I am afraid to go back and read Eddings' books. I read them in the 80's and loveLOVEloved them. They, especially The Belgariad, were formative books for me and my writing career. I remember them as fun, adventurous and eucatastrophic. They occupy a warm spot in my heart next to The Great Adelaide and Granite Youth Symphony.
A few years ago I came across a couple of Piers Anthony's Xanth books, another series I loved as a teen. So when these short little books showed up unexepectedly, I snagged them and dove into one, hoping to relive the exuberant and silly fun of my youth.
What. A. Mistake. I read the first book in ever-growing horror. Were these books truly this bad and teenage me hadn't a clue when it came to taste in literature? In case I got the One Bad Xanth Book, I abandoned the first and began the other.
Nope, it was as bad as its companion. My lovely childhood memories were shattered. How could I not see the appalling plotline, the sexist characters and trite style in my youth?
Since then, I've been afraid, almost terrified to revisit any book I once loved. While I would love to read them again, and fall in love again, I have no guarantee. Sometimes the memory of love is better than the chance of losing it.
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Her Grace has lost many things she's loved, so she's doing her best to hang on to the ones shes got left.
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