What a gift to be able to spend the afternoon outside in the sun, reading. A gift that my work patterns are flexible enough to allow me to do this. A gift that the sun shone, after so many weeks of rain. And a gift that John Irving writes books, and that he wrote this particular book – A Widow For One Year.
I am an extremely fussy reader. I’m even more fussy when it comes to fiction – I could count the number of fiction authors I choose to read (once I’ve read one of their books) on both hands. I just don’t seem to LOVE many books of fiction. I’ve read a lot of books that are well written, and a lot of clever books with interesting plots, but that’s just not enough for me to want to spend time with them.
The writers I love – Raymond Carver, Anne Lamott, Lorrie Moore, Richard Ford – all have their flaws. Doesn’t all writing? But I love them, I love everything they’ve written, whether or not I ENJOY it. I don’t think I enjoyed Richard Ford’s last novel as much as I wanted to, but I don’t care – I still love him.
This is the way I feel about people too. There are people I love, and I might not see them any more, I might hate many things about them, but I will always love them. They’ve crossed some kind of line.
Maybe this is what turns readers into fans. I don’t know. But the writing I love has the ability to AFFECT me, just like a real person might. What a gift. Thank you Mr. Irving.