The skeleton is easy. Its well worn, tried and trust. You have an older man with an interesting profession that means delving into the distant past. Usually he is an archaeologist of some description or a professor but I've seen book collectors and other such interesting non-academic types. He is then joined at some point by a much younger beautiful woman by his side who it turns out has brains as well as looks and from there the sexual tension builds. And what binds them together is an ancient artifact of some sort and it is the quest for this item which weaves the story together. Now that would be pretty bland in itself were it not for the fact they were being chased by a lethal band of brothers connected with some ancient cult who are after the same object and through car chases and shoot outs and all other kinds of exciting near death experiences the story ticks along to its climax through twists and turns and a helluva lot of near misses. And this tale is the major part but usually there is another tale told from mostly Medieval times- or around Christ if the artifact in question is religion related- which brings the history of the prize to the reader at the same time. Its classic Dan Brown formula and repeated now eternally. The meat on the bones is the author's narrative which varies from the dire to the quite brilliant depending on who you read. Usually the former unfortunately as these books are churned out by the basket load.
For some quite time now I have been hooked on these historical thrillers or whatever the genre is called. I don't go seeking them and in fact if I order books I don't touch them but whenever Mrs N decides to treat me to some books from the supermarket its the type she always brings home because they are popular and so accessible and every time she does I groan inside then 300-400 pages later have enjoyed my read. Its so strange as I hate repetition and I also hate beyond the bounds of reality sensationalising- you know the sort of thing: Chuck Norris up against 20 guys and he knocks them all out with 1 punch yet takes 20 in return and doesn't have a mark. Its like James Bond always being left to die in some contraption you know he's going to get out of and that irritates me so much I just want the villain to put a bullet through his head- that's never going to happen is it? Yeah I hate everything about these books yet with nothing alternative to read I force myself to start reading them and can't put them down. Its a weird feeling to be repulsed by my own enjoyment but I do. Abondoning realism irks me and yet at the same time I feel the need to be lost in adventure by whatever means.
At the moment I'm on a reading frenzy which seems to happen when I become bored or disillusioned with this reality to the point that I have to escape into alternatives. So at a loss last night after finishing my last unread book my wife came in today, to save me from the iritation of rereading, with two new books from the supermarket of this genre which brought internal groans again- one about finding Noah's Ark, cue Indiana Jones music, and another about a Medieval manuscript that will change the world. But still I will read them as I have nothing else novel to read. For all its faults and borrowing I did really enjoy the last book I read which was not of this ilk yet another supermaket buy from my wife. It was a sort of Gothic horror translated from Spanish and set at the beginning of last century in Barcelona but hinted vaguely to me of the film Angel Heart, it was actually entitled "Angel's game". I loved it though and couldn't put it down. Maybe more to do with preferring to live in a large gothic home in uncertain times in another place under a burning sun that the story itself. More to do with being lost in myself in another world.
The power of the written word is amazing. In the epilogue to that book I read I started reading the final few pages and had to stop. I was reading something and could feel myself having to hold back the tears. I could feel my chin wobbling and I quickly put the book down before I emotionally broke down. And that is the thought I get in my head: must hold this back or you will go insane and breakdown into a gibbering idiot. I know I won't- I think- but that is the strong thought. So strange that fiction can do that. It was only a letter from a bit player in the piece of a fictional story and yet I couldn't carry on reading until the following day because of what it was doing to my emotions. I see it happen to my wife all the time with TV and through tears she looks at stone-hearted me but I do get that well occasionally in fiction and its stronger and more often than I get it in reality. Without doubt I have suppressed all the dark stuff and from time to time it tries to break out. Its not just sorrow though but instead the strength of the emotion because I get the same with with anger and frustration. My wife came home on Thursday early from work and burst into tears because her best friends mum had died who she knew well. Earlier today she went up to see her and among lots of things she related how her friend and husband had wept together. I couldn't see me doing that I am so emotionally repressed. I just don't know how to deal with these things and can't let go and no it is not a healthy thing but can't help it as in my mind I see a big wall with lots of cracks all leading to one point where I have my finger poked in and fear the consequences of removing it.
Boredom of this life and its restrictions has sent me head long into the world of fiction and the written word. To be perfectly honest I am enjoying it which I should be ashamed to say but am unashamedly not. Its a welcome break from the monotony of endless days. It is though just a short term vacation I take from time to time when I need to. Not a conscious effort on my part but something I just do automatically when there is nowhere left to hide. But the good thing is I do usually feel better for it. At the moment I am feeling better for it. Its a bit like stopping the world for a breather before allowing it to start spinning again. I do though also worry that this is part of my problem- the need to escape from the practicality of life. Even if only on fictional terms swapping shopping for love, hoovering for lust and mundane conversations for whatever the heart desires. An urgent need to escape from the banality of it all into a place where the realm of the senses has no bounderies.
