A couple of years ago my book club read Water for Elephants, Sara Gruen’s tale of an old-time traveling circus.  At the club meeting, people kept gushing about the big plot twist at the end. I enjoyed the book but had found the story arc rather predictable.  I had no idea what big twist everyone was talking about. 

They said, “You know — how so-and-so killed such-and-such.” 

I replied, “That wasn’t a twist.  It said it in the first chapter.”    

We all flipped through our copies, and sure enough, Gruen did not reveal the killer’s identity until the end.  Unless you’re a writer — in which case the suspense was over by page six.

It wasn’t always this way.  I was one of those kids whose parents urge her to stop reading so much:  Go outside!  Call someone!  Do something!  Just get off the couch!  They were wasting their breath.  Reality couldn’t compete with literature.  When I read, time stopped and the world around me disappeared.

Studies show that when musicians listen to music, they use a different part of their brains than “regular people.”  I’m starting to wonder if the same thing is true for writers and literature.  I find it much harder to get lost in a book than before I started writing novels.  The more I write (I’m on my sixth book), the worse it gets.  I see the structure under the story; I mentally edit awkward prose; I monitor transitions.  It’s like I’ve seen the man behind the curtain, and I can no longer believe in Oz.  Or – I can no longer see the forest for the trees.  Or – [insert your own hackneyed metaphor here].

I still love to read.  I still come across books that suck me in, but I am more apt to admire the craftsmanship than be truly drawn into an alternate universe.