now playing on my iPod: Safe and Sound by The Civil Wars and Taylor Swift (just saw them in concert last night–wowsa)
Maggie Stiefvater’s new novel, THE SCORPIO RACES, drops us into the salty, bloody world of Thisby, a fictional settlement reminiscent of a 1920’s rural Scottish island. Every November, the inhabitants capture and race capaill uisce, water horses, for both the love of the island and its lore and a big chunk of change.
I won’t mention much else seeing as I really want you to read it for yourself.
Stiefvater’s bright, lyrical writing paints characters loud and real and gush-worthy. They are people who you know and people you wish you were. This is the type of book that makes you want to find the author, shake her in a way that is probably less than tolerable, and shout, “How? How did you do that?”
I worry for this book, though. It walks down the paths of the story, stopping to touch the leaves that grow along the way, pausing to feel the pulse beneath the plot. Does today’s world have the patience to enjoy the truth of it?
Perhaps we’ll never know because you can’t tell what anyone is reading anymore without real research. Kindles, nooks, iPads–they are grey and white and black. I no longer see what people read and it makes me sad.
Can you tell I listened to hours of fantastically melancholy folk music last night?