Serially

I’ve recently been reading Louise Penny’s mysteries. They are set in rural Three Pines, Quebec, and star the flawed, fascinating Chief Inspector Armand Ganache and a gallery of wonderfully eccentric characters. Penny's fan club is legion (Hillary Clinton even co-authored her thriller State of Terror). I look forward to reading more, and thank my friend Becky for recommending this terrific author.

 

What is it about serials that is so compelling? My theory is that it’s their sheer predictability, the profound comfort of knowing that another installment, featuring characters that have become friends, is always brewing. As a child, I was a Superfan of both Nancy Drew and the Bobbsey Twins, and still remember the joy of holding the latest books of those series in my hands. So what if their escapades strained credulity? I was all in for the winsome Flossie and Freddie, as well as teen sleuth Nancy’s chums and her beau, the mellifluously named Ned Nickerson. In the midst of regular personal life upheavals (seven schools in three states over the years), I could always curl up under the covers with my familiar fictional posse, and feel right at home.   

 

I remember my kids finding similar solace with different series, which also sparked their love of reading in general (I didn’t care if they were reading Isaac Asimov’s masterful Foundation collection or the Goosebumps books, as long as they were turning the pages). And now here we are with Aiden and Peter, devouring the latest Big Nate and Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Do I take equal pleasure from these tomes, with their simplistic line drawings and numerous potty references? Of course not, but it is great to witness the boys’ excitement when the newest book in a favorite series drops.   

 

As a writer, I am hyperconscious about repeating myself (confession: before writing this, I searched my previous 560 plus posts to make sure this subject hadn’t been covered before). I am a brutal self-editor: I recently caught myself writing “in the face of___” twice in a 1000 word essay, and was appalled. I hate the idea that any of my prose reminds the reader of stuff I’ve written before, and much prefer the image of the polymath who zips effortlessly around the verbal landscape, forging new pathways for the reader’s neurons.   

 

But then I had a conversation last week with someone who has been reading my own four books of essays. She wasn't put off by their familiarity. She was enjoying them precisely because they WERE familiar, with characters she came to know and care about, a comfortable refuge in a topsy-turvy world. There are far worse reasons for reading a book (or writing one--I'm currently putting Book #5 together).

 

So, dear reader, please think of this whole blog as a serial. And when you inevitably come to a repeated word or phrase, or even an entire derivative post, just remember: I’m doing this on purpose to make you feel cozy and safe!   

You're welcome!

Testing that theory since November, 2011!