[I've written the subject line with a dash rather than a colon, to avoid raising expectations of another book. Of course, if Lois were to feel so inclined, she should feel fully free to use that as a title *at any time*. Iow, W, L, W!]
While it is a truth universally acknowledged that I've been a vehement, vociferous, rabid [see the ears?] Bujold fan for lo, these twelve-plus years and more, it is rarely known that in all that time I haven't actually read the books that many times. I've read all the Vorkosigan books maybe 3-4 times, _Chalion_ twice, and _Paladin_ and _Hunt_ once each. It hasn't really been necessary to read them more than that. They made such vivid, visceral impressions, it's as is I'm still having an ongoing conversation with them, like yeast bubbling and working away, in the back of my mind.
Yet, here's a thing. I've read the Sharing Knife books as much as the others in 12+ years. This year alone, I've read book 3 at least three or four times. I've been trying to figure out why, and I think Lois writes truer than even she knows sometimes; it all comes down to *affinities*.
These books are sheer comfort to slip into, like slithering around on satin sheets, snuggling into bed under warm coverings on a cold night, savoring chocolate, or getting intoxicated breathing wisteria.
That they're set in my own country certainly gives a geographical affinity, but that in itself is insufficient. There are admittedly affinities of topography and climate. [Of course, my own state, Georgia, is more diverse than most. From friendly foothills {aka, "mountains"} in the north, to piedmont, flatlands, swamplands, and beaches, we have a wide variety of climates right handy, so to say.] I've driven extensively through Ohio and Pennsylvania, en route to some of the best times of my life [OVFF and Confluence], which adds a certain luster to the scenery. These last few years, we've begun to take walks several times a week at the nearby nature preserve. I'd be able to see what Lois is writing about, often the same day as reading it: cardinals, bluejays, robins, lizards, turtles in the sun, various ducks, thuggish geese, cattails, dogwoods, redbuds, blue herons. Still no water lilies [although the fire lilies were exquisite last year], but that's enough to be going on with, surely. I've shared delightful snippets of physical description with ze spouse. Lois turns a phrase the way Chihuly blows glass: liquid, creative fire.
We southerners like folks from the midwest, because they almost talk right, close enough to be real comfortable. It does make it hard for me to appreciate all Lois' linguistic efforts properly, however; familiarity blurs details so.
Culturally, I can identify with both Farmers and Lake-Walkers [minor pet peeve: if reviewers, et. al. are going to capitalize one culture, they should capitalize the other]. My great-grandparents were sharecroppers, & I had a great-uncle and -aunt who didn't get indoor plumbing until I was seven. They made their own butter [I still have a butter mold]. My grandma plowed her own garden up until the year she came to town for cataract surgery and stayed for a stroke [they took her off her blood-thinners]. I've gotten up at dawn to pick field peas and shelled butterbeans until all fingernails were green. I've also been far too tightly owned by some things and completely baffled at the things some other folks are owned by [none of them written by Lois]. It could almost be said I travel Lake-Walker-lightly through the world [except for all the books and music--more like, I Marley merrily. ;)].
The romance tropes are comfortably familiar, too; I've always said I owed that high verbal score on the SAT to having started reading Harlequins in the 5th grade, back when they were written with big words, plot, and character development. Given how many of the best authors [hello, Jane and Georgette!] have heroines between 17 and 20, and heroes of 35-40 and higher, the age difference never bothered me.
Having never procreated, I never joined the adult conspiracy. Inside my head, I'm still somewhere between 18 and 23, so coming-of-age stories still resonate, even when one is coming-of-age at 56 [hi, Dag!].
These books have everything, the very stuff of life itself: wit, wisdom, bafflement, betrayal, puzzlement, poignancy, goodwill, malice [both kinds!], with hearty guffaws and primo snark. I want my life written this intelligently by an author this insightful.
Colossal kudzu kudos, Lois; brava!
Also, Write, Lois, Write!