One of the most thrilling parts of immersing yourself in the wild fantasies of a novel is being able to use your own imagination to bring the words and thoughts of the author to life. Unlike movies, where the images are crafted from the director’s perspective (or the casting director, producers and countless other creative execs that voice their opinion during the filmmaking process), books are mine and mine alone. Yes, the writer moves my images along a path that casts a mold through descriptive passages, but the shape they actually take is exclusive to my what I create in my head. My vision is a secret that I am neither unwilling, nor able to truly pass on to others and this is why different books resonate differently with each reader. The experience one gets from literature (or otherwise) is unique to that readers experience.
So, my gripe rests in the book covers that force-feed an image upon my minds blank canvas.
I don’t want to see a photo of some model on the cover. The beefcake, or nerdy boy, or V.S. model that is staring at me every time I reach for the book or unwillingly put it down because I have stayed up entirely too long to read another word, is only a gaping reminder that the publishers don’t think my imagination is good enough. I feel like they are forcing their version of the leading protagonist onto my blank slate.
No thank you. I do not want it and I wish wholeheartedly that it would stop! I cannot take it anymore.
Shadowy figures are fine; tight shots of two perfect bodies are doable, I can even handle slightly blurry image of two lovers entwined in each others body parts, but I don’t want my imagination stolen away by some cheesy photo. Not now, not ever. This is my mini-revolt.
¡Viva la Revolución!
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