Given my focus these days, both in real life and in the fictional one, the book lent to me by a friend should prove a natural read. I took in the first fifty pages after downloading photos from the party last night. My annoyance with the writer appeared around the third page, and grew to the point where I put the book aside. I’ll read on, because an annoying book can provide precious lessons.
I see no reason to mention the writer’s name, this isn’t about dissing him. He’s French, eight plays and six novels of his have made their way to publication. I note that what annoyed me here is fairly common in contemporary French writers. This goes some way in explaining the disconnect that made me opt for sleep over a reading binge after a fifty minute musical performance in an uproarious setting I was glad to leave to the crowd of revelers.
First attempt at sourcing my reading annoyance: the sensation I’m reading through the writer writing about the characters. If the writer gave me the sense the female survivor of an immigrant tragedy at sea were real, I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d be recuperating from an all-night read instead. I’d even accept the unlikely possibility the sea captain who saved her life would have a gun handy at home, and pass it on to her – hey sure, you want to kill the head smuggler who caused the death of your baby? Here lady, by all means, and blessings on your head.
I’ll read on. Hopefully, I’ll spend more time with my characters than with the writer’s though, since this Sunday should be fairly light in outside obligations. Writing in spurts between phone calls, text messages and sudden appearances at the door: not conducive to concentration.
Sunday. Who’s who. What counts most – in story and in all the rest.