Giving Up Authors

I've done something in the last few weeks that I'd not managed for months now: I've read books, yes, in the plural. It may come as a shock to some people, but trying to write often means you have to give up reading because the editing of your own work in progress leave you little time or desire to read anything else. With the school year ending and summer vacation started, as well as with circumstances forcing me to halt further progress on my own novel, I renewed my commitment to return to reading, and went off to seek books I'd been wanting to start for a long time.

Gillian Flynn received much acclaim for Gone Girl, and I'd heard from many that it was excellent. My husband, who heard it in audio version, warned me that I would not figure out until the end whether or not I would like it, and said he still hadn't made up his mind. That added to the intrigue and so off I went. It turns out he was completely right on both counts, and I found myself deeply dissatisfied afterwards. Still, her writing style impressed me greatly and I took out her debut, Sharp Objects, from the local library. That reading was one of the most disturbing ones for me since We Need to Talk About Kevin, and for similar reasons. Granted, Flynn and Shriver are both gifted writers, and tackled their subjects masterfully. That said, I don't think I can read either author again because my head just doesn't want or even need to go to any more emotionally dark places. I can find misery and overthinking neurotic behaviour all by myself, no assistance needed at all, thank you. The mental frailties, chronic abuse, and self-loathing that embodies Flynn's twisted characters were too much for me, and so as much as I appreciated the author's craft and clever plots, I'm going to give her up for a good long time.

The last time I felt so discouraged by someone so talented was when I attempted to follow Stuart McBride's Aberdeen-based, Logan McRae detective series. I started with book four, Flesh House, and quickly lost my stomach at the plot, which involved a murderer sending human flesh into the food chain. McBride's strong, witty writing kept me in to the end, but upon finding out that the killer had escaped justice and would be making a reappearance, I decided that the series of books that had been given to me by a good friend would remain on the shelf for the day I ran out of every other book I want to read. I love mysteries, detective thrillers, anything of that genre, and I was so disappointed in myself that I won't be able to follow this series. Brilliant writer, but again, as a vegetarian who cannot stand to think about meat at the best of times, the physical violence in this book just overwhelmed me. Has this ever happened to any of you? Have you walked away from a talented author because you couldn't deal with the topic or plot?

Right now, I'm about 50 pages in with The Silkworm, the new Robert Galbraith (really, JK Rowling) detective novel. There will be death, there will be emotional scars, but judging by the debut of the series, it will not cause me the same level of distress as Flynn and McBride managed. Next up with be Mo Hayder, who broke my heart with her Birdman debut and continued to do so with the Jack Caffery series. I just hope she too will not send me to darker places than she has already...