Buy some Bryson, Bryson buy some.

So here's the thing about the repetition tic. It can be mighty irksome when it happens because of the writer's blithe negligence, i.e. when he or she is unaware of doing it. However, if it's deliberate, then it can be a real joy. Almost like a comic's catch phrase. And it becomes poetry. With Bill Bryson, it's not words or phrases, it's his sheer consistency of tone that's repetitive. His cheery good humour. When I read his books, I feel like I'm being slowly inflated with goodness.

In the past with his travel writing, I went on the journeys with him. If he found something interesting - I'd find it interesting. If he was perplexed by a situation - I'd be perplexed. If he found a quirk in a person amusing - I'd find the same. For the duration of reading a Bill Bryson book, we became one and the same person. I mapped exactly onto Bill Bryson's psyche. A pretty pleasant place to be. Later on when he became interested in particular subjects, I also became interested in those. Science, Shakespeare, The Home, etc. And always with an eye for the wry detail, the telling fact. When I come to the end of a Bill Bryson book, I know I've done something worthy. This is contrast with reaching Lee Child, where I feel guilty that I sat on my arse for hours wanting to know what would happen next, and when I get to the end, I very often I feel, not cheated exactly, but hollowed out - like a can of beans where the two circular end plates have been removed and the contents spilled out into the bin. Perhaps (got to get it in, if you've read my previous posts) I should read a Bill Bryson after a Lee Child to get filled back up again. So to bring my analogy to a close. Lee Child's work is perfectly pitched granola that isn't nutritious, yet Bill Bryson's is really, really smooth, and satisfying.

I'm going now to wrestle some more with a short story. This will be the final piece in the compilation coming out on Nov 15th - Fatal Errors.