My father introduced me to the works of Arthur Conan Doyle when I was about eight years old. He suggested The Red Headed League and I was enthralled. Since then I have sat in the corner of that famous flat in front of the two broad windows at 221B Baker St. waiting for the next desperate character to appear on the carpet and sit by the fireside between Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson to relate their bizarre tale of woe with the hope that the world's premier consulting detective can solve their mystery and bring them peace and a satisfying resolution. I am there in spirit and invisible to the residents of that abode, hanging on every word to see what will happen next.
Or I might instead file into the cozy home of Bilbo Baggins lost in a long line of dwarves bearded and hooded in his home, tunneled with great skill into the side of a hill, in the Shire, as the great dwarf Thorin Oakenshield and his band of kin disturb the comfortable retiring lifestyle of one Bilbo Baggins, at this unexpected party and interview him to determine if he has the mettle to steal treasure and pair wits with a Dragon as intelligent as it is merciless.
A wild ride with Toad bouncing up and down on the back seat of his new hot- rod can be joyful as well as thrilling, unseen by the amphibian road-hog, risking life and limb for a thrill. Or witness an exchange between Friday and Robinson Caruso as they try to communicate with each other for the first time.
The magic of the written word masterfully wielded by a writer that we can identify with can take us away from our mundane tribulations or current circumstances whisking us away to a fantasy world or into the past or future or even to an alien planet in our own time to escape a problem , or dream about our circumstances from a refreshing new and novel perspective restored between the pages of a good book.
Jim - March 2026
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