When Some Things Just Don’t Make Sense…I Ramble.

No, mom, I am not having an affair with a man named Dean. At least not in the sense that crosses most people’s minds. Sheesh. Get your mind out of the gutter, please.  The Dean I so lovingly refer to is my favourite author to ever write a book. The one and only Dean Koontz. Now I read a lot of books. But even if I set sail across the ocean with a boy and some zoo animals, or travel to Japan to be a fly on the wall witnessing the life of a geisha, I always come back to my Dean. And he’s always waiting for me, ever so patiently, tucked into his assigned spot on my bookshelf. He really is better than a dog.
Though certainly not categorized as literary fiction, and sometimes has a nose turned up at him, there is something special in these books that keeps me coming back time and again. The imagination that it takes to dream up the ideas that he does, the deeply layered characters that fill his novels. I only wish I could be half the writer he is. Well maybe it’s more like I wish I could have half the success he has had. Because seriously, I don’t want to write like him. All writers are different, unless they are plagiarizing and that’s not my gig. I want to write like me, but be almost as successful as him.
Maybe I should just focus on getting to the end of the first draft and think about the rest later. But, oh, I seem to be straying from the topic at hand. I love Dean, but Dean loves his wife and dog. That does seem to be a problem doesn’t it? But I do love my husband and daughter and cat, so maybe we’re even. I know I can never have him and he can never have me, though I am sure if we met it would be like in the movies, love at first sight.
Oh wait, it’s not my love so much of him as it is the books, and now I fear this blog is going in a weird circle and making absolutely no sense so I will begin to ramble and you might get weird words like Odd Thomas was the Soul Survivor when The Husband caught him reaching for One Door Away From Heaven on The Darkest Evening of the Year.
Ok, I think I better stop here and just let it be. It’s evident that I cannot truly put into words just how I feel about the books that Dean Koontz writes but I think I have made it apparent that I like them.
I hope.