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We become different from each other, opponents even. But we all share a conspiratorial wink when we talk about certain magical authors and books. Those that made us discover literature without weighing us down with dogma or teaching us rules. This is our true common heritage: stories faithful not to what people see but to what people dream.
We would lie in those afternoon beds, afterwards, hands on each other, talking it over. Possible, impossible. What could be done? We thought we had such problems. How were we to know we were happy?
tomorrow marks four weeks since I finished A God Grown Old. couple that with the fact that there are significant chunks of the novel I can’t recall offhand, and I think it’s time to start reading it on my Kindle.
on the advice of Jill, my writing partner in 50 Unexplainable Stories and Other Tales, I’m going to read it once through just as a reader. I may jot down some notes, but for the most part I’m just concentrating on how the story feels. (not the feels. those do exist though. I did cry writing at least two of the scenes.) thank goodness for Kindle, or else I would be so tempted to make wording changes…
me at 10: wow I can’t wait until I’m older so the three hours a day I spend reading will get me through like ENTIRE BOOKS
me now: reading time what is that
I think a benchmark of growing up is being willing to put aside a book you don’t like because there are so many books in the world and you just don’t have the time or emotional fortitude to push through a text that doesn’t engage you.