Jun. 3rd, 2009

David Eddings is dead.

There are three or four books that I can remember reading over and over in elementary school. There was The Hobbit, the old version with the green and blue and black dustcover; there was a collection of Russian fairy tales that was the first book I ever got from the nonfiction section; and there was The Belgariad, with all five books in two volumes.

I can remember staying up until all hours finishing the second volume for the first time, at my dad's new condo in my new loft bed. Pretty sure I was up until all hours finishing both volumes several times after that as well.

Silk was my favorite.

There are probably authors who would have been better formative experiences. I mean, read one Eddings series and you've pretty much read them all, and the newest series that he published was disappointing. But between him and Tolkien, I developed a serious respect for authors who cared about their worlds. If ever I wanted to be a writer, and at one point I did, it was because it seemed pretty cool to build your own place like that.

RIP, Mr. Eddings.

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