Well so much for comfort and security here. I feel much as Ham must have felt in the woods. The author has slipped his hand away, trusting me to have made the right choices. Without realizing he’s gone–or ever had been there–I’ve raced onward, changing direction with the wind, choosing by running towards the warmth of the sun or away from it, going with the abandonment of formula or plot plan.
Somewhere–and it’s too far back to go back to now though I know it was (Pen on aliens) that started the burst of freedom–I lost all sense of control. The pace of the story, the paths that I choose urged me on instead of stopping to sniff this rose or that. So story here took over and plot points were enhanced, encouraged by whatever data they offered: an e-mail from Pen, advice from Maria, from Cervantes and others, and all the while what Ersinghaus has me doing is finding out more about Ham until I have lost my way and must depend upon Ham to lead me from here.
Hypertext at its best–if you can accept it. For me, I’m still excited with the running, yet part of me fears what I might have passed by, and one of my deeper fears, that I am lost.
I’ll have to bite the bullet and cope.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
It sounds exciting. Wish I could read it.
And what are the odds that anyone shall pass that exact way again? Slim to none.
True true.