So, at camp this past weekend (Mother/Daughter Girl Scout Camp, thank you very much), we played Quidditch.
Yes, you heard (or rather, read, that right). A volleyball, a snitch, four hula hoops on poles (think giant lollipops), and two brooms. Eight girls and two crazy moms. Thank the powers-that-be there are no pictures. Can you imagine a game you invented for a book becoming so real to people that girl scouts camping in New Hampshire play it?
So everyone is blogging about JK Rowling lately. In my house, we've had the audio books on repeat for about a year--or more, I've lost track. And yet sometimes I take for granted how spectacular they really are.
In contrast, I started a new book for bookclub last night. I won't mention the title. The writing is horrible. It's ALL telling. No showing. AT ALL. In other words, "I walked to the couch and sat down." "I told him what happened." "We drank for hours." No rich detail. No deep-felt emotion. I'm struggling through it, but there is no personality, nothing real to grab onto. Nothing to make me care a hoot about the characters.
JK Rowling shows you her world, in deep, rich color. I sometimes forget that certain scenes aren't in the movies because I can see them so vividly in my mind.
Something to remember when I'm working on the WIP.
On a related note, I saw Deathly Hallows Part 2 last night. The purist in me was annoyed about a few missing scenes, but on the whole, it was a wonderful, satisfying ending.