The Book I Want To Read Next
Wednesday, May 18, 2011 at 07:05PM The action takes place on the edge of a forest. In a forest. In a loft apartment on Broome Street with a phonograph in the corner and a single flower in a bud vase on a wooden table. On a farm just after the hay has been cut. At the moment after the rain when the light from the streetlamps is doubled on the wet pavement. Autumn.
Main characters: A young photographer starting to lose her sight. Two young boys prone to adventure. A failed writer who drinks too much. A husband and wife. Slightly older, hobbies include painting (scenes in which paintbrushes are being cleaned) and gardening (scenes in which weeds are being pulled). They are described in a way that makes me picture them like characters in R. Crumb sketches. All hips and frizzy hair. They will share a bottle of wine on the porch. There may be a thunderstorm rolling in as they do. They will not take cover.
No babies. No suicides, nor period costumes.
Involves elevators that stop at semi-darkened floors. The antagonist is described as hairless. There are obstacles. Someone will speak in dialect, his words accented with apostrophes. There may be secret passageways. A small vial of something secreted away into a pocket.
The cover was once white but has now darkened to a warm beige. The font of the title is familiar and bright. The top right corner is becoming softened and rounded under the thumbs of multiple readers, and there is water damage: the first 30 pages curl up and down like a wave. VG, no jacket. The margins are free from notes, but on page 232, someone has underlined a passage twice with a dull pencil.
At some point, a character will cook a stew and enjoy the smell of it stewing. Other smells mentioned lovingly: grass, wet limestone, worn leather, church basement, neck.
Items that will not be meaningful but will be present: blankets, lanterns, shovels, a mirror with an ivory handle, a butcher block, tin cups, icicles, a Guatemalan bag, a braided rug.
Non-fiction, of course, carefully and elegantly translated from the Russian. Ends too soon. I will gasp on the final page.
© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.
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Reader Comments (4)
write it and we will all read it too.
That's how all books get written, isn't it? It's just something the author wants to read but it doesn't exist yet? Maybe you're on to something.
I think that's the only way good books get written.
I was thinking the same thing. Write it! I love it already.