Top 7 Reasons Readers Stop Reading

Ever wonder what a novel’s nightmares would look like, if it could dream? Naturally, I can only guess. But I’d say that the spine-tingling fear of being put down is probably at the top of the list. When a reader pokes his bookmark in between the pages, stretches, yawns, and drops a novel back on his nightstand, it’s a terrifying moment for both novels and novelists alike. This is the moment we’ve worked and sweated and prayed to avoid. And yet it’s a problem that few of us will entirely escape in our careers. This week, I decided to take a highly unscientific poll in an effort to discover the most common reasons a reader stops reading. Below are the bulk of my results, gleaned from Twitter and Facebook. (If you’re not following me for updates, tips, helpful links, and inspiring quotes on either of these sites, you can do so by clicking the links or the logos in the right-hand column.)

1. Unworthy Characters

At the top of the list of complaints was the unworthy character. Nothing makes a reader slap a book down faster than a boring, unrealistic character:

Jen Brubacher: I don’t care about the characters, and so I don’t need to know what happens to them next.

Jane Lebak: Mile-long sentences ornamented with clichés, flat characters, cardboard villains, author relying on gimmicks. Yeah. Not reading.

Adriela Ashford: Boring characters. I’ll tolerate a lot as far as contrived storylines go, but if the characters aren’t likable, fugetaboutit.

2. Lack of Plot Progression / Poor Pacing

People read because they care about characters; but they also read because they want to be entertained by the unexpected twists and careening turns of the plot. Let them down, bore them with clichés, or put them to sleep with nonevents, and they’re not likely to stick around:

Lorna G. Poston: Unbelievable plot, unless it’s a fantasy; underdeveloped storyline. I stopped reading a book just recently. It was a nice story, but nothing happened and the scenes didn’t fit together. I ended up not caring what happened to the main character.

Jodie Bailey: Problems that could have been solved in the first ten pages, but they drag out for 300.

Naomi Musch: PREDICTABILITY. I may know that it’s going to end well, but I don’t want to be a chapter ahead of the author the entire way. That makes the journey so dull!

3. Gratuitous Sex, Language, and Violence

Literature and movies are saturated with gratuitous situations these days, but most readers don’t appreciate being pummeled with unnecessary violence, language, and sexual situations:

Tommie Lyn: I don’t like offensive language. Some authors seem to flaunt it, like a little boy saying, “Look at me! I know how to cuss!” and I won’t read them.

Holly Heisey : Gratuitous sex/violence will make me put it down.

4. Too Much Description

The days of Dickens’s and Austen’s pages and pages of descriptive settings are long gone. Readers today want the scene sketched in a minimum of details:

Tamera Kraft: Long flowery descriptions or narrative that doesn’t do anything to further the story. Too much and I’ll set it down in a heartbeat.

Coralee Walther: Going into so much detail that you lose the flow of the story or it becomes really boring.

Kristina Seleshanko : Dry writing. That’s a big vague, I realize, but usually it means too much description and not enough action.

5. No Emotional Connection

Readers want stories to last beyond just mere entertainment value. They want to connect with stories and characters on a deeper level. In other words, they want to read stories that matter to them personally:

Tommie Lyn: If it’s “wooden,” i.e., creates no emotion in me. It may be technically perfect... and beautiful prose... but if there’s no human element behind those well-chosen words that touches my heart as well as my brain, I can’t seem to get into it, and I’ll put it down.

MarChessa Taylor: A good story evokes an emotion from you, even if you’ve never been in the life situations mentioned therein; you find yourself in the story or imagining it with pictures in your mind. You find yourself relating or getting excited about getting to the next page.

6. Poor Dialogue

Dialogue should easily be one of the best parts of any story. Readers love moving, witty, realistic dialogue. What they don’t love are forced and clichéd conversations:

Adriela Ashford: If the dialogue is too stuffy, slangy, or forced, I won’t read it. And overuse of names. In real life, we don’t constantly call each other by our proper names—why would we in a book?

7. Too Preachy

Even as they desire to be moved by deep and powerful themes, readers are adamant in their dislike of “preachiness.” Trying to force an agenda on a reader will get your book nowhere but dusty:

Holly Heisey: I don’t like books that try to cram a message down your throat.

Although this list of ours certainly isn’t exhaustible, it’s a good place to start in our quest to keep readers pawing through our pages as fast they as they can. What’s your opinion? What’s the most common reason you stop reading a story?

Related Posts: The All-Important Link Between Theme and Character Progression

Details: Bringing Fiction to Life

Eliciting Emotion

Punch Your Readers in the Gut!

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6 Reasons Not to Listen to Your Critique Partner

Critique partners, critters, alpha readers, beta readers, proofreaders, editors, loyal slaves and subjects—whatever you want to call them, they’re a vital part of any author’s arsenal. No matter how talented and studied we may be, we’re always going to need an objective pair of eyes to look at our work and point out the flaws we’ve inevitably missed. Those of us who are lucky to have one or more dependable crit partners are blessed indeed. Critters should be pampered and courted and thanked profusely at every opportunity.

But, believe it or not, this doesn’t mean we don’t have every right to completely ignore them at times. It’s often hard not to surrender to incumbent doubts and make all the changes your critter suggests, especially when he is more experienced or forceful than you are, or when a critique group gangs up on you. Surely, they know best. Surely, the story will be better their way than yours.

But will it? How do you know when to heed criticism? How do you know what’s worth listening to? You can start by asking yourself the following six questions:

1. How experienced is this person as both a reader and a writer? In other words, does he know what he’s talking about?

2. Does what he’s saying resonate with your own instincts? Take a moment to brush off the sting of criticism, sit quietly, and ask yourself if the suggested change feels right for the story. Chances are your critter may have seen something you missed. But, then again, maybe not. If your gut tells you your story is better your way, listen to it.

3. Has more than one person mentioned the same problem? My personal policy on criticism is that two people (one of whom can be myself) have to agree on it to make it worth changing. If I agree with one critter, then it’s a no-brainer that I’ll change my manuscript to reflect his suggestions. But if I disagree with one critter only to have his opinion backed up by a second opinion, I know I need to take another long hard look at the passage in question.

4. Does the critter understand what you’re trying to accomplish in the overall scope and tone of your story? Sometimes critters unintentionally try to conform your writing to their own style. His style may be just as good as yours, but if it’s not what you’re going for, don’t hesitate to ignore irrelevant suggestions.

5. How long has this person been critting for you? If your critter is a person who’s read your work over a long period of time, he probably has gained a very good sense of you, your work, and what you’re capable of. The longer someone has critted for you and the more established your relationship, the more likely his advice will be worth listening to.

6. Do you know your critter’s strengths and weaknesses? If you’re able to have more than one person read your manuscripts, sometimes it’s best to ask each of them to focus on a particular facet of your story. Some people will be stronger at catching inconsistencies in character personalities, while others will be better at finessing your dialogue. And, likewise, each will have his weaker area, in which his opinion may not be as valuable as someone else’s.

In short, you’re not likely to discover a critter whose advice is worth listening to in toto. You’ll have to sort through his suggestions, balance your mindset somewhere between discernment and humility, and discover which juicy bits of criticism can lift your story to a new level—and which cannot. In the end, no matter how brilliant your critters may be, your story is still your story, and whatever you change or don’t change must line up with your own vision.

Related Posts: Writing Buddies

Questions for Critique Partners

The Importance of Pleasing Ourselves in Our Writing

Putting Your Ego in Your Back Pocket

Analyze This: Critiques and How to Make Sure You're Getting the Best Ones by Liberty Speidel

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11 Dichotomous Characters - And Why They Work

Fiction writing doesn’t offer many shortcuts or magic formulas. But today I am going to give you a secret ingredient in that coveted recipe for memorable and realistic characters. What is this ingredient? Dichotomy.

If we expect our characters to jump off the page into three-dimensional living color, we have to give them multi-faceted personalities. Human personalities are wonderfully (and sometimes frustratingly) varied. No one is 100% good or 100% bad; there are multitudinous shades of gray in all of us. And so it should be with our characters. Take a look at the following list of classic characters and the dichotomies that made them so memorable.

1. Long John Silver in Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson

You’d expect a treasure-hungry, bloodthirsty pirate to be bad right down to the tip of his peg leg, but few of these bad boys reached the legendary status to which Captain Silver attained thanks to his fondness for an upright youngster named Jim Hawkins. Silver may have been a nasty cutthroat, but his affection (and his actions to back it up, even when the going got tough) made him worth remembering.

2. Aunt Abby & Aunt Martha Brewster in Arsenic and Old Lace by Frank Capra

At the center of Capra’s madcap classic are two of the sweetest little old ladies you’re likely to find anywhere this side of your grandmother. In fact, they’re so sweet viewers would be likely to pass them off as maudlin clichés—were it not for their unforgettable desire to help lonely old men… by poisoning them.

3. Mr. Darcy in Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen

What discussion of dichotomous characters would be complete without mentioning the multi-faceted Mr. Darcy, whose brooding paradox of arrogance and bashfulness, tactlessness and generosity hoisted him to the top of the pile as one of literature’s most fanatically loved characters.

4. George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life directed by Frank Capra

Grumpy, disillusioned, dissatisfied George Bailey appears on our television screens every Christmas. He’s an unhappy and even unlikable man for much of the movie, but what we love—what we keep coming back to see year after year—is the inherent goodness, the unfailing selflessness hidden away beneath all that grumbling. We resonate with George Bailey, because we see that same mixture of good and bad every time we look in the mirror.

5. Alan Breck Stewart in Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson

Alan Breck Stewart, the brash Jacobite soldier, isn’t our idea of a gentleman—anymore than he is protagonist David Balfour’s. Rough and rude and crude as he may, Stewart’s last impression upon us is his unfailing honesty and integrity. But neither his brashness, nor his uprightness, would be nearly as memorable in isolation.

6. Jack Aubrey in the Aubrey/Maturin series by Patrick O’Brian

O’Brian’s deft ability to sketch characters has given us the inherently flawed and inherently lovable lifelong royal seaman Jack Aubrey. Aubrey’s brilliance at sea and in battle contrasted with his naïveté and even ineptitude regarding matters on land gives him a marvelous stamp of authenticity. And who could forget his unexpected penchant for classical music?

7. Jason Bourne in The Bourne Identity directed by Doug Liman

Killers with a conscience are perhaps one of the most common dichotomies in fiction. But few are as well rounded as the movie version of amnesiac assassin Jason Bourne. The entire story is driven by the question Why would a man with an obviously integral sense of morality willingly choose to become a professional killer?

8. Mr. Magorium in Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium by N. E. Bode and Juliana Baggott

This whimsical children’s story is certainly a stretch on reality. But the age-old wisdom and the intrinsic innocence of toy-shop owner Mr. Magorium still resonates. How can a man who knows so much still maintain such a childlike sense of wonder and imagination? The question is never answered, but we end up being so fascinated by the character of Mr. Magorium that we hardly care.

9. King Kong in King Kong directed by Peter Jackson

The great ape of classic cinema may not be the best character ever put on film, but he remains memorable simply because he presented such a beautiful dichotomy: a primal, instinctive killer who bestowed his own version of kindness and gentleness on the one person he loved.

10. Léon in Léon (The Professional) by Luc Besson

More or less duped into being a killer for hire, émigré Léon lives a life of silence and loneliness, bestowing his affections only in his diligent care of his Japanese peace lily. Jean Reno’s characterization gives us a brilliantly subtle character, whose seeming simplicity only adds deeper layers to what could have so easily been a cookie-cutter character.

11. Tom Doniphon in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance directed by John Ford

Rough and ready homesteader Tom Doniphon rides roughshod over pretty much everybody, including his longtime girl Hallie. But when the cards are the table and he has to choose between losing Hallie and doing the right thing, he proves that what you see isn’t always what you get. (Warning: spoilers.)

Related Posts: It's What Your Characters Do That Defines Them

Characters: Likability Is Overrated

What Dickens Can Teach Us About Complex Characters

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Punch Your Readers in the Gut!

“Writing is not only an intellectual endeavor for me, it’s also very much a physical one. When I’m on to the right story, the right location, the right situation, the right theme, my body tells me. I feel a surge of excitement in my solar plexus that literally sends the message Yes yes yes! to my brain…. I listen to my body. When I feel that surge of excitement, I know I’ve hit upon the right [idea] for a scene…. If you’re trusting your gut reaction to what you’re writing (i.e., trusting your body and not listening to the committee in your mind), you’ll do fine.”

—Elizabeth George in Write Away

As one of the most structured forms of art, writing is very much a left-brain pursuit. We put our intellect to work every time we sit down and start thinking about three-act story arcs, complex vs. compound sentences, gerunds and participles, keeping our characters in character, and organizing our subplots. Our desks are cluttered with notes and reminders; our bulletin boards teem with sketches, maps, and timelines; and our filing cabinets are jammed with draft upon draft of our novels. There’s a lot to think about in this writing game. So much so that it’s almost overwhelming sometimes.

However, we have to be careful that we don’t let the (very important) intellectual side of the craft take precedence over the even more important guidance of our primal, instinctive, sheerly emotional gut feelings. As perennial bestselling mystery author Elizabeth George pointed out in the opening paragraph, our emotional, or physical, responses to our own ideas and stories are often the most accurate indication of their value.

As much as we want readers to intellectually appreciate the intelligence of our writing, we need them, even more, to react to the underlying pull of the story and its characters with utter, unthinking emotion. When you can connect with the mysterious, often unpredictable realm of a reader’s emotion, you’re likely to hook them not only into reading your story, but also into carrying it with them for the rest of their lives. A story that connects with me emotionally is likely to win my approval, even it fails on certain structural levels. I’ll forgive your plot issues if you make me love your characters and resonate with your themes.

So how do you go about creating emotionally resonant stories? It’s simple: You create stories with which you resonate. Learn to listen to your body and identify emotional connections and reactions. Whenever I hit on an idea that makes me literally gasp, that makes my lungs “collapse,” I know I’ve got something. Even if my body were to let me, that’s not a feeling I can afford to ignore. When a story or a character or a theme rips at my heart or fills with me joy—I know I’ve tapped a powerful emotion. If I can channel that emotion, then I’ll likely be able to give readers a similar experience.

Will all readers react to my story in the same way I do? Probably not, because not everyone is emotionally stimulated by the same things I am. But, at least, by utilizing what triggers my own genuine emotion, by letting my story punch me in the gut if it has to, I’m allowing readers the opportunity to share that authenticity. My uncle, an internationally recognized motivational speaker, often points out that “If they cry, they buy.” Callous as that may be, it’s absolutely true. Readers pay attention to their emotions—and so should you.

Related Posts: Eliciting Emotion

Emotional Honesty in The Great Escape

Never Name an Emotion

Conscious vs. Unconscious Creativity

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Should You Outline Backwards?

When you think of outlines, you generally think organization, right? The whole point of outlining, versus the seat-of-the-pants method, is to give the writer a road map, a set of guidelines, a plan. It only makes sense that an outline should be simple, streamlined, and linear. An outline should put things in order. So you’re probably going to think I’m crazy when I tell you that sometimes the most effective outlines are those that are constructed backwards.

When I begin outlining a story, I usually have only a handful of scenes in mind. My job during the outlining period is to connect the dots between those scenes. I have to create a plausible series of events, a chain reaction that will cause each scene to domino into the one following. But linking scenes isn’t always easy to do, if you don’t know what it’s supposed to be linking to. As any mystery writer can tell you, you can’t set the clues up perfectly until you know whodunit. Often, it’s easier and more productive to start with the last scene in a series and work your way backwards.

For example, in my work-in-progress The Deepest Breath, which I’m currently outlining, I know that one of my POV characters is going to be waylaid and injured seriously enough to knock him out of commission for several weeks. However, I don’t yet know how or why he was injured. I could work my way toward this point in a logical, linear fashion, starting at the last known scene (when he meets another character at a dinner party), and building one plot point upon another, until I reach my next known point (when he’s injured). But because my chain of events is based on what’s already behind me (the dinner party), more than what’s away off in the future (the waylaying), my attempts to bridge the two are likely to be less than cohesive.

By the time I work my way to the waylaying, my progression of events could have led me to something entirely different—and squeezing in the waylaying becomes a gymnastic effort instead of a natural flowing of plot. Plus, the fact that I have no idea what’s supposed to happen right after the dinner party means that I’m likely to invent random and inconsequential events to fill space until I figure out what needs to happen.

My solution?

You got it: work backwards.

Starting at the end of the plot progression—the waylaying—I start asking questions that will lead me to discover the plot point immediately preceding. How was he hurt? Where was he hurt? Why did the bad guys choose to do this to him? Why was he only injured, instead of killed? How is he going to escape? If I know these things, I’ll know how I need to set the scene up, and if I know how to set the scene up, I’ll know what scene to put in the previous slot in the outline. Eventually, I can work myself all the way back to the dinner party. Suddenly, I have a complete sequence of events, all of which are cohesive, linear, and logical enough to make my story tight and intense.

Facing the wide, blank unknown of a story can be scary. Putting one foot in front of the other, when you’re unsure of the terrain, can be overwhelming. But when you can work your way backwards from a known plot point, finding your way becomes as simple as filling in the blanks. And the result is a story that falls into order like a row of expertly placed dominoes.

Related Posts: The Benefits of Outlining

Plan or Not to Plan—That Is the Question by Liberty Speidel

Planning, Outlining, and Organizing Your Novel—Or Not! by Tamera Kraft

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