In celebration of
National Novel Writing Month, as well as just for the heck of it, each day this
month I’m going to talk about a novel that has shaped my life in some important way. Each day
I’m going to tell a brief story about a timeless book.
Thirty days, thirty
novels. Books that opened new worlds for me as a reader. Books that expanded my
consciousness, sometimes in painful or scary ways. Books that turned me into a
writer.
I’m not going to
describe the plot of each book. Instead, I want to describe a
moment of wonder, mystery, fear, or transformation. Thirty unforgettable moments in
the life of a reader.
A couple of points
to note at the outset: the books I talk about this month might not all be
novels. And there will probably be one imaginary book among them (see if you
can spot it).
I also hope to get
at least one guest post, so if there’s a novel that matters deeply to you and
you’d like to share your passion for it with others, drop me a line.
I’m going to start
the month with George Orwell’s 1984.
A terrifying story,
and yet there was something strangely appealing about Orwell’s dystopian vision
of the ultimate police state, where one’s every action and thought is under
scrutiny. It was a dramatic magnification of my own world. As a teenager I felt
surrounded by watchful eyes and powerful voices, voices telling me who I was
and who I was supposed to be. My secret inner life of dreams and fantasies often
seemed completely at odds with this image of what society said I was, and what mattered.
Reading 1984, I could imagine pitting
my own will and cunning against the watchful eye of Big Brother. I was sure
that if it was me in the story instead of Winston Smith, I could fool the Party
and survive.
And I loved the clunky, steam-driven novel-writing
machines.
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