My husband and I like to cruise the bargain book tables and we've found some wonderful books that way. And some less than desirable ones. I'm reading one of those right now. I won't say the name of it, not at this point, because I haven't finished it--maybe it will get better.

Some people are surprised I would even consider finishing a badly written book. "There are so many great books to choose from." I know that. I've read many. But it has gotten me to thinking about the question:  Why read a bad book?

You know those "What's wrong with this picture?" exercises you come across in magazines for children? You have to look closely to find all the errors and sometimes you find that you're actually questioning whether something in particular belongs or not. Some things seem perfectly natural while others are obviously out of place. That's how it  is with a bad book. There are glaring, horrendous errors--punctuaton,
misuse of words, overuse of words (especially in the same sentence), storylines
that are confusing, characters that are wooden or so over-the-top they are laughable, etc. Then there are plot points that don't add up, main characters that never grow, unrealistic settings, boring passages, dialogue that reads like a Joe Friday's "Just the facts, ma'am" or where everyone sounds exactly the same--or totally ridiculous.

After working through a book like that (and believe me, it is work) I can look at my own writing and analyze the various components with a fresh eye. Is my dialogue realistic or does everyone talk like me? Are my storylines interesting? What about my characters makes them likeable? How do they develop over time? Is my setting visual? Have I used all the senses in my descriptions? 

A good book will have those elements and they will be so expertly addressed that the book reads as if it wrote itself. I can look for those things and admire the writer's skill and ultimately wish I could write as well--I will enjoy the experience of reading. But I'm not sure, on my own, I will learn as much as from the bad book and the struggle it takes to finish it.


Interesting.


  

Been a long while since I have been on here. Transitions--hard, exciting, emotional, uncertain, all-consuming:  writer's fodder. That's the best part--having something new to spark the Muse. My newest transition (every day is a transition in its own way) has been settling in a new community.

I should be working on either my book or my Head Start stuff but – bleah. I’d rather tell you about my new little corner of the world. I’ve been here a couple of weeks now, give or take. The day we moved my stuff in we met 6 people—the little yard was literally crawling with them. Excitement is now over and they’ve gone back inside. Maybe when warm weather comes they will un-hibernate. Today I saw more action than any other day. Two people were actually outside at the same time! OMG! Call in the newspaper reporter.

Yeah, it’s a quiet place. I’m not sure I should be playing my music ever. And I hate to wear headphones when I’m alone. A little creepy. I’ve been phone chatting the past few nights and worried—semi-worried, that is—that my voice is loud and bothering my next door neighbor. I haven’t met the guy but I have seen him. He’s tall, a little stooped, lots of white hair. He walks past not looking at anything, just the ground. No neighbor on the other side although someone came to see the place two days ago. Someone lives upstairs over me. I hear him/her/them walking around and I hear the toilet flush. Last night I actually heard—VOICES! Muffled, thank God, so I probably don’t have to worry that my own secrets are being monitored by invisible apartment dwellers. 

This is a 55+ community so I did expect it to be relatively sedate. Four apartments
on each floor. Two bedroom units on the ends and one bedroom in the middle. I am
in the middle. $500 a month ain’t bad for paradise. I have three windows across the front—dining area (where I have my desk), kitchen, bathroom—and two in the back—a slider and a bedroom window. The view outside my windows is pleasant enough. Bushes, a long patch of lawn, brick wall, concrete stairs off to the side, and the two level apartment strip across from me. In back of me is a retirement complex—you know, where they serve meals to the residents in a common dining room and have excursions to Fred Meyer in the resident van. People here talk of moving over there when they’re “ready”. That's a long, long way off for yours truly, that's for sure.

Did I say paradise? Yeah. My wall oven is so old it has french doors. Can you picture that? It’s very narrow, too. The stove top is new as is the refrigerator which I’m guessing is about 10 cubic feet. The kitchen floor space is about 3.5 feet by 4 feet—as my neighbor Erica says, when I turn around, I’m on the other side! It’s an efficiency kitchen, I guess. I have a mail slot in the front door which is really cool. I like the anticipation of waiting for an envelope to slip through the flap and sail to the floor. In the hall are two built-in cabinets with drawers and shelves. Very nice. There is one in the bedroom, too. And a queen sized bed fits in the bedroom—surprise, surprise. Feels decadent for one person. For kicks, sometimes I sleep sideways.

I do like living here.