And Now Sidney Sheldon is Dead

Sidney Sheldon, at the age of 89, died of pneumonia yesterday. I just read one book of his and I don’t remember its title. The book was gifted to me by a cousin who had found the book lying on the road somewhere. He couldn’t read English but he knew I could (back then, among the cousins, I think I was the only one reading English books). It was an obscure book and I neither liked the writing style nor the story so I never again read Sidney Sheldon.

But he was one of the most prolific writers of the century especially in the suspense genre. He was obviously not the Booker or Pulitzer types but he wrote the proverbial page turners and I think that’s what matters. Readers should like what they are reading and publishers should be able to make money off that writing. If you do these two things, you’re a successful author. He remarked:

“I try to write my books so the reader can’t put them down. I try to construct them so when the reader gets to the end of a chapter, he or she has to read just one more chapter. It’s the technique of the old Saturday afternoon serial: Leave the guy hanging on the edge of the cliff at the end of the chapter.”

Touché.

Some of his notable novels included Rage of Angels, The Other Side of Midnight, and If Tomorrow Comes. Oh, I remember, I’ve read If Tomorrow Comes.