I finished reading the best book last week. A book so good I had to call Barnes and Noble to make sure they had the second book in the series so I could drive over and get it right away. It was brilliant—six untrustworthy narrators who never really let you know what was happening or even what they hoped might happen next.
There were quite a few times in the story when I threw up my hands and thought Well, writer, you blew it. There is no way you can get yourself out of this hole. But she did write her way out of the pit of doom she had landed her characters in. And she did it in a logical way that fit within the rules of the world she had laid out for us. I think this book might have been the best thing I’ve read since the final Harry Potter book, and I’ve read a lot of really great books since The Deathly Hallows.
But for the first time I didn’t feel terrible about my writing when reading something great. There was no sense of wanting to throw my hands in the air and pack it in because I’m hopeless. The glory of the amazing book I read just made be proud to be an author. Proud to be a part of a community that holds such brilliance. It made me want to write more, to dive deeper, and to do more daring things.
I don’t know if that’s a mark of becoming a better writer who feels more secure in their authorly footing, or maybe I’m just growing up as a human. Either way, it was really great to find a new best book!