I’m a voracious reader. I mean that. I’m an absolute pig when it comes to books. It’s not unusual for the chores to go undone, with the children running wild and the husband asking for clean underwear, while I’m in a corner of the couch with my nose stuffed in a good book. I’m ashamed to say that I’m not even ashamed of it.
I’m also a writer. You’d think with all the great books I’ve read, that there would be a long list of books that I wish I’d written, but the actual list is surprisingly small. For most, I’m tipping my hat and raising a glass to a damn good writer. Sometimes, however, I’m consumed with jealousy, wishing that it was ME who had written it. It doesn’t happen too often, but when it does…boy, is it fugly.
One such book is “Under The Skin” by Michel Faber. This is a book so damn good that I can’t even discuss it. Even to try to categorize its genre would be a spoiler. All I will say is that from the very first sentence, it was unputdownable. There was no choice of stopping reading and, upon reaching the end, I spent several minutes just staring at the book: condition gobsmacked.
It starts with a small, strange woman driving a car through the Scottish Highlands. From there it goes places, many places, strange and wonderful and awful places.
Damn, I wish I’d written this book!