This fascinating article in the Baltimore City Paper talks about the books we loved when we were twelve, and how they never ever leave us. It opens with a quote that really resonates with me:

"A girl I once caught reading Fahrenheit 451 over my shoulder on the subway confessed: "You know, I'm an English lit major, but I've never loved any books like the ones I loved when I was 12 years old." I fell slightly in love with her when she said that. It was so frank and uncool, and undeniably true."

I have found books that I love every year of my life. I am a person who reads, I've been a person who reads for almost my entire time on this planet, and I go through a lot of brand new books every month (often to the chagrin of my budget). And yet...

The books I go back to, the books that comfort me when I feel bad, the books that lift me up when I'm feeling down, are largely books I encountered between the ages of nine and twelve. I'll go up one level on that, since that was also the period of my life where Xanth and Dragonlance reigned supreme: they're the books that emotionally moved me between the ages of nine and twelve. Tailchaser's Song. The Last Unicorn. IT. The Stand. War for the Oaks. There are others -- oh, there are others -- and so many of them source back to that same stretch of time.

I'd argue that you can fall in love with the way an author uses language, as much as a specific use of language, and that it's also at its most powerful when it happens between those ages. Hence my total inability to get over my love for Stephen King (not that I really want to). Hence the comic geeks of the world and their insistence on viewing whichever death of Jean Grey happened during their 'imprint years' as the only real time she died. (Personally, I'll take any of her deaths, as long as she promises to stay dead.)

I'd be curious about how universal this is. But is strikes me as being something that's very true for a lot of us, and somehow manages to be practically invisible at the same time. Pretty cool.

Current stats, The Mourning Edition:

Words: 2,440.
Total words: 31,010.
Reason for stopping: the cold medication says writing is hard now.
Music: mostly show tunes.
Lilly: really wishing I'd stop coughing.

I am now solidly into chapter six of The Mourning Edition. It was a bit rocky at first; it's always rocky going from one Book into another. (Remember that, in this context, a 'Book' is an internal division within the greater novel. Newsflesh was five Books and a Coda. The Mourning Edition will probably be something similar.) I'm still inside the general word count region that I consider to be '20% of the way there.' This is good. This is very, very good, when you compare it to the speed with which Newsflesh was written (see also 'glacial,' at least by local standards).

It makes me happy to realize that I have one full book finished, about one-fifth of another book in first draft, and an outline for the entire series. I feel very much like a real author when I can say things like that. Of course, I also feel very much like a real author when I give myself concussions to get more sleep at conventions, so hey.

And now, as a special bonus treat before it splinters off into its own recurring entry...

Current stats, The Brightest Fell:

Total words: 20,305.
Reason for stopping: again, the cold medicine is king right now.
Music: mostly show tunes.
Lilly: probably afraid of cross-species transmission.

Yes, this is Toby Daye, book five, and yes, I'm almost as far into it as I am into the second Mason book. Don't judge me! I'm a compulsive sequel-writer, it's what makes me happy, and besides, I want to have as much done as humanly possible before Rosemary and Rue hits shelves. Some people don't want to commit to long series, and I realize that. Others don't want to commit to book one unless they know for sure that books two and three are really and truly going to happen. Since I can't conceal the fact that this is a long series, I'm going to do my best to provide proof that honest, the whole thing is going to happen. Really. I'm writing the rest right now.

Since I am now nicely cushioned on a backlog of lovely words with which to pacify my various editors, I'm going to return to my sick day.