you want a new song, like a new religion

Some people have this amazing talent for writing really interesting things that make others want to read them. Somehow, this has never exactly been my goal in writing, although it should be. I mean, that's what sells. And the authress crafting her story is not really any different from the spider spinning her web- she wants the reader to be caught, irreversably, stuck there turning pages into the wee hours of the morning until there are no more pages to turn. This is how you make a living as a writer, I am told.

Then there are those who take things the complete oposite direction, and want everything to be original, rule-breaking, even difficult. While I admire writers who can spin a tale to catch unsuspecting readers, I have a much harder time with this later kind. I mean, it's good to be original, and fresh creative ideas are everything in the world of writing. But I really think there is such a thing as forced creativity- side stepping and shimming around every already-done idea like you're a spy trying to get through a room of lasers to the prize on the other side- ORIGINALITY! I think it's stupid.

Which is why I'd much rather read a honest, down to earth story about a small town boy who goes on a simple adventure and meets a small town girl than most anything else that's out there. Down to earth is not a marketing gimmic or a desperate grasp at originality. The best part is that you get the feeling it just flowed out of the writers pen, without much forethought or overanalizing or consideration of the consequences... it's usually just raw and unscripted, the deepest and most honest things in the writer's heart.

And really, this makes sense, because the things that human beings really want and need don't ever change, and there is only a surprisingly small handful of these kinds of things to choose from.

I would include any typical fantasy story in this chategory, even if the elves are graceful and beautiful and the dwarves live under the mountains. These things are classic elements that can be used to tell a thousand different stories, most of which are, at the heart of things, relatable and simple. Like the Lord of the Rings or (please don't think of the movie) Eragon. Or C.S. Lewis. But fantasy and sci-fi are awesome because the ways to be creative without forcing it are pretty much endless. Which may be why it's my favorite genre of all time.

Other than these criteria, the mark of a really good book for me hangs on writing style. I love books like Jane Eyre that have really boring plot lines, and yet are still so engaging to read you can't put them down- like you don't even CARE what's happening. Words that fit well together and paint pictures so vivid you feel like you're there. That is what I aspire to be able to do someday.

In conclusion, if you have not yet read the book Red Sails to Capri, go out and buy yourself a copy right now and read the whole entire thing, and you will know exactly what I mean. :-)


"Well" -Angelo looked around him- "do we start or don't we? Or perhaps we are waiting for Pietro's donkeys?" He picked up a large lunch basket and put it into one of the boats.
Michele stared at the basket. Was it really filled with rocks, as his mother had promised? Suddenly he realized that he had had nothing to eat since Saturday evening. Now it was noon on Sunday. Michele thought of his morning. He had run from the inn to Angelo's cottage; from Angelo's cottage to Pietro's house; from Pietro's house to the top of the mountain; from the top of the mountain to Angelo's cottage; from Angelo's cottage to the Grande Marina. He was sure he had never been so hungry in all his life.
"Papa?"
"Yes, Michele?"
"What's in the basket?"
"I don't know, Michele. Your mother handed it to me just as we were leaving. I haven't had time to look inside."
"Papa, may I look and see?"
"Look, look! Of course you can look. But you know what your mother said- a basketful of rocks."
Michele lifted the white cloth that covered the basket and peered inside: fresh bread and cheese, smoked fish and olives, grapes and oranges.
"Papa? Look!"
Signor Pagano lifted the white cloth as Michele had done.
"Michele," he said slowly, "I think Mamma understands after all."