In honor of today’s release of the uber-anticipated eighth installment of the Outlander series, I figured I’d share my personal crazy love of the first book in the series, Outlander. And then I’ll disappear for a couple of days, or however long it takes me to finish Written in My Own Heart’s Blood.
I was thirteen the first time I read Outlander, taking it from my mom’s bookshelf in the basement and hiding it under my bed whenever I left my room (in tribute I’ve included the original cover at left). Thank you, Diana, for teaching me the precise mechanics of sex and also setting my standards sky high. I also, like most women (I imagine), fell head over heels for Jaime. He still holds a little bit of my heart (swoon).
My mom bought every book in the series, in hardcover, as they were released. When I was about sixteen I started reading them openly, and the series became a source of bonding between us, kinda like my dad and the Rocky movies (I know, it’s a bit strange).
I think what drew my mom to the books is that she was Claire. Outside of the health care profession commonality (Mom was a doctor), their personalities are so similar, and my mom would have handled the strange events much as Claire did. It’s actually almost creepy sometimes. I always feel close to my mom whenever I read any of the books, but Outlander most of all.
My mom got to read An Echo in the Bone, but she won’t get to see the rest of the series (she died in 2009), but I like to think she’s been reading along with me over the years (and will be watching the series on Starz in August).
Outlander is still my absolute unchanging favorite book of all time (and that’s saying a lot when you read as much as I do). I recommend it to anyone and everyone I meet, including a nineteen-year-old young man at church (I know).
If you haven’t joined the Outlander fan cult, click below and buy it, and you will never regret it.