What’s happened to me?

Some people spend money on electronics, fast food, clothes, or shoes, but I spend my money on books. I love to have my own books, to flip through the pages, mark phrases I love, and then put a bookplate on the front for my top favorites. Before meeting my husband, I used to spend my Fridays browsing around Borders, looking at book covers, reading synopses along with the first few pages. Three hours later, I’d leave with a handful of books in my arms.

Nowadays, I buy my books through Amazon. I read the synopsis, a few 5, 3 and 1-star reviews, and decide whether or not to put it on my wish list. My wish list helps me keep track of what books I plan on buying in the future. But recently, I’ve been feeling angry by what’s being published, and a bit cheated. The past few years has left me disappointed in many of the books I’ve bought. Of course, this is only how I feel. The masses seem to love the books I wanted to throw across the room.

So what’s happened to me? Ever since I’ve started writing, learning the craft, reading, reading, and more reading to learn the craft, I see that the quality of books is diminishing. I don’t understand what’s being considered great writing by big publishing companies. Which made me ask myself, “Is it really the writing or the story the publishers are selling?” I’m a firm believer that a great story trumps great writing, although I don’t think this was the case years ago.

Sure, there are people out there who get aggravated with misspellings, poor grammar, and lack of character and plot development… but not enough. It’s the story they’re after. And maybe I was the same way before I started writing. In all honesty, I can’t remember if I felt connected to a character, or noticed the plot was too predictable or pooped out in the middle. I either liked the book or I didn’t. However, after years of reading, my taste in writing style and voice did change. 

So recently, my husband told me that I’ve been unhappy with recent publications, and that maybe I should return to a book I read years ago. He thought it would help me figure out if my writing has tainted my reading enjoyment, or if I see a difference in the quality of some popular books. The reason I say popular books is, to some extent, the popularity of the book is what made me buy it.

I took his advice, and picked up one of my favorite modern books that I read in 2005, The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. You know what? From the first sentence, “I still remember the day my father took me to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books for the first time”, my mouth watered from the beauty of the words, the emotional attachment to the characters and the richness of the plot. Phrases I underlined like:

“Her voice was pure crystal … so fragile I feared that her words would break if I interrupted them.”

“But what destiny does not do is home visits. You have to go for it.”

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect all authors to write this way but these are words that help you picture a character, to understand them, and help you get a feel for the setting. Reading is all about the adventure. To be taken into a different life or world. The book I just finished had zero underlined phrases. It is void of showing. The author tells the entire story. The author tells how the character feels. There is no character or plot development. This can also be applied to the several other books I’ve recently read.

At this point, I can’t help but feel there is a difference in quality regarding some popular books. It’s so different to take an emotional flight and soar with the words as opposed to sauntering and yawning while the author tells the reader how the character feels, or tells the reader about the setting. It’s like the author doesn’t trust the reader enough to create the characters in their own mind, or visualize the setting.  

I’m not telling you I’m a great writer, but what I can tell you is that I work hard to make sure my books are good. That I’m proud of the characters, the plot, and most of all, my writing. This post probably sounds like a complaint from a disgruntled writer. It’s more like a complaint from a disgruntled reader. I miss books that make me feel like I know the characters and that I’m there with them. Books that make me wish I could write like that. I think it’s time I take a break from traditionally published books, and start reading the many self-published / indie books I have on my Kindle for PC.

What do you think as a reader? Has writing tainted your reading enjoyment? Do you think books have remained the same or have you noticed a shift in quality?

Writing and Publishing,

A Disappointed Bea

A Day of Remembrance

A Love that Lasts Forever

Dear Mom,

Today is a year since death opened the door for you. That day is still so vivid of us saying good-bye and leaving the hospital in the middle of the night. I have struggled with your loss along with others. You’re always in my thoughts and there are days where I find myself overwhelmed knowing I'll never see you again—a claustrophobic pain. I miss your laugh, but what I miss most is your voice. I wish I could hear it again, even if it is to reprimand me for something.

I published my book, Net Switch, two weeks after you passed. At first, I thought about not publishing, but I was reminded that you said I had to publish after all the hard work I put into it. The book is dedicated to you. It was a great achievement of mine, but I didn’t feel much like celebrating. I’m working on another novel. Hopefully this one will become a best seller.

We made the decision to live in Germany, so I moved here in August. I have your things with me, and will be bringing more next year. They give me comfort. You might not be here with me mom, but every room will have some memory of you. We're also getting married. Who woulda thunk it? Me ... who said she’d NEVER marry.

I’m taking German classes. I know what you’re thinking; you sent us to Lithuanian school to learn Lithuanian and all we learned was how to get into trouble. Okay, I admit it, I had an attitude back then, but I’ve matured.  

It’s your favorite time of the year. Yesterday morning, I woke to a light coat of snow on the ground and I smiled up at you. We have been getting the flat in order and I think about how great it would have been if you came to stay with us for a month or 3 months at a time. You said Germany was one of the places you always wanted to visit. We could have flown to Vilnius for a week or a weekend.

This is the second Christmas without you, but I was too numb last year to feel the loss. This year ... it’s a lot harder. 

“I Love you all dearly, Now don’t shed a tear, Cause I’m spending my Christmas with Jesus this year.” –John Wm. Mooney, Jr.

There will always be a void in my life—you. May you have eternal happiness and be celebrating with your mother and father. I miss you. Saldžių sapnų, my dear mother.

Love your baby, always and forever,

Denise

In Memory

In memory, I think of how things use to be, how life has changed and not necessarily for the best.  I think of the laughter we shared, tears we dried and the periodic fights we had to enrich our lives in order for us to blossom.  To know love, to feel your hand in mine when letting it hang to the side wasn’t enough to deal with hardship.

In memory, your discipline and criticism didn’t go unnoticed as well as the care you gave to me.  When in doubt, your voice rang true and that smile let the wrong choices seem less disheartening.  Emotions ran rapid during certain periods in our lives, and in others, we simply coasted.  We laughed at each other's blunders yet sympathized with defeat in life.

In memory, your presence was like a coat of armor while you shared wisdom with everyone dear to you.  I heard you when you said I’ll be able to take care of myself, and you were right.  From all the memories, I now know why you said and did the things you did.  The sacrifices you made for others, and the pain you buried deep so no one else had to worry.

You all played your parts well, and I thank you for playing them out in my life.  Your voices have not faded, your laughter still is heard, and the wonderful memories held in my heart’s treasure chest.

Someday we will meet again, Ann Renee, Uncle John and Grandma, but until then your lives still plays out in memory.