I mentioned before that I seldom read reviews. In commenting on the anti-Catholic thing, I neglected to mention the good part.
All my life, I’ve wanted to write a certain kind of story…a story that read like poetry, that spun a story of magic and wonder and wowed readers with that same sense of joy I got from my favorite books as a child.
Unfortunately, my writing style is rather straightforward and pedantic. John is the one who has the literary flare (and he wishes he could write like a pulp writer, straightforward and to the point.) So, I did not think I had much of a chance.
I wrote a book anyway, though.
To my amazement and wonder, a number of the reviewers described reading Prospero In Hell in exactly the terms I would wished for…as if the writing wove a tapestry of wonder and awe punctuated by a rich, magical background thick with everything you could think of all spun together into a graceful whole.
Which means that, at least to some reader, somewhere, I accually succeeded in accomplishing what I had wanted to do.
Wow!
