How could I forget my prized possessions? my autographed hardcover copy of Minos, a Romilia Chacon mystery novel by Marcos M. Villatoro. I spent two summers in writing institutes studying under the author, back when I wanted to write stories instead of the news.
To have left the book to collect dust for almost nine months in a room in Parks College of all places was a bit ungrateful of me. If it weren’t for those summer institutes, I definitely wouldn’t be where I am today, even if I’m currently writing articles instead of anecdotes.
My memory of reading Minos is about as dusty as the book itself. During the first few weeks of my junior year of high school, before AP U.S. History clobbered me, I carried the book around in my arms, without that pesky book jacket. It endured the wears and tears from walking from classroom-to-classroom, to the locker and back.
What treatment of an autographed copy! But strangely appropriate, considering the novel’s plot involves a serial killer who believes he is Minos, the mythical creature who thrusts sinners into their respective circle of Hell. I read the book in the circle of Hell that is high school.
My high school’s English department required Minos and Homekillings, the first Romilia novel, as summer reading for seniors and juniors, respectively. Unfortunately for a few of my classmates, those particular books cannot be found on the monolith that is Sparknotes.com.
And can I just say that I can’t stand that website? People want to experience the journey without ever embarking on the journey. Works are the results of every artist. Words are the medium. And there’s much art buried in a novel, any novel.
I spent five weeks this past summer studying abroad in St. Petersburg, Russia. Down the street from the school was a bookstore, and I remembered from the previous summer, the last time I spoke to Villatoro, that his books were going to be translated into Russian. Excited, I perused the store.
After an hour of searching, I found Minos on the top shelf. As a vertically challenged individual, things usually are on the top shelf for me.
The book’s a gift now, a gift to the person who first introduced me to Marcos M. Villatoro so many years ago. The gift has yet to be delivered, and I know this person is anticipating the present about as much as I am anticipating Villatoro’s next novel.
My research tells me that Villatoro hasn’t released any novels since Venom Beneath the Skin in 2005 (I also have an autographed copy of that), but I agree with the quote Villatoro wrote in my book the first time.
“You have a strong voice – and it will grow into a great voice!”
I do have a strong voice. I just hope that it’s strong enough here to carry his great voice.
Windmills of My Mind is a column written by a different contributor every week on memories about a film, book, play, song, or piece of art. Interested in writing one? E-mail the editor at [email protected].
