I started book seven of the Outlander series today. Those of you who urged me to read Diana Gabaldon’s epic tale of love, lust, war, and time travel should be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves. Before entering the universe occupied by Jamie (sigh!) and Claire, I was relatively normal.
And, when pressed as to why I hadn’t read the books, being the avid reader that I am, I’d smirk, “I don’t read romance novels,” in a slightly condescending voice.
Then one day I panicked, having found myself without a book queued up on my Amazon wish list, and so to pacify my earnest Outlander loving friends I placed an order for that first book on kindle. I’ve not been the same since.
From the outset it was clear that the first book, from whence the series takes its name, was more than a simple romance novel. There was complexity here, and, well, time travel. I read science fiction and fantasy, so this was right up my alley.
In the middle of the third book of the series, Voyager, something shifted. I began dreaming about the characters, not just as they are in the books, but as if we were interacting in real time. We’d have full-blown conversations. In addition I began thinking in a Scottish accent. Please tell me I’m not nuts.
Now, at the beginning of book seven, I’m on the verge of a breakdown. At present, there are eight books in the series. I’m on the next to the last one.
The books are long, and I am not a fast reader. Jamie (sigh!) and Claire will be with me for at least another month. Even so, that special heartache of knowing I’m in the final stages of a great series has set in. I can’t put the book down, thus I soon will have nothing left of Jamie (sigh!) and Claire.
And if anyone suggests I watch the televised version of the series, I will slap them. After all, I don’t watch romance!
Peace, people.
Praying for Eyebrowz 