Lately I’ve returned to several authors I thought I loved–either picking up an old favorite novel or finally getting around to a book I’d always meant to read.
At least half the time, I found the prose so trying I barely made it to the end. I was sad about it, so sad I asked a friend whether my focus on writing and editing is killing my love for books.
She said, “More likely, you’re refining your palette, which makes it harder to find satisfaction in the endless river of shit that passes for literature. I’m guessing.”