Authors who Inspire…

March 4th, 2014

I love so many authors and appreciate different things about their writing style.

#1 — Bill Bryson is someone I enjoy because his style is fun, vulnerable, and serious all at the same time.  I love his sarcastic tone that shifts to one of reflection and warmth. I love how he writes about the mundane things of life in away that makes me laugh. I feel like I connect to what he is writing though his many allusions to American culture. Here is a sample from Bill Bryson’s book titled I’m a Stranger Here Myself. 

bb“I have very happy hair. No matter how serene and composed the rest of me is,no matter how grave and formal the situation, my hair is always having a party.  In any group photograph you can spot me at once because I am the person at the back whose hair seems to be listening, in some private way, to a disco album called “Dance Craze ’97.”

Every few months, with a sense of foreboding, I take this hair of mine uptown to the barbershop and allow one of the men there to amuse himself with it for a bit.  I don’t know why, but going to the barber always brings out the wimp in me.  There is something about being enshrouded in a cape and having my glasses taken away, then being set about the head with sharp cutting tools, that leave me feeling helpless and insecure” (Bryson 31).

A few other well known titles by Bryson are A Walk in the Woods, A Short History of Nearly Everything, & The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid.


#2 – Elie Wiesel is someone else who I appreciate as a WRITER. He uses such a poetic style littered with parallelism, imagery, figurative language, etc. I love the WAY he writes.  Here is one example of how amazing he is at stringing words together and using rhetorical devices.

Here he is writing about his difficulties in choosing the words when writing Night.

ew“Writing in my mother tongue—at that point close to extinction—I would pause at every sentence, and start over and over again.  I would conju8re up other verbs, other images, other silent cries. It still was not right. But what exactly was ‘it’?  ‘It’ was something elusive, darkly shrouded for fear of being usurped, profaned. All the dictionary had to offer seemed meager, pale, lifeless.  Was there a way to describe the last journey in sealed cattle cars, the last voyage toward the unknown? Or the discovery of a demented and glacial universe where to be inhuman was human, where disciplined, educated men in uniform came to kill, and innocent children and weary old men came to die?… How was one to speak of them without trembling and a heart broken for all eternity” (Wiesel ix).

I mean, come on… that’s good stuff, right?



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