As a child, I loved to read.
I read anything I could get my hands (and eyeballs) on.
Okay, that's not entirely true.
but give me most anything else: Encyclopedias, trips to Narnia...
Books about dogs.
Books about brave young girls.
How I digress (but that was an important point, if anyone will listen).
Before writing, while it's true I liked some books more than others, I'm not sure I really understood why.
Now, although I still love reading, I feel like the magic--although it might not be gone--has been altered somehow.
I can still marvel at a cliff hanger ending.
But then I'm off thinking about the craft instead of the story itself.
I can reread and marvel at lines I wish I'd written. But that makes me kind of jealous--I hate it when I'm jealous.
I can go back in time, enjoying the same book over again (although I'll admit to being jealous of the reader who's reading a gem for the very first time--there I am, jealous again--what a horrible person I must be).
I LOVE it when a book is so smoothly written that my internal editor doesn't even make a peep.
What I want for Xmas:
1) more time to read (see my LAST POST)
2) to tell my internal editor to shut the BLEEP up
About the Author - Ann M. Noser
Growing up an only child, I learned to entertain myself. During summer vacations, my greatest form of exercise consisted of turning the pages of a book. Now I'm all grown up and full of stories half-written in my head. I have to write them down so I can find out what happens next.
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