The Meteorite
- Andrew Ross
- Jan 11, 2019
- 3 min read
2 years and 10 days. Of course, that is only if one counts the writing and the editing. There were many previous months full of plotting and sketching out ideas and bizarre Venn diagrams of character relationships but eventually I decided to sit down and start hammering out some prose. I now have something to hold in my hands that will show for it.
Some people paint and others write music. Some people design architecture and others sculpt. I can do none of those things but I do think we are all in some way artistic and the only way that I have found that purely satisfies that fundamental human desire within me is with the written word. My art, such as it is, is therefore embedded in the play of language and in the turn of every word. Like music, each word is a note and by itself nearly meaningless, but within the context of the surrounding words and sentences, paragraphs and chapters, it is an integral and necessary part of a whole. Its cadences and natural pauses are like the pitches of and silent rests between notes. Its poetic rhythm is a melody of sorts. The novel becomes a literary symphony split into chapters and words as the symphony is split into movements and notes. Everything is just so. If done well, a deeper form of wisdom glows just over the horizon of the experience and we can sense it and it's that nearly inchoate residue of wisdom, of truth at the tip of the tongue, that I think drives people to art. I am not certain that this book is anything close to that ideal but I am sure that literature is the only way in which I could even begin to try and set out on that path.
This work is not remotely possible without the people who support me in this idiosyncratic passion. My wife Maggie, my parents, my siblings and my friends are all in some sense deeply a part of me and therefore, oddly enough, a part of the novel too. They wrote themselves into my soul and I wrote a book. I hope they can forgive me if the book is not a grand one. It would surely be on account of the author failing to create good work than from any lack of grand inspiration. My foundation has been as solid as anyone could ever ask for and I am more grateful than I could ever show.
The book itself deserves a synopsis in blog form. I do hope you'll purchase it and give it a whirl and, love it or not, leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Or speak a kind word to a friend or colleague. The novel itself is about a meteorite that plunges into the atmosphere and crashes into a Russian mountain. Many more follow over the course of a day. Shortly thereafter, the world is beset by a plague that leaves people not dead but demented. A small contingent of people seemingly immune to the disease begin to try and figure out what is going on as the rest of the world is slipping into a quiet oblivion and as they do so a horrible truth begins to emerge. At first slowly, but eventually with greater speed, the mysteries of the plague are revealed and those left unaffected suddenly realize the gravity of their position and the peril of their future.
I have to thank all those who read early versions of the book and made helpful comments-the work is exponentially improved for all your efforts. The medicine now sits on more solid ground. The characters are more filled in and relatable. The philosophy, such as I am able anyway, is more consistent. And the one hundred thousand errors I made along the way have at least been cut in half. Thank you all.
So, here it is. Below I'll place a link to the Amazon page if you're keen on picking up a copy. If it's not on Kindle yet it should be available in the next day or two. If you'd like me to send you a copy-I'd be happy to do that as well. If you have any marketing ideas, something I am truly awful at, please let me know. And if I can promote the book in book clubs or guest blogs or in any way at all-please don't hesitate to drop me a line. Thank you for reading this blog and thanks for taking an interest in this work. I very humbly submit to you, The Meteorite.
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