I consider myself a pretty kick-ass writer, and I imagine that when I'm published people will absorb my words and just not believe the beauty they were blessed to have read. Because I'm the shit. No, really, I am.
But I'm reading a book right now, Little Bee by British author Chris Cleave, that just SHAT a huge, smelly turd all over my literary dreams. Not to say that my words are any less because he's great, but, damn, I wanted to be first.
Every other sentence is poetic. Every other paragraph evokes a picture in my mind. Every other page awaits with another cleverly weaved occurrence that makes Little Bee such a page turner.
#sidebar: because I'm slightly hatin' on Chris, let me point out that he is taking AWFULLY LONG to get to the meat of the story. but I'm going to forgive him because the scenic route ain't so bad.
I love this book. I love that Cleave can write a woman's voice so brilliantly. I love that he's writing for TWO different female protagonists and does so flawlessly. And I love that his use of the Queen's English is so bloody amazing I can't help but step my game up.
He's basically SHA-LUNGED me to write a better book. I bet he thought I'd back down. Foolish mortal...he must not be familiar with El Generalissimo. I come from warriors and soldiers and militia men that SCOFF in the face of Blanquitos. We eat dudes like him for almuerzo, and when his cronies come looking for him we'll just be all, "Perdon, pero no speeky dee eenglish."
Meanwhile, even though I'm only on page 97, this is already the best book I've read all year.
*smooches...happy that I've started reading again*
special shout out to Mari who, by inviting me to join an impromptu summer book club, helped me reignite my reading addiction.