I need Blake Crouch to start writing like Stephen King. I need him to write like R.L. Stein. I need him to write like Barbara Cartland. I need more of this man’s writing. I don’t want to sound entitled like all those people who got salty with George RR Martin and yelled at him to finish A Song of Ice and Fire before he dies, but based on this book and Dark Matter, no matter how much Blake Crouch writes, it’s not gonna be enough for me.
I don’t want to spoil too much, but part of the reason I love Crouch so much is that he thinks through his interesting sci-fi premises to their logical conclusions. All the times you’ve read a story or watched a movie and thought “wouldn’t going back in time to change the past not actually change anything because it’s part of that timeline?” or “how on earth does the space ship know what part of the limitless universe to search in?” So has Crouch, and he writes so that you don’t think that when reading his stories.
So in the interest of not spoiling anything, I’ll suck you in the same way Crouch does – the book opens with a police officer responding to a suicidal woman on a ledge who is one of an increasing number of FMS patients – people who inexplicably have false memories of their lives that feel as real or more real than the ones they currently have.
I can’t wait for whatever Crouch comes up with next, and I’m doubly excited to get Wayward Pines which I didn’t realize he wrote.