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Attention
all Bibliophiles!
Being between books is like being between relationships. You’re
still lost in the last one and everything you check out now
stinks!
First, you
see the cover: m-m-m – looks good! You fluff your pillows and
crack the spine open, after thoroughly ogling the author’s bio.
And the first paragraph is so sweet you expect to be popping
bonbons with each page.
Then, by
page 44 or so, your Cheshire grin has faded. However being the
addict you are, you read on and on, waiting for the punch line
that never comes.
Now you are
bummed out. That librarian or friend who just raved about the
book has got to be stupid or, at best, so boring that any plain
book will do.
The most
disappointing reads are by the same author you just had an
affair with and from whom you fully expect another hot one. But,
no, it’s not happening. The author has gone frigid.
They say
everyone has a book in them. Well, that’s precisely what it is
with your wildly popular, Pulitzer prize-winning, best-selling
authors. They had ONE good book in them. And after that, like an
artist churning out seascapes on a conveyer belt, what they
write from there on is pure pap.
I wonder if
they are even aware of the tepid story lines they’re delivering
in exchange for their golden eggs. Maybe they don’t care. Maybe,
(Uh-oh! Guilty!) they hit upon a winning formula and fear to
change it.
At any rate,
I’m discovering that there aren’t that many good books out
there. And it pains me like being jilted by the best gigolo in
town. I want a book with meat on its bones; one written so
sensually that I can feel the protagonist’s kiss on my lips; one
that has me smelling smoke, tasting the chocolate suicide cake,
hearing the plunging waterfall. Hell, riding down it.
I want an
author who has the gift of a soaring, scintillating, smoothly
moving plot: who has the Steinbeckian gift of description: and
whose dialogue is real to the bones.
Oh, and I BEG you – not another book wherein the characters
clench their fists (under the table, to their pants legs, etc.)
Honestly! For years, I’ve noticed that every book I read refers
to clenching of fists when in reality, I mean, really, how often
do you ball up your hands when you’re upset, other than to sock
someone’s eyes out?
Bring me a
book that I can savor like See’s candy but that keeps me up all
hours wanting to see what’s next. A book as addictive as
“Desperate Housewives” (never thought I’d watch a single episode
and now am powerless over renting every single season from the
first one. Now THESE have good writers. “Sex and the City” pales
in comparison).
The only two
books I have ever re-read are Steinbeck’s East of Eden
and Anita Shreve’s Fortune’s Rocks – and I’ve read a lot
of books. No, you probably haven’t heard of anything but
Shreve’s The Pilot’s Wife. But trust me, you will love
this book from the very first sentence or we have NOTHING in
common.
If you have
any tips for me, based on the soul bearing information I have
just given you – pu-leeze give me a title. And make it one by an
author with whom I can have a longstanding relationship.
Meanwhile, I
must get busy writing another book to follow my stellar
StarWords and I promise it won’t be tepid . . .
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