A while back I was preparing for a presentation to give at a writing conference and I came across this great book: Conflict, Action and Suspense by William Noble
Even though it didn't have everything in it I needed for my presentation at the time, I found myself reading the whole thing, as Noble had compiled great information (the best helpful hints on pacing I'd ever read) that would apply to the project I'm slogging through right now.
However, the tippy top best thing for me in the book happened in the first pages, the author's introduction. He made a strong point that there exists between a reader and a writer an unspoken but inherent contract. The reader's request is: "Tell me a story." The writer's response is: "Okay. Read on." Then, the contract is in force. If the writer fails to uphold his or her side of the contract, the reader has the right to break his side--the following through on reading it.
Tell me a story. How many times a day do I hear that? Read me a story, mommy. Mommy, will you read me this book? My 2 year old brought me a stack of picture books a couple of months ago. "Mommy! Read me these books! They're my passion!"
I choked a moment, thinking, "You're two. You can't have a passion." And yet, book love might just be genetic.
But what makes me love a book? What is the difference between a book I devour and one I endure (and one I toss aside)?
It's the contract. I think Noble is right. I believe every soul wandering the fiction shelves of Barnes and Noble or the local library is aching to be told a story. We love them. We need them. Something in our humanity deeply needs a story. Why? Uh, how should I know?
What I do know is there are some books I feel passionate about. Many are nonfiction--scriptures, for example, and some inspirational true life stories (Brave Girl Eating and Three Cups of Tea leap to mind just now)--but some are fiction. Books I sank into, books that were pure bliss. Books I couldn't wait to read more and more of. Books I felt sad when they ended. I imagine every avid reader feels this way about some book.
Some are picture books--A is for Annabelle by Tasha Tudor. LOVE it. The Empty Pot by Demi. Gorgeous. Perfectly told story.
Others are novels that make me gush with love just thinking of them off the top of my head, The Friendly Persuasion by Jessamyn West, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. I'm pretty sure I spent a year telling everyone I met they had to read The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Charlotte's sister Anne Bronte. Now, none of these might be to anyone else's taste, but I just immersed in them.
There are books that are written by true storytellers. Millions of readers love Louis L'Amour for this, and John Grisham and Nicholas Sparks. The story sweeps them away. The genres they write might have a certain formula, and even if that formula might be predictable to some readers, still we want to read them. We want to go on that similar journey again and again. The joy isn't in the destination. Sure, most of the time the guy will get the girl and the ranch, but who cares? The joy is in getting there, reading the words, getting swept into the story.
I love to read Grisham. I love the Bronte sisters. I love Jane Austen. I love Anthony Trollope. These authors told me a story, a story I craved. They kept their half of the bargain.
Now, as a writer, I have to remember what my half is--and keep it. That's why as writers we have to get going on the story--right away. First five pages, first three--the first one if possible. If we don't, then the readers have no obligation to us.
Speaking of cravings, I think I'm addicted to peanut butter. Or peanuts in general. The other day I was in the dollar store and found something that made my eyes pop open with peanutty lust. Just like not all books meet everyone's same cravings, I realize not everyone loves peanuts. But this thing made me inhale softly and close my eyes in delight while I crunched it in the dollar store parking lot, not even waiting for a more discreet location. How could I not have known about the Planters Peanut Bar before now, I ask you? It's like a thin, thin layer of peanut brittle (which is not my cooking forte) topped by a WHOLE LOT of yummy salty peanuts. So super yum. Dang it.
Speaking of craving...I could use one right now. I'm going to have to pass that same dollar store on my way to pick up the next load of chauffeured kids.