Today’s blog should have been
a) Posted 12 hours ago
b) About one of my top 5 books
However, my tangential thoughts went even more spectacularly off piste than usual. I could see it might end up needing to be split into two posts and now it’s turning into three. Suffice to say I’m stopping myself from posting in a rush and then blogging again correcting myself, for now I suggest instead of reading my waffle you go and read or re-read Persuasion by Jane Austen, or preferably go and hunt down the 1995 BBC film version and watch that. On no account watch the 2007 version unless you want the best scene in the book completely ruined.
Part of what caused the failure to get my thoughts sorted in a way that does justice to the book was an attempt at a brief summary of the plot. I made the colossal error of describing it in contemporary terms – a reunion romance where they are forced into reluctant proximity and where overheard conversations and malicious or innocent misinformation creates resentment and jealousy. That’s all fairly accurate but does the book such a disservice and I ended up defending the story when its brilliance should never have been in doubt in the first place.
I will start again for next week but it has brought me back to a problem I often hear expressed; that of finding it hard to enjoy books as easily as we once did after we have begun to analyse our own writing in great depth. When goals, motivation and conflict have become something we obsess about in our writing, they are woefully obvious when they are missing in another’s book. I usually only have this problem when reading contemporary books – I am lucky that the harlequin romantic suspenses I read are all of an extremely high standard – but reading older romances, even ones I once adored, can now be a trickier task; it’s harder to switch off my critical writer’s eye (ear? mind? I hear the stories I am reading and see them played out before me) and just enjoy an escapist read.
I don’t mean to sound as if I’m complaining. The more we learn, the more enjoyment we can get. I just think that looking at Austen, even for a moment, through the eyes of a modern romance reviewer was wrong; not because she fails any of the criteria I hold for contemporary writers – she after all helped create those tropes that are now so familiar – but it has distracted me from her charm and skill and wonderful characters. I was also simply forgetting to explain why it is one of my all time favourite books.
Does anyone else have this problem? Being unable to switch of their inner editor when reading? And is it wrong to apply modern standards or creative ideals in writing to authors and books or another era?