I am. There’s no one contesting this, and reason number 234 on the list of why I’m weird? I’m an author who hates descriptives. I mean really hates them.
Heck, I’m a reader who hates descriptives. I love spare writing. Those paragraphs that let me fill in the color of the sketch are my favorite. It’s one of the reasons I love action so much. Authors like Cynthia Sax and Anna Hackett, in the SFR category. In hard erotica, Patient Lee does this well.
Anti-adjective. That’s my stance.
Oh, I’m not entirely against description, but my preference is the sparse outline of what is to come. In my Home in the Stars series, I do my best to lead the reader along a path, but I let them look with their own eyes, or I try to. My Carry Bell looks different from yours. My mechs are shorter than yours, I bet. They jump higher, fire a blue color from the fuselage, not red.
Books that tell me everything have always been disappointing to me. When I’m done, I feel… cheated. It’s weird, right? Believe me, I know. Sure Dickens got paid by the word, but the result was this wordy soup of yummy goodness and prose that lived through the ages. I should be all kinds of behind that, and I am… sometimes.
Told you I was weird.