Oh Those Wacky Accidental Metaphors

Finishing a book is always a little bit sad for me. Even with non-fiction I get attached to the world of the book and coming back to reality is kind of like having to say goodbye to friends just after you've met them. It's always a battle to not just turn right back to the beginning and start all over again. I gave in to this urge ten years ago and spent four months reading and re-reading Little Women. To this day it is one of my favorite books of all time, but there are so many great books out there I don't know that I can ignore them all. As it happened I took two and a half weeks to read On Writing because I kept putting it down so I could read other books (Dancing Barefoot, Just A Geek, If Chins Could Kill and revisiting Blogging).

On Writing is absolutely freakin fabulous. Into a subject that has the potential to be boring on a lethal scale, Stephen King injects an electrocurrent of life which not only inspires but guides in one simple tingle. (I think I just made a bunch of Texans run for cover with my unintended Death Row Metaphor. Should I call it the Metaphor that ate Dallas?) How do I write such luxuriously crappy metaphors?

And in a genre jump that would make anybody who knows me proud, I think I shall next dive into the September issue of Jane magazine.

Yay Reading!