Right.
I really need to stop writing blogs when I'm sleep deprived.
It's doing absolutely nothing for my reputation as a sober, serious individual. And there's some guys wearing white lab coats lurking around lately, eyeing me with an unhealthy interest. It's kind of freaking me out. So let's talk books, and maybe they'll get bored and go away. They don't seem to be the reading type.
Besides my own books, of which I am a rabid fan of (unless they're giving me back-sass, that is), I have an ever increasing stable of "never throw out" books that I will read over and over again when the desire to visit their world strikes me. They take me away to places new and bold, familiar and old, and bring me back to my world a happier, more thoughtful, insightful, peaceful, energetic person. They reveal layers of myself and the world I live in, enabling me to live my life with a wider and more comprehensive understanding of everything. The authors that create these stories? I quite frankly worship. The brains that came up with the worlds that captivate my imagination intrigue me, and I would love to have a telepathic mind-meld with them. There's really no way I could sit down and have a conversation with them--the stuttering, the drooling, and oh, the horror of the socially awkward mis-spoken statement would prompt a mad stampede to city hall for a 1000 yard restraining order. Mind meld, oh yes, that would be much safer for us all.
But every once in a while, one of the subjects of my hero-worship tumbles off their gilded pillar, and I can never see them, or their books, the same way again. The glass has shattered, distorting the reflected glory into a hideous caricature of their former god-like status. I, meanwhile, am crushed and hurt. Betrayal of my most closely held emotions propels me to jettison every trace of their influence. Books are shoved under the bed or given away, bookmarks are burned, websites are deleted, Twitter feeds are un-followed, screen savers are uninstalled, t-shirts are heaved into the scrap pile. You see, there is no more fervent detractor than a former advocate.
I'm not naming names, because my own personal feelings are irrelevant to the author in question. Their super-star status negates my input, for they have far too many shiny new fans, who are much louder and screechier than I ever was. My quiet devotion to their worlds, my constant support in the form of buying hardback versions of their newest book for the last 10 years--like I said, are irrelevant. The fan club that I actually shelled out $35 to become a member of--largely ignored. And that is a crying shame. Their books were good, until they rushed them and went for cheap thrills. The super-star status went right to their head, an intoxicating champagne that fizzed and bubbled until it became more important than the people that got them there. It's a shame, really. Those splinters they're going to pick up on the way down that ladder are going to sting like a bitch.
Meanwhile, I'm in the market for a new hero. Any volunteers?
I really need to stop writing blogs when I'm sleep deprived.
It's doing absolutely nothing for my reputation as a sober, serious individual. And there's some guys wearing white lab coats lurking around lately, eyeing me with an unhealthy interest. It's kind of freaking me out. So let's talk books, and maybe they'll get bored and go away. They don't seem to be the reading type.
Besides my own books, of which I am a rabid fan of (unless they're giving me back-sass, that is), I have an ever increasing stable of "never throw out" books that I will read over and over again when the desire to visit their world strikes me. They take me away to places new and bold, familiar and old, and bring me back to my world a happier, more thoughtful, insightful, peaceful, energetic person. They reveal layers of myself and the world I live in, enabling me to live my life with a wider and more comprehensive understanding of everything. The authors that create these stories? I quite frankly worship. The brains that came up with the worlds that captivate my imagination intrigue me, and I would love to have a telepathic mind-meld with them. There's really no way I could sit down and have a conversation with them--the stuttering, the drooling, and oh, the horror of the socially awkward mis-spoken statement would prompt a mad stampede to city hall for a 1000 yard restraining order. Mind meld, oh yes, that would be much safer for us all.
But every once in a while, one of the subjects of my hero-worship tumbles off their gilded pillar, and I can never see them, or their books, the same way again. The glass has shattered, distorting the reflected glory into a hideous caricature of their former god-like status. I, meanwhile, am crushed and hurt. Betrayal of my most closely held emotions propels me to jettison every trace of their influence. Books are shoved under the bed or given away, bookmarks are burned, websites are deleted, Twitter feeds are un-followed, screen savers are uninstalled, t-shirts are heaved into the scrap pile. You see, there is no more fervent detractor than a former advocate.
I'm not naming names, because my own personal feelings are irrelevant to the author in question. Their super-star status negates my input, for they have far too many shiny new fans, who are much louder and screechier than I ever was. My quiet devotion to their worlds, my constant support in the form of buying hardback versions of their newest book for the last 10 years--like I said, are irrelevant. The fan club that I actually shelled out $35 to become a member of--largely ignored. And that is a crying shame. Their books were good, until they rushed them and went for cheap thrills. The super-star status went right to their head, an intoxicating champagne that fizzed and bubbled until it became more important than the people that got them there. It's a shame, really. Those splinters they're going to pick up on the way down that ladder are going to sting like a bitch.
Meanwhile, I'm in the market for a new hero. Any volunteers?
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