If there is one thing that I abhor in literature and in real life, it is inconsistency. I also despise inefficiency and incompetency, but those usually apply to the workplace more than to the bookshelf. Still, inconsistency stands out as a peeve that has grown from a cute, cuddly pet—an endearing idiosyncrasy—to an enormous, vehement monster, which is ready to jump out and rant away at any time. Usually this happens when I am alone in my room, but occasionally bursts out during conversations with people who always like me just a little bit less after the fact.
My friends would have me believe—and in fact I actually did believe for quite a while—that I am alone in these crazy tirades, but I have recently learned that I am not. Indeed an entire generation of readers now thinks the way that I do, and our prayers have been heard by the gods of our beloved genres: the Authors themselves. Continue reading