Lately, I’ve been re-reading the classics. No, I’m not talking about books like Pride and Prejudice, Germinal, Madame Bovary, or The Great Gatsby. Although those are great. Seriously, we should all probably go read them asap. I mean a different shelf of classics: the blockbusters of the seventies, eighties, and nineties. The books I grew up with. The books that made me dream about being a writer. The authors whose names I whispered like they were mythical creations. Jackie Collins. V.C. Andrews. Jean Auel. Shirley Conran. Belva Plain. Judith Krantz. Robert Ludlum. John Le Carré. Tom Clancy. Robert Harris.

And that’s not even a semi-exhaustive list. I was OBSESSED.

These books, whatever their official genre, were always described in a language that I rarely see in book blurbs anymore. They were sweeping. Explosive. Sagas. Masterpieces of suspense. Works of awesome beauty. They raced to gripping and unexpected climaxes (cue my 13-year-old self, giggling like a maniac). They were, very often, the book That Started It All. Super unsubtle. Super enthralling.

 

The experience has been stranger and more moving than I expected. Part of it feels like time travel. I remember reading these books as a teenager. I can pinpoint the parts I found confusing, fascinating, boring, obviously sexy, weirdly sexy. Reading them now feels like a mind-meld with my younger self: nostalgic, enlightening, and vaguely panic-inducing, since I’m confronting parts of my psyche that are truly gone forever. Parts that I liked.

I guess that’s growing up?

But I digress. These books are fantastic storytelling. They move. They seduce. The worlds are rich and specific: Depression-era New York City, from the mansions of Park Avenue to the brothels of Harlem (Chances); prehistoric Ice Age Europe, as Neanderthals confont extinction at the hands of the bigger-brained, more neurologically complex homo sapiens (Clan of the Cave Bear). And the settings! Even now, when I think about Foxworth Hall in Flowers in the Attic, not just the attic, but the entire house, I shudder. It truly was another character.

The plots are shamelessly propulsive. Every single chapter seems engineered to ratchet up the suspense. The men have dark pasts and heart-rending emotional, physical, and psychological damage – morally ambiguous heroes who will do anything for the right woman, even in the thrillers! (*sigh* Jason Bourne). The women bring that first-wave feminist energy that you know and love: they want it all. Money, sex, power, freedom, revenge, the right man, the perfect tan. They overcome outrageous odds, never lose their cool, believe in themselves, refuse to give up. That may be why these books and I are still on the same page. They are not embarrassed by plot. They are not embarrassed by pleasure. They are not embarrassed by wanting to thrill you, dazzle you, shock you, and keep you up past midnight.

So if you’re in a nostalgic mood, may I suggest the classics?

I’m currently reading the second book in Jean Auel’s Clan of the Cave Bear series, The Valley of Horses, and loving me some Cro-Magnon girl power.

Highly recommended.