I was trying to buy Carol Anshaw’s latest novel, Carry The One, which has garnered five star reviews and looks excellent, but the bookshop didn’t have any in stock. So I grumbled over to the short story shelf, and Amy Bloom leaped out at me. She really did. She waved and did a little hiya dance, and curled her index finger right under my nose. Read me, you sorry amateur, she commanded. You will not regret it. Well then. I could but obey.
So I paid for her, took her to Wagamama’s for a noodle supper and started sensibly at the first page, the first story. Dear God. My food got cold. My eyes, my brain, my hypothalamus, my teeth – they fizzed and boogied with unbridled pleasure. I near as dammit passed out the writing is SO GOOD. So, so, so good. Within fifteen seconds, literally, I knew I was in the presence of a magnificent artist. It was like taking an Alice pill and instantly being dropped into another, better, intoxicating world.
Read her, everyone. She’s a genius. And I’ve only got to page 4. That’s how convinced I am.