This past week has been filled with doctors, and ultrasounds, and vaccine clinics, and this week will be filled with kids at home due to swine flu at schools. When I have days, or weeks, or as it turns out, months like these, I rely on my fiction. Nothing like loosing myself in a good book (writing or reading).
Little did I know that both these books were about the aftereffects of a flu pandemic (I suppose I should read jacket covers more often.) Such different authors broaching the same subject, yet certain elements of the books are surprisingly similar. Both have the Texas border sealed off. In Carey’s novel the street kids find a home in a Church. In Atwood’s novel the street kids find a home in a ‘new-age’ clan, God’s Gardeners. I am still reading them, and will see how the novels will diverge, yet both have thus far shuffled between an adult and a child pov.
I suppose that both these authoresses were inspired by the events of last year’s swine flu. This post is not about any revelation of mine, or any breakthroughs, but is really just about the reminder I had of how susceptible we are to our environment. Writing is such a solitary practice, yet daily activities, and even global events will find their way into our stories, be it in the form of a character or as a major plot. Sometimes I forget this.