Sunday, January 9, 2011
"Pathfinder" by Orson Scott Card
Orson Scott Card, I love you. I hate you. I love you.
My conflicted feelings towards one of my favorite authors has NOTHING to do with this book in and of itself. Pathfinder is one of those powerfully engaging novels where you're swept up so much that when you're finished, you feel a little empty. Specifically here, I was left missing the characters I had met within the pages of this humdinger of a novel. Homesick for a place that I've visited but that doesn't actually exist.
And now I'm pissed off. Royally.
"Why?" you may well ask. "If you loved the book so much, why are you upset?"
Because this is the first novel in a series. A series, I might add, that Mr. Card has just begun. Which means the second novel is not written yet. Which means that time will elapse before it's published. Which means that I have to WAIT. Damn you, OSC.
You see, I have a long reading history with Mr. Card, with whom (coincidentally enough) I had a brief professional history, when he wrote the script for a musical I performed in, many years ago. That experience was amazing. Reading his novels is amazing. Waiting for the next book in one of his series to come out is... excruciating. Seriously, Mr. Card, do you not care about your obsessive readers, anxiously checking amazon.com for news while slowly chewing their fingernails down to bloody non-existence? Your lack of compassion is staggering.
The upstart of all of this is, of course, that you should go out and buy the bleepety-bleep book immediately. You will love it. You will love me for suggesting it. And then, like me, you will writhe, caught on the tightrope line between love and hate for Orson Scott Card.
OSC, I love you, man. Mean it.