I first saw this reblogged on Christine Plouvier’s blog (http://irishfirebrands.wordpress.com/) and upon reading, I had to reblog is as well. I’ve touched on this in the past, but it can never be talked about enough!
I’m pissed right now. Really really pissed.
If you read what I just read, you’re be pissed too. See for yourself:
“How does [the writer] seemingly climb into our heads—and not even “our heads” but “my head,” because it feels so personal, so specific—without actually knowing us or our circumstances, and from that vantage point proceed to unfold a narrative that we are certain was written only with us, only with me in mind? I don’t know how it is done. It isn’t taught in any school, not even in the schools of writing. But here’s my guess: the writer takes us into her confidence, but does it without appearing to do so. This invitation into the writer’s thoughts is there in all works that really get under the reader’s skin….
Now, if you are reading a romance novel or a thriller, all of this is irrelevant. There are…
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