I recently read Running Out of Time by A.M. Hounchell on a fine Sunday morning.

The Monday after, I had to get my blood checked for a symbiotic parasite and my head checked for acid lumps. The swill was lingering somewhere in the back of my brain hours after I read Hounchell’s confusing blunder of a masterpiece.

I checked out his blog already and liked the sarcasm and big pills so I did not get out of my pajamas, I was on coffee cup number two and ready. Wait, that’s right…

I actually started reading this the night before to my wife, out loud, in bed, three goblets of wine and whatever else in. It wanted me to read it out loud. I wanted to be a voice actor for this author’s entire body of work, and that is all the voice over acting I would ever have to do.

As I let the absurdity pour from my lips to my laughing wife, I got the sinking suspicion that she was entertained for once by the written word. She never laughed that much at my material…

I remember now, ah yes, Sunday morning, where did we leave off? Page 22, yes, just about the time I rolled over again and…Did this book cause me to go for a round 2? How much time between rounds? 22 pages?

Sunday morning, again, I was sober. I noticed the unedited blemished, the problems with layout on devices that plague, but I still couldn’t put the book down despite my chores, my mountain of papers, my coffee spilling onto the floor, turning into a pool of mud chocolate between my slippers and my happy dog. What is in this coffee? Did I find this book under my mattress or on the bus station? How much coffee should I make? Should I stop?

I wondered if the man behind this art would give up the act, he almost lost me at Chapter 10, he almost gave up the ghost. I trudged on, for the sake of the quest. The quest theme was good, then it wasn’t, then it was good again. Do I like Ketchup? Yes, yes I do.

I saw brilliance there between the errors and the I just don’t care sentiment. I saw someone who could write for days while I stayed there, worried about one phrase.

This book is not for everyone. I was an English teacher, a writer. Now, I am questioning my ethics.

If you read a book and it changes the way you write for the better, you have read a good book.