I recently read a book for an author review/endorsement. I’ve done several over the years and am always flattered to think another author would even be okay with me endorsing their work. As I read this particular book, I found myself thinking of how the author could have “done this” and “done that” to make it better. After each chapter, I would have to check myself and remember the genre was different. The parts and details I wished would be present—but weren’t—would have been great additions…within the genre I write. Not this one. As I thought about other reviews and endorsements I’ve done in the past, I remembered similar feelings when the book’s genre was different.I run into the same issues when I read books, watch movies, or binge TV shows for pleasure. I’m always analyzing, examining, wondering why. It’s almost as if becoming an author has tainted me as a consumer of other people’s works. The genres in which I write cause me to see the worlds I depict a certain way, limiting me in the absorption of what could be.
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