I adore reading. I do it constantly and voraciously. In my exit speech for my English Literature seminar class I asserted that I want to die crushed under a bookcase full of good books. Ten years later I’d like to amend that to being knocked unconscious first, so that the slow death of internal bleeding takes place while I’m off cavorting in fields of glee (in my brain, anyway). Also, if those books could all be published titles written by me, that’d be pretty cool too.
I read across genres and I’ve noticed a lot of not so conventional wisdom being spouted from stock characters in my reading experience. It seems that wide-eyed ethereal children and ancient minority women have a monopoly on cosmic knowledge and cleverly dialogued common sense. For the record, I’m not tired of reading about these characters.
But just once, I’d like to see an overblown, pit – stained lawyer with onion breath be the voice of truth in a novel. Wouldn’t that be… different?