The dog and I went to the park this morning. She sniffed each square inch of ground as if she were reading War and Peace. I tugged on her leash, hoping to move her to a sunnier spot, but she was adamant. This particular patch of grass must be explored, and she was the dog to do it.
Such is the author-reader relationship.
If I am lucky when I’m reading I’ll come across passages that demand savoring. Regardless of where the story is going, I want to dissect this paragraph, this sentence, these words. Something about the combination of image, setting, dialog, and characterization requires me to linger on the page.
As a writer, I want the reader to follow me down the paths I have chosen, see the images I have created, hear the voices I imagine in my head. I’m not aware of what each reader might bring to my story, so I can be forgiven for not anticipating where any given reader might want to pause, reflect, or ruminate. That doesn’t mean it won’t happen, and no amount of tugging on literary leashes will move a reader to turn the page. Perhaps it shouldn’t – perhaps we should rejoice when a reader finds a juicy, grassy spot and rolls all over it.