Around the end of last year, I checked out a long novel by Neal Stephenson, got a late start on it, and had to turn it back in at the library before I could finish it. Several months later, I returned to the same shelf at the library, but Anathem wasn't there. So, for good measure, I checked out another, even longer Neal Stephenson novel, then waited. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, you fool me, you can't get fooled again. Whatever. The point is, I had to binge-read a lot to actually finish this one before it was due, but I made it. And I really liked it!
So now I want to read more books by Neal Stephenson (I think I've read three of his books so far). This was definitely not my usual fare, but I enjoyed it and have no major qualms. It's in its own weird little genre really, although it is generally regarded as a techno-thriller. While reading the story was enjoyable, I was frustrated as I became increasingly aware of how I couldn't possibly write a story like this. My delusions of being a competent writer were thoroughly destroyed in some manner that I'd make up a metaphor for if I were a competent writer.
Well, I guess if my dreams of being a writer at an end, I'll just have to settle for the next best thing. Whatever that is. Hazardous materials?
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