Usually I blog on books I’ve read, but today I wanted to do something a little different. I thought I’d feature an author. It wasn’t very difficult for me to figure out what author I’d want to feauture since Alice Hoffman is my writing idol. The last few months have been extremely difficult for my ego in terms of my writing. If you follow my other blog at all you know that I had to terminate my literary agent a couple of months ago and recently I was cut from a novel contest before the second round. I’ve endured years of rejections so this should just seem run of the mill at this point, right? Wrong. As the months turn into years and the pile of manuscripts grow, the pain increases. But I am not the type of person to sit around and throw a pity party so I do the only thing I can; I work harder.
One of the ways I can mature as an author is to learn from amazing ones. This brings me to Alice Hoffman. In the last week I’ve pulled several of Hoffman’s books off my shelf and re-read them for nothing more than the simple joy of reading her extraordinary words and reveling in her magical voice.
Hoffman writes so eloquently and hauntingly, I can read her over and over again and never tire of it. Her ability to string words together is truly magnificent. This last week I read, “The Probable Future,” “Second Nature” and bits and pieces of “The Ice Queen” and “Skylight Confessions.” What makes her novels so unique is that they are timeless. They could take place in any time period anywhere in the world. Her novels read more like fables or fairy-tales than modern day books, yet they do take place in the present era. I could wax poetic on Hoffman all day but I’ll let her words take over….here are some of my favorites:
Love ambushed you, it lay in wait, dormant for days or years. It was the red thread, the peach stone, the kiss, the forgiveness. It came after you, it escaped you, it was invisible, it was everything.
Be careful what you wish for. I know that for a fact. Wishes are brutal, unforgiving things. They burn your tongue the moment they’re spoken and you can never take them back. They bruise and bake and come back to haunt you.
She was his first wife, but at the moment when he first saw her she was a seventeen-year-old girl named Arlyn Singer who stood on the front porch in an evening suspended in time.
Once upon a time in a place not far from here, someone who was lost was found. Someone who was sinking rose into the clouds. Someone fell in love. Someone was saved.
He began to burn on the coolest evenings, and the heat went up, into his head, until he thought he might explode. He believed he must be crazy or under the influence of some terrible ailment that boiled his blood, and there was no one to tell him that falling in love would make any sensible man feel exactly the same way.