Diana Wynne Jones

Written 2014.

I first had the pleasure of reading one of Diana Wynne Jones’s books when I was twelve years old.  I got it from a bookstore, and it wasn’t the book I intended to buy.  I don’t remember which book I wanted, only that it wasn’t on the bookshelf, and so I regretfully settled for The Homeward Bounders.

I was writing a book of my own at the time, one which involved the protagonist going from world to world for unspecified reasons.  As soon as I read The Homeward Bounders, I knew that here was exactly the book I wanted to write, but simply wasn’t good enough to manage.

Years passed.  One by one, I began to acquire Diana Wynne Jones’s books.  The library had a dozen, but a dozen wasn’t enough.  Besides, what if one was checked out?  What if the library wasn’t open?  What if I wanted to read one, but had no way to get to the library?  I had to own them.

Now it’s 2014.  I never stopped writing (what writer can?), and I never stopped adoring Diana Wynne Jones’s books.  When I, as I invariably do, run out of things to read, I slope over to my bookshelf and glumly look at my collection.  Should I read that?  I’ve read it a dozen times; surely any book pales after that many reads.  (Hers only get better.  How could I have missed so much on my first read?  Or my fifth?)  I pick out one of hers.  I have read her books aloud to my sisters and roommate, and sometimes failed to read them aloud because I was laughing so hard.  I’m never disappointed.

I’m not embarrassed to read what some would call children’s books.  Or if I ever am embarrassed, I remember that I shouldn’t let that stop me.  I learned that from Fire and Hemlock.  I’ve learned so many things from her books over the years.  I’ve learned about people and about writing, about magic and about possibilities, about humor.

This competition says I’m supposed to write about how I’m Diana Wynne Jones’s greatest fan—but, frankly, there’s nothing great or special about my being a fan of hers.  Of course she’s my favorite author.  Of course I read her books again and again.  Of course I admire her work.  But that is not greatness in me; it is greatness in her.

But for myself, I can say this: in all I write, there will always be a little of her, a faint echo of all that I have learned and laughed and enjoyed from her books.  And I suppose that’s greatness of a sort.