(To be accompanied by clapping of hands and a rhythmic top-thigh slapping.)
And so it is my turn to be called out –To Blog.
Oh the pain, the horror, for someone who never kept a diary, who always found it tiresome to talk about myself, even in locked pages. I supposed that is one reason I love fiction. It’s not about me—yet it is. Good fiction tugs at me, reminds me of my own experiences, elicits feelings. Sometimes a book will stay with me long after I am finished reading it. I think about the characters in the shower, muse on its plot while on walks, ponder its rhythms. This happens when a book comes close to me and applies to all fiction including the light fluff beach book, the predictable detective novel, the stereotypical thriller. The good ones have something in them, in their storytelling, in their protagonist or villain that echoes our own voice as in a cave.
The game is called “Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar.” Remember it? Does it bring back a memory? Make you smile? Remind you of your kindergarten teacher or your first best friend?
That’s good fiction.
Thus endith my first Blog