Do you remember, in the old cartoons, how they used to portray one’s conscience as a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other?
I say I always write to my readers, or with my reader in mind. I guess I don’t write like I’m talking to my readers, because I’m in my character’s skin living her life.
It’s more like I feel my imaginary reader sitting on my shoulder. She’s like my conscience. When I start feeling lazy, when I just don’t feel like pushing myself into the problems of my character, when I don’t feel like descending into all that feeling and stress of that point where it looks like all will fail, my mind sees that reader on my shoulder, waiting for my story.
I go where I need to go emotionally, because I don’t want to let her down.
Believe me, without her, I often wouldn’t. I can get lazy.
Anyway, I picked up a deliciously sexy, dark paranormal the other day. The opening was dark and suspenseful and beautifully written, with demons or vampires and a brooding, sexy hero hundreds of years old.
And then, all of a sudden, there was a chatty chick-lit-voiced email in it.
Totally threw me from the story.
Voice, mood, tone ... I’m not sure what you’d call it. But it must be consistent, you know? It can be fun, light-hearted comedy, or it can be a dark, suspenseful novel. But both?
When we pull a reader into a world, we can’t suddenly change the environment around her. How would you feel if you were standing in a haunted house at midnight, enjoying the spooks and the fog and the ghosts, and you blinked, and all of a sudden you were on the beach of a bright, sunny day?
Freaked. Jarred. Confused. It just doesn’t fit.
What do you think? Maybe it’s a paranormal practice, lately, and I missed the boat.