I read an un-put-down-able book last night, and the strange thing is, I’m not even sure if I was meant to have picked it up yet. It’s called “A Slow Burn,” by Mary E. DeMuth, and according to the publisher’s website (Zondervan) it doesn’t come out until October. But Mary was kind enough to allow me to be an “influencer,” so I received my copy early, and once I’d opened it—well, like I said—I couldn’t put it down.
It's got great characters, and the sort of situation I couldn't help wanting to follow (a woman who's daughter's been murdered tries to choose between giving up and moving on). But it's also the first book I remember reading where I've found myself simultaneously admiring the writing and unable to step out of the story. Beautiful phrases and images peek round dark corners of despair, filling even the saddest scenes with touches of rhythm and hope. I wish I could write like that.
So now I'm wondering how the author did it. How does she weave scenes and memories into words that flow so unobtrusively and so beautifully? Maybe just the fact that I'm asking means I'm finally learning to read like a writer. But there's something very satisfying about knowing it didn't stop me from reading like a reader too, at least not with this book.
(And for anyone who wants to know more, I've put a review of the book on my gather page. Just click on the link.)