One morning last month, I woke up early to finish a book that had kept me awake most of the night before, a book that only extreme fatigue had forced me to put down. Though fantasy novels rarely appeal to me, this one had proved irresistible. Shivering and snuffling in the morning cold, I read compulsively to the story's end, unwilling to pause even to reach for another blanket. I was enthralled--though I couldn't have said why.

Had I found a story like no other? A tale of singular parts? Had I been seduced by an author's luminous vision? Enslaved by a sweet suspense? Did my experience mark the discovery of a work so skillfully composed, so wonderfully articulated, that even I, a literary critic by profession, could find no words to describe it?

No.

The book I'm talking about is seriously flawed, in ways that make critics shudder and moan. Even as fantasy, its plot is grossly improbable. Though the ending is obvious from the earliest chapters, the protagonist can't see what's coming. Throughout, the dialogue seems contrived. In short, this work violates multiple rules of fictional construction. And reviewers, I was later to discover, have in fact panned the novel, calling its plot "forced" and "ridiculous," its prose, "lapidary."

Of course, I was aware of these flaws even as I read. The trained literary eye cannot overlook what it has learned to see. But these errors did not lessen my pleasure and excitement as, sniffling steadily, I worked my way through the narrative. I knew that something important was happening. Something about the work touched me, spoke to me, in a way that resonated then and even after I had turned the last pages. This book stirred me. (I wasn't sure why or how.)

And shortly thereafter, miracle of miracles, I found that I was myself moved to write--after weeks of writer's block and the attendant guilt, frustration, and misery.

!!!

Glory be.

In retrospect, I can see that the miracle was not entirely miraculous. Though part of a genre I don't much enjoy, the book in question explores subjects that interest me. Though sometimes without credibility, its primary characters have passions not unlike my own. And in the stony, overpacked prose lie some gems of crystallized perception, those lucky phrases that both embody and illuminate human understanding. This book, an artistic and commercial failure (remaindered, in fact, for fifty-nine cents), addressed me in a kind of intimate language, one that I clearly needed to hear.

But why did this book entice me to write after better books--well-crafted books inviting stronger affinities and more dazzling insights--had not? I still don't know.

All I know is that I am grateful for this imperfect work, which managed to inspire when nothing else could. I am humbled by the mystery of the human imagination. And I am very thankful that the creative spirit isn't nearly as picky as I am.