S. J. Maas,
You succulent sadist. Vixen of valor and destroyer of worlds. You. Are. Masterful.
You write in webs that captivate--shiny elusive strings, impossible to escape. I have wept and wrecked and reigned down havoc in the space between your words, and every page that ends leaves me lusting for another.
I adore what you have created. Not only for the lands I’ll only ever imagine, with their scents of pine and snow, and ever-blooming spring blossoms, but for the people with whom you fill them. Strong women, loyal guardians, wretched beasts, and cowards and conniving monsters. Your worlds are bursting with characters so full, and complete I feel as if I have met them. Each and every one has been my companion as much as they have been companions to one another.
Your magic is the kind I am always in search of, the kind that sweeps me up and whisks me away. Ages have passed since an author has reeled me in and owned me so completely. You have stoked a spark in me, and revived a smoldering fire. I feel a indebtedness to and love of your work that I have barely scratched the surface of expressing. While my thanks for the origin of my life-long love affair with the magical, the wild, and the impossible may belong to the woman who preceded you, you will always possess my gratitude for proving that I can still fall so ardently in love with tales and sagas and stories like Feyre’s and Aelin’s.
Your magic, Sarah J. Maas, is the kind I am always in search of, the kind that sweeps me up and whisks me away, and the kind I am ever so grateful to have discovered again.
Until the next, and the next, and the one after that,