Those of you who have been reading me for a while will know that I am a compulsive reader and that I dedicate a large part of my time to writing. Well, in this post I wanted to talk about it.
My tastes for both activities are very similar. It’s true that I’m obsessed with the classics, with that touch of terror, tragedy and romance; and that is faithfully reflected in my texts. But in the same way I am really passionate about fantastic literature.
Over the years, having accumulated more and more books in the list of books I have already read and having created and written more and more stories, I have realized that my way of approaching a book is radically different if I do it as a reader if I do it as a writer.
When I read the story comes to me and I submerge in it as if it were another character in the plot, I interact with them, their world is my world and their problems are mine, I take Learn to love them and hate them as if they were real friends and acquaintances (Yes, I may be crazy). And for this reason I hate every time a character dies, my soul breaks as if it has been the loss of a loved one.
However, when I write it is something different. It is true that I get into history as much or even more than when I read, but in this case I am not at the same level as the characters, because I have created them and I decide what will become of them. It’s funny, but in this case I love tragedies and unexpected deaths, (this will not be anything new for those who have already read me).
This distinction was very marked a few years ago, but, over time, my facet as a sadistic writer seems to have preceded the sweet reader and now I am much more critical of what I read. I always wonder. How I would have written it? Is this credible?
Of all this I realized recently after reading the third book in a saga (whose name I will not reveal to avoid spoilers). The book ends with a great war in which the “good guys” win. The problem is that in that war the enemy is exterminated in its totality and, nevertheless, not one of the good characters (there were at least 20) dies.
I’m sorry, but that’s not credible, that would never have happened in a hypothetical real case; and although the sweet reader who is still in my heart rejoices for it, I as a writer do not believe it and I do not like it.
Anyway, I know that some of the psychologist who live in my house would be able to associate to me more than one mental disorder because of this, but that’s how it is.
Does something similar happen to you?
What kind of readers are you?