculative categories, bonnet books, prairie romances, the supposedly now passé chick lits, and most general market fare.
I give latitude to authors and don’t require they lure me or dazzle me with their first sentences, paragraphs, or even first chapters. Of course I have certain expectations like any reader, but I’m not demanding even though I value my time and would rather not spend it reading a book I don’t like—which I have done to fulfill reviewing obligations.
When I review novels I don’t like, I’m honest and specific with my opinions but careful to mention there will undoubtedly be those who will enjoy the books. I don’t attack or critique, but I give the reasons for my displeasure.
I’m more forgiving with first novels, knowing my own was an editor’s nightmare and in much need of improvement.
But I am very particular about characters. And I suppose my attitude concerning them could be called picky. Variety is not a problem. But if I don’t like the protagonist, chances are I won’t like the novel. Several authors attempt the difficult task of starting with an unlikable character in a prominent role. I need to sense something redeemable in them or I might just root for their demise. Seriously.
I confess I began this writing journey much less demanding than I am now. While I’m not so picky, I’m more selective and less easy to impress than in the beginning. What kind of reader—or writer—are you?
Lord, you’re the one who matters most. Thank you for the privilege of putting words on a page. May it be pleasing to you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.