The Runaway Reader

By Norman Woolworth

Having recently published my first novel, I feel fortunate to have sampled the pleasures many aspiring authors despair of ever experiencing: the momentary disbelief when a publisher says “yes;” the tactile thrill of holding the printed copy of your “baby” for the first time; the rush of excitement when a complete stranger posts a laudatory review; the warm memories triggered when a hand from the distant past reaches out and pats you on the back; the encouragement implicit in an eager inquiry about the next installment in a planned series.

Grateful as I am for all these delights, what has struck me most profoundly is the individuality of readers’ responses. How differently readers react to this or that character or plot twist or interpret the meaning of an exchange of dialogue. The first time I read her a passage out loud, my own wife was aghast to learn that I pronounced the first name of my protagonist, Bruneau Abellard, with a drawn-out emphasis on the second syllable, lobbying vehemently for her Bruno over my Broo-know. Some found Bruneau’s on-again, off-again girlfriend overbearing; others wished she was more assertive. The city of New Orleans, where the novel takes place, was perceived as beautiful or threatening; fragrant or malodorous (author’s note: both these things are true!); mysterious and cloistered, or open and welcoming. And so on.

What the novelist comes to realize is that once the reader takes the reins, she is off and running, beyond your control. You have provided a map, and a well-marked trail, but she is free to wander where she may.

Contemplating the wondrous, and wonderful, phenomenon of the “runaway reader,” brought me back to my long-ago grad school days, when in a literary criticism class, we waded through a fascinating if at times impenetrable tome called The Implied Reader. Its author, German philosopher Wolfgang Iser, is best known for pioneering a school of literary theory called “reader-response” criticism. To crudely oversimplify, Iser’s central insight is that reading is as much an act of creation as writing. As she writes, an author may have a particular reader in mind, but that reader is a mere construct of the author’s imagination. The actual “flesh and blood” reader brings her own experiences and sensibility to her encounter with the text, creating impressions and points of view that are uniquely her own.

Remembering Iser’s treatise and experiencing for the first time the subtle shock of the runaway reader, brings me to two parting thoughts. The first is that I am now better able to articulate my longstanding aversion to the audiobook format, at least when it comes to works of fiction. I understand the appeal of the medium and suppose that listening to a novel beats never picking one up, but I remain firm in my conviction that the audiobook experience is a pale simulacrum of the real deal. The mostly passive -- dare I say, lazy? -- act of “listening” as a narrator appropriates the characters’ voices, cannot possibly replicate the creative engagement inherent in the act of reading.
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My second, and parting insight, is that releasing a published novel is not unlike sending your kindergartener off to her first day of school. You’ve done the best you can to prepare her for this moment, but now she must make her own way in the world.


Norman Woolworth’s first novel, The Lafitte Affair, is a historical mystery set mostly in present-day New Orleans, with glimpses of the city during its “Belle Epoque” of the 1820s. In a starred review, Kirkus called it “a well-crafted mystery that is beautifully written, educational, and all-around entertaining.” BookTrib deemed it “a savory jambalaya that tempts you to take another bite and keep turning pages.” And Readers’ Favorite gave the book five stars, saying “the novel is as much about the city’s colorful characters as it is about the unfolding mystery.” It called the novel “a fast paced, edge-of-your-seat read … worthy of the big screen.” Woolworth is a retired corporate executive who resides in Charlottesville, Virginia, with his wife Lori and their blue-blooded mongrel, Nola.