Two copies of the book, The Collected Stories of Greg Bear, have been waiting for my attention for years, sitting patiently on my over crowded bookshelves. A hard and a softcover. I probably have at least one other of his books. I heard he was a great writer, and I have collected quite a few great writers.
This would be a book for my Little Free Library. For an odd reason, I think about starting the library off in some chronological order. How many A-Z authors can I fit? Not twenty-six. The softback collected stories is close to 653 pages. And then there’s the unrealistic goal of only shelving books in my little library that I have read. I could at least try.
In the introduction of the Collected Stories, Greg Bear writes about what entails of being a writer. “Being a writer is a peculiar life.” I’ve heard this before. He writes about being pregnant with a story and births “a small, intense universe.”
And then there are the painful times, especially with deadlines looming, when “the cart gallops on without the horse, and stories come crashing down, perhaps because they have been tinkered up from emotions that are false, characters that are unformed, plots that seem grand at first, but ultimately turned out to be puerile and forced.”
Puerile. Puerile? I don’t think I have ever seen this word before. I certainly haven’t used it. Don’t rile the Pue is what I think of.
I’ve already fallen for Bear’s writing style, though only through his creative sentence construction and word-choice and haven’t read any stories.