I realized recently that it’s been a long time since I’ve had an addiction to a particular author. Over the years, I’ve frequently read a book I enjoyed so much that I immediately went out and located several other books by the same author. Agatha Christie is a prime example; I kept reading her mysteries one by one until I’d exhausted her entire oeuvre (minus the Miss Marple books, which I never took to). Jane Green was another author I sought out regularly in my early twenties. I’m still addicted enough to Sophie Kinsella/Madeline Wickham (she writes under both names) that I’ll immediately read any new book she releases. In the past few years, I’ve read a lot of Anita Shreve and Kristin Hannah throughout the school year, and Elin Hilderbrand during the summer (with the exception of The Island, which I read this spring on my Perfect Reading Day.) But I’ve been reading all of those authors for multiple years. It’s been a long time since I found a new author that I loved enough to want to devour all of his or her books. Why?

I can only think of two possible reasons:

1. My taste in books, and therefore authors, has become much more discerning since I started educating myself on writing and analyzing my reading more thoroughly through this blog;
2. I’m getting lazy about trying new authors.

I hope it’s mostly #1, though that still makes me sad, kind of like I’m in the advanced Flowers for Algernon state, and can’t enjoy some of the sillier, less serious (though still with some merit) books out there. I think I do try to look for new authors (I did buy two new books from new authors this week), but maybe I’m not trying hard enough. Maybe if I adjusted more or even most of what I read to unfamiliar writers, I’d be more likely to hit on an exciting new find that I love. Or I might just get disappointed over and over again. But I think it’s worth the risk. I love that feeling of connecting to a writer and not wanting each book to end. Maybe one day, someone will feel that way about my books.