Perhaps one’s taste in books changes as much as their favorite ice cream or the potato chip of the day. I tend to pigeon hole my favorite authors into one of three categories: lyricist, storyteller, and knock my socks off.
The “lyricist” chooses words that mimic the streaming of musical notes; creating the sadness of a love affair gone bad; the intensity of a raw, dark murder; or the joyful sound of children playing in the sand box sharing gentle hugs as they close out another day. It’s the flow, the beauty of the written word.
The “storyteller” writes words as if they are carefully chosen hues, creating an succession of colors rapidly moving together, jumping from one shade to another to another. The image grabs hold of you, unable to stop until the tale has been told. It’s the page turner, reading one leaf while turning onto the next.
The “knock my socks off” combines the talents of a “lyricist” and the “storyteller;” a byproduct of our brain’s emotional center; the limbic system — hypothalamus, thalamus, hippocampus, amygdala, pituitary gland — working in concert to create the next great book. Only then can the lyricist and storyteller “knock my socks off.”