About a year ago I started reading Cormac MacCarthy, and starting with Blood Meridian is not unlike experimenting with drugs by starting with a mix of crack and oxycontin. The Road, All The Pretty Horses, I suspect would have been gentler introductions to MacCarthy. When I finished BM the first time I felt like I'd just run through a thrill ride, been blinded by the show and emerged into light, wondering where the hell I'd been, not unlike my first viewing of Apocalypse Now in sensurround in a Toronto theatre in 1979... (three hour version ending with the bombing of Kurtz's camp, without the interminable visit to the French plantation, they handed out pamphlets listing the screen credits. Phew.)
I have a list of books I swear I'm going to reread, but this one I did. I'm about halfway through it and it's like I only skimmed it the first time. And here's the reason I'm writing about it: I already know I'm not the best writer around, but other stories usually inspire me to work harder, or perhaps they just make me jealous because I feel I'm as good as they are but they caught the right ears, had the right contacts, etc.. Grapes of Wrath inspired me, that is it suggested a path I thought I could emulate - I'm not Steinbeck, but I thought someday I could write like him. Mind you, I've read more than a few writers who don't inspire me in the least (Dan Brown?).
Perhaps it's because this is a historical novel, which is my chosen milieu. All the Pretty Horses was less compelling, The Road was just a tour de force of sorts, but with Blood Meridian I'll never approach this level of detail and intensity, and I feel no shame admitting that.
Now, back to jealousy and loathing and all the other good writing motivations...
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