Where’s Winters End When I Need It

I desperately need to read some bad books. I’m deep in the last 100 pages of revisions on this book and I’m convinced it’s nothing but amateurish garbage with no redeeming value and I’m just deluding myself about its professional prospects. No I realize this is mostly just because I’m too close to the stupid book. I don’t think I’m able to see it with truly objective eyes. But still, it’s not as good as what I’ve been reading and that’s the problem.

I’m not one of those people who won’t read fiction while I’m working on my own. I don’t have any worries about other voices bleeding into mine. Good or Bad, my voice is definitely my own and nothing is going to change that. But after reading the new Michael Connelly book and the new Steve Hamilton book and the new Kent Krueger book, I’m coming to realize one of my major weaknesses as a novelist. I have a fairly amateurish style. I don’t think it’s bad, per say, but it lacks maturity. Which makes perfect sense, because I lack maturity.

Maybe I’m just holding myself to an unrealistic standard. Maybe those three brooding stylists were not the best books to be reading right now. Maybe I have a future ahead of me writing low rent beer commercials.

Maybe I should shut up and get back to editing.