When I’m reading a book, I want it to do one simple thing. Take me for a ride. I read mostly for entertainment — lots of commercial fiction. I do, however, also partake in the occasional non-fiction book about some subject which holds my interest.
Regardless of the truthiness of the book, I want it to take me for a ride. Sit me in the car during a chase. Plunge vampire fangs into my neck. Blow up that bad guy with a holy hand grenade. Take me on an inner journey through consciousness and quantum physics.
Let a book tell it’s tale, and let yourself get wrapped up in it. That’s what I do, at least. And I bet that’s what most writers want you do with with their works, too. I write, and that’s what I want you to do with whatever drops from my fingertips to my keyboard and into your brain.
I don’t get why some people don’t enjoy reading, and why others just hate it. Maybe it’s how their brains are wired, I don’t know. I’m sure an army of shrinks has done the research, but I’ve got noodles waiting for me in the microwave, so I’m not going to look that up right now. I’ll just trust that the proper research has been done, and we’ll leave it at that.
I love reading because it takes me for a ride, pure and simple. I’ve put exactly four books down, unfinished, in my life (I’m talking about books I chose to read voluntarily, not reading assignments from my academic career). Those four failed to pick me up for the ride. This could be my fault — my state of mind when I started — but I’m not going to worry about it. There are plenty more books to read, and plenty more dreamscapes to visit while I’m awake.
Pick up a book (or a nook, kindle, etc.) and let someone’s story take you for a ride. It’s worth it.
