While everyone has a story, be it Jerry Brukheimer or the guy panhandling on the corner of the city street, leave fiction to the fiction writers, that’s what I say. Seventeen years ago I closed the cover on my last piece of fiction reading. The book was Homer's Iliad, I had purchased in Barnes and Noble, Fifth Avenue in August 1995, with my first pay cheque upon my arrival in New York City.
Why so precise you may ask? I have a habit of writing 'where and when' on the title page of the books I purchase, whether at an airport or on Ebay, the reference I put on the title page reminds me of the circumstance I attained them in. I also have a tendency to write any words that fall outside my vocabulary inside the back cover so that I can research them later, on the basis that one can learn something new everyday.
I love the nonfiction genre, all it’s various shapes, formats and fonts. Histories, biographies, militaria are the subjects that I crave, any amount of them. There are not enough hours in the day as far as I am concerned for books.
It was last Christmas then when a flaw appears in the plot. As a stocking filler from my parents I received “Zero Hour” by Andy McNabe. My eyes rolled towards the heavens. How inconsiderate can a mother be? After years of tripping over, moving and complaining in general about my books, did she not get the point? I DON’T READ FICTION.
There is a school of thought out there, that in life you don’t choose to read your books, they choose you. With this in mind combined with years of seemingly unrequited love, I decided that I’d give the book a chance. I mean it could have been wider off the mark in terms of subject matter, so how much could it hurt? The least I might do is be grateful.
It may sound strange, but the most prestigious place for my reading material in my little sphere, is the home toilet. Not to be confused with the work toilet, that's an entirely different place. The work toilet is where, occasion permitting, one might steal a few minutes to gaze into the literary portal during the hours of commerce. The home toilet however is pride of place, guaranteed at least four pages of reading each day, two pages ante meridian and two more then post meridian. This may not seem much but I suffer greatly from a ‘busy life syndrome’, so carpe diem as far as chances to read are concerned.
Much to my surprise I started to love McNabe’s offering, couldn’t put it down, in fact and eventually when I did, I found myself back in the local Simon shop. That great bastion of literature, searching out another offering from Mr McNabe’s repertoire. I began to question what attributes did his writing have, that had sucked me in.
Andy McNabe is ex-SAS, Special Air Service, the créme de la créme of Her Majesty’s war machine, they put the special in Special Forces. From their origins creating mayhem in the deserts of North Africa in 1941. They have been rappelling through history and windows of embassies in London, crawling through the hedgerows of south Armagh or on the cold exposes of some Falkland hill. With their eyes peering out of a black ski mask which adorns their all black garb, these guys walked the walk. Synonymous with action, suspense and danger with ‘Who Dares Wins’ as their swashbuckling motto.
But what captured me was not so much the matter of his stories but the style of his writing. McNabe delivers his story of a happy go lucky ex-solider, as he struggle to get through just another day in the international mercenary market. A straight forward narrative of limited vocabulary, using quite a lot of dialogue delivered in five to six page chapters format involving no intricate literary architecture which makes for easy reading. With each foray, one is obliged to finish out the chapter yet spared any trips to the dictionary. His story made me think “Hey, I could write that!!!”
Perhaps it was by Grand Design or simple co-incidence, but my respite in the realm of fiction has provide me with inspiration. My “Writing in a Digital Age” module can be a conduit for my story. So now I’m out of excuses, I have both the confidence and the vehicle to put meat on the skeletal bones of my story. Where it will lead I don’t know but I feel that I am obliged to compile something out of my jottings and rantings.
Excellent. A book review from a "non-reader"; presented in a way which captures the unique - or at least unusual - aspects of your experience. Good use of own voice again; tone, etc, is appropriate to the context. As a free write, this moves very well.
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