Living On Three Continents: Call Me - Unreliable?
Susan Siddeley devotes countless hours to her writing, and to encouraging others to write. She and her husband run writing retreats on their farm near Santiago, Chile.
Susan is also a voracious reader. But is she a "good'' reader? This engagingly honest article gives you the answer to that question.
Read it, ponder for a moment,then ask yourself the question: "Am I a good reader.''
“The workshop covers interior monologue, omniscient narration, intertexuality, stream of consciousness, viewpoint and . . . unreliable narrator…” (Advertisement)
These last few years of self-editing books, writing magazines, participating in critique groups and now holding writing retreats at the farm in Chile, have opened a new universe for me. They are all part of the struggle to master the art of writing.
But the latest and rather shocking insight doesn’t concern writing, but its obverse – reading.
From my spot in the galaxy, where I’m waiting in author mode to blast off into publishing space, I suddenly see that before I do, I need to revise my reading habits.
Until yesterday, I didn’t read books, I ravaged them; grabbing them off library shelves and blow-out sale tables, then racing home to plunder their pages. Washing and ironing always came second.
From “Five on a Treasure island” propped against the breakfast cornflakes, to Margaret Drabble devoured over the cot rails, through Spring, Steinbeck, Munro, Trevor, Shields, gobbled everywhere and anywhere, it’s always been:
“You’re not reading at the table.'' (Mum)
“Where’s your mother sloped off to?” (Husband)
“Come out Mum. You’ve been in there an hour.” (Daughter)
“You can rely on Susan to have her head in a book.” (Sister)
“Read it loud, Grandma.” (Grandson)
I’ve always read quickly, eyes skimming, skipping, darting ahead of lips and peeking at the end. As each good bit was ingested, I’d resolve to go back to re-read, but in the dash for the last page. I never did. ‘The End’ reached, I tossed the corner-creased, spine-cracked volume aside, happily spent. Five minutes later I’d reach for the next.
Working to become a writer, to understand the complexities of style, voice and viewpoint, I see now that I’m exactly the sort of reader authors are not looking for when they craft their masterpieces. All that work - from first spew through correction, rejection, editing and re-drafting for someone like me to pillage! I don’t think so.
Authors, being conscientious people, leave clues so the reader will follow, develop dialogue so the reader will hear, and include specific detail so the reader will be ‘right there’ in each scene. But what do I care as I whip through their magnum opi? I neither intuit, deduce nor reflect. I just need the last line. My craving to know what happens next overrides any desire to better comprehend or revel in subtleties.
Just as that wonderful urge to climax can cut sensibility in lovemaking, so a voracious appetite for books has made for a lifetime of lustful, shallow reading.
Wearing a new hat - a space helmet - and versed in the techniques of narration, I understand what authors go through to get their books on my bedside table, and I realise sadly that millions of author-hours have been wasted on me.
I am an unreliable reader.
