Here's this unusual thing that happens to me. Someone will post a comment here, Tweet me a Tweet, or drop a note into my box that says (in a nutshell), "You're no Nin."
Through the heart!
Except, not. I only read the two collections of short stories by Anais Nin. And while I appreciated her use of words, I wasn't transported. Nin was never an author I strived to emulate. I can't think of an author, in fact, who I would be insulted by being told I'm not. (Unravel that, if you dare.) Seriously:
You're no... Hemingway.Agreed.
You're no... Raymond Chandler.
Truer words were never spoken.
In the 90s, the author I used to be regularly compared to was Emma Holly, who I don't know, and whose books I've never read. "Alison Tyler is no Emma Holly." Okay. I'll accept that. I'm also no Nora Roberts, no Stephen King, no Elmore Leonard, and no William Kennedy.
In truth, I can't imagine wanting to be known for writing like someone else. The most recent note I received read, "You might be good. I don't know. I've never read your work. But you're no Nin."
After all these years, I have finally figured out what my response should be:
"Thank you."
XXX,
Alison
P.S. You have no idea how unbelievably proud I am at knowing who Evan Peters is. P.P.S. Fabulous Holden Caufield shirt is by Up Shirts Creek.
