I just finished Justin Cronin’s The Passage. Now, I have a soft spot for post-apocalyptic fiction; King’s The Stand is one of my favorite books. My very first one, though, was Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, a book that still gives me chills to think about (especially in this day and age).
So I have spent the last two days immersed in this novel, to the point of nearly ignoring my children (thank goodness they’ve gotten pretty self-sufficient), going without food or water for long periods of time, and almost giving myself a UTI because I didn’t want to stop reading long enough to get up and visit the bathroom.
Probably a good thing I wasn’t drinking much.
Anyway, I love that feeling, of being drawn so deeply into a fictional world that I can’t easily claw my way out. Or, don’t want to. One part of me is paying attention to the technical aspects: can I describe a scene like this? Can I come up with amazing ideas like these? Can I evoke such emotion in the reader?
And the other part of my brain knows it won’t happen, and recognizes that it’s all right. The world needs masters, and the world needs people who are just OK. It’s OK that reading this makes me want to drop to my knees in front of authors like these and do my best Wayne impression, bowing low, forehead to ground, repeating “I’m not worthy!”
I’m not worthy to even contemplate the wish that someday, I might call myself an author, a title this amazing writer shares.
But thank God, I can still read his books.