Again, forget plot, forget characters, again, what's the best written book you have ever read?
Which authors do you like to read simply because of the way they write, characters and plots be damned?
Twilight by Stephanie Meyers.
These are two pages from chapter ten.
It was very hard, in the morning, to argue with the part of me that was sure last night was a dream. Logic wasn't on my side, or common sense. I clung to the parts I couldn't have imagined — like his smell. I was sure I could never have dreamed that up on my own.
It was foggy and dark outside my window, absolutely perfect. He had no reason not to be in school today. I dressed in my heavy clothes, remembering I didn't have a jacket. Further proof that my memory was real.
When I got downstairs, Charlie was gone again — I was running later than I'd realized. I swallowed a granola bar in three bites, chased it down with milk straight from the carton, and then hurried out the door. Hopefully the rain would hold off until I could find Jessica.
It was unusually foggy; the air was almost smoky with it. The mist was ice cold where it clung to the exposed skin on my face and neck. I couldn't wait to get the heat going in my truck. It was such a thick fog that I was a few feet down the driveway before I realized there was a car in it: a silver car. My heart thudded, stuttered, and then picked up again in double time.
I didn't see where he came from, but suddenly he was there, pulling the door open for me.
"Do you want to ride with me today?" he asked, amused by my expression as he caught me by surprise yet again. There was uncertainty in his voice. He was really giving me a choice — I was free to refuse, and part of him hoped for that. It was a vain hope.
"Yes, thank you," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. As I stepped into the warm car, I noticed his tan jacket was slung over the headrest of the passenger seat. The door closed behind me, and, sooner than should be possible, he was sitting next to me, starting the car.
"I brought the jacket for you. I didn't want you to get sick or something." His voice was guarded. I noticed that he wore no jacket himself, just a light gray knit V-neck shirt with long sleeves. Again, the fabric clung to his perfectly muscled chest. It was a colossal tribute to his face that it kept my eyes away from his body.
"I'm not quite that delicate," I said, but I pulled the jacket onto my lap, pushing my arms through the too-long sleeves, curious to see if the scent could possibly be as good as I remembered. It was better.
"Aren't you?" he contradicted in a voice so low I wasn't sure if he meant for me to hear.
We drove through the fog-shrouded streets, always too fast, feeling awkward. I was, at least. Last night all the walls were down… almost all. I didn't know if we were still being as candid today. It left me tongue-tied. I waited for him to speak.
He turned to smirk at me. "What, no twenty questions today?"
"Do my questions bother you?" I asked, relieved.
"Not as much as your reactions do." He looked like he was joking, but I couldn't be sure.
I frowned. "Do I react badly?"
"No, that's the problem. You take everything so coolly — it's unnatural. It makes me wonder what you're really thinking."
"I always tell you what I'm really thinking."
"You edit," he accused.
"Not very much."
"Enough to drive me insane."
"You don't want to hear it," I mumbled, almost whispered. As soon as the words were out, I regretted them. The pain in my voice was very faint; I could only hope he hadn't noticed it.
That's 14 "it"s for two pages. This trait screams "lazy writing". I remember my 11th grade English teacher telling me to avoid using "it" while writing if at all possible. The word was nothing more than filler. So, now every time I come across "it", I am very aware of those two letters. If the writer of the book uses them like crazy as Meyers does here, this drives me equally as crazy. This was one of the main reasons why I could not finish the book.