I recently read A Northern Light by Jennifer Donnelly. I stumbled upon it in a used book store and purchased it after scanning the jacket copy without really taking it in because if I had taken it in, I probably would not have purchased it. Despite the fact that I enjoy nearly every historical novel I ever read, I consider myself a reader who does not like historical novels. (Don't ask. I'll be the first to admit this is completely nonsensical. Cognitive dissonance at it's finest.)
Both the book and the author were new to me, which I can only blame on my own ignorance. But I liked the cover, the price suited my needs, and so it sat on my nightstand for some time before my stack of books grew smaller and it appeared at the top and I thought, Well then, this book...is next.
I am grateful to the book for many reasons. For the simplicity and beauty of its words. For the voice, which sang to me. For the story, which river-flowed at the right pace and emptied just where it should.
But I am most grateful that it found me when it did. I had been struggling for weeks to understand the structure of my current manuscript and in a just-like-that moment, in a blade of grass snap, the lock was broken. All that I'd been doing wrong, this book does right.
