A curse of writing...

Bit of a ramble today.
One of the downsides of being a writer, or an editor (although saying you are one usually implies you are also the other), is that it is very difficult to 'switch off' when you read. Apart from that initial creative eruption as you lay down the first draft of a novel, every time you pick it up after that, you are looking for errors.
So, by extension, when you pick up someone else's book, you do the same. It can make something you used to enjoy suddenly become toxic and unreadable. This may be why I don't read my old favourites as much as I used to.
For some reason - I think mainly because my wife asked to read it again - I recently picked up the Belgariad, by David Eddings. I first encountered this author in my early teens and its no exaggeration to say he changed my life. Eddings wrote fantasy in a way nobody had ever done before; approachable and free flowing, not like the high-Tolkenian stodge most people were churning out.
Anyhow, after much deliberation, and because we were on holidays and the books I had taken with me weren't engaging me, I picked up the first volume.
It wasn't until I was starting the fourth volume I realised that something was wrong, and it took me some time to analyse exactly what it was. When I figured it out, it came as something of a revelation, but not realy a surprise.
There were no errors.
Not one.
Now I figured I must just have my rose tinted reading specs on, so I put some real effort into looking for anything I could pick at.
Still nothing.
Not an awkward phrase, nary an echo, nah-ah on the typo.
The damn books were perfect.
Which surprised me. So much of what I read today, even by big six houses and very widely known authors, keeps kicking me out of the 'fictive world' of the novel by stuff most people would overlook - but as I writer I can'. And here was Eddings, absolutely clean.
Part of me suspects thats why I fell in love with the Eddings (as his wife Leigh was always involved but rarely credited). Think I may have to extend the experiment to see if the same is true of any of my other first loves. 
I feel an urge coming on to read Magician, by Raymond E Feist.

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