By Margaret Atwood.
There was a time when I actively sought after Margaret Atwood books. I think I read most of her books in a year, back in the late 90s. And so when Alias Grace came out in 2000, I was over it, over her. And so I didn’t read it. And I haven’t read an Atwood book since, actually. (Even though I have The Year of the Flood, in hardback no less, but I haven’t touched it.)
But I’ve always loved her books, loved the way she tells her stories, loved her stories. I don’t remember them impacting my life (unlike Jeanette Winterson, who seriously impacted my life) but I remember loving the stories enough to go look for the next one.
Anyway. I started reading Alias Grace because my brother is studying it for school. And he keeps asking me questions about the book, so I decided I’d better read it. Instead of finding answers for him on google. Haha. And as soon as I started, I remembered why I loved Margaret Atwood. Her writing is so intimate. It’s like… It’s like I know the character. As if she’s my friend. It’s so bizarre. I love it.
And so I feel like I know Grace Marks. Her voice is so rich and real and… intimate. Hmm. I like very much.