I recently finished
The Killing Way, a mystery by author Tony Hays. While the book was
relatively well-written, I found that I was still much more drawn to it than its
quality would seem to merit. I kept mentally returning to it, being excited
about getting back to it, only to realize I'd already finished the darned thing
and would have to wait for the sequel. In mulling over why I found this book so
fascinating, I came to the conclusion that it wasn't the plot or the writing
(although both were fine) -- it was the book's hero.
I've had numerous literary crushes over time. My first occurred when I was in Mrs. Cummins' seventh grade English class. Every year she had her students read The Adventures of Robin Hood. While most complained, I enjoyed the experience tremendously. It was my first encounter with the hero, and I was totally "in love" (whatever that means to a twelve-year-old). I even resorted to wearing what I thought looked Sherwood-Foresty for awhile (a green shirt that had laces strung across the v-shaped neckline, and leather moccasins that passed for "boots," both readily available in the early 1970s, unfortunately).