I’ve been writing fiction—or at least trying to—for about a decade now (plus or minus a couple years, depending on how you count it). After that span of time, most of what I now read, it touches me so profoundly that I have to put a fist through a wall just so I don’t lose my mind out of sheer boredom.

In other words, I don’t fall in love with much of anything anymore.

For example, I just started Ship of Magic by acclaimed fantasy author Robin Hobb. I picked up the book, because Robin Hobb once gushed over Holly Lisle’s Talyn, which I adored. I figured, if Robin knows good stuff when she reads it, maybe she’s written some good stuff, too. Besides, the story sounded like it might engage me. So I cracked open Ship of Magic. And somewhere on page one, I actually put myself into “line-editing” mode, reading for grammar and punctuation instead of for content— because for the fun of it, that’s why!