Why did I do this to myself? I stayed up reading a book until 2 in the morning. The worst part--it wasn't even a good book! It was repetitious and inconsistent and filled with flowery language (aka purple prose) like this:
"Her heart felt his absence and broke into pieces. Like torn paper, scattered by the wind of a fan. Swirling, and made distant one from another by the constant battering force of the air through the spinning blades. Whirling and twirling, never grounded. Just like she felt. Insubstantial. Alone."
It was a train wreck, yet I couldn't stop reading! I wanted to see every gory detail to the very end. To see if it could get even worse, then reveling when it did. Every overused cliche, every instance of "telling", every time the author drove her idea into the ground until any semblance of life was leeched out of it propelled me to the inevitable end.
I'm sick that way.
You might say that I'm a very opinionated reader. When it comes to books, I have a certain expectations--that they be coherent, that they have a plot, and that they follow said plot until the conflict is resolved. Is that too much to ask?!
Apparently, if this book is anything to go on.
The thing is, as a writer, it's career suicide to express any opinion other than "Loved it! Can't wait for the sequel!" Especially for a "pre-published author", like myself. Editors won't touch you if you go all 300 on other writers' work.
But they have no qualms about treating you like this...
Oh, to live the dream!