Kirkus Review: "Both Sensitive & Sensible"

Kirkus Reviews is a go-to resource in the publishing industry for independent book reviews. And from what I understand, they are not prone to sugar coating things. In other words, not every book they consider gets a glowing review.

So, imagine my delight at seeing nothing but love in their review of My Big, Dumb, Invisible Dragon. I’m feeling so honored that the book’s message was SEEN, and acknowledged, and so beautifully expressed by this prestigious publication. Here’s an excerpt:

"The weight of profound loss looks just like a dragon as it sits atop a grieving child. 'Have you ever seen an invisible dragon?' the unnamed narrator asks, describing how just such a creature came one day out of the blue and changed everything. . . Gradually, though, the dragon takes leave for ever longer intervals . . . by the end it has not vanished but shrunk down to a manageable size. . . pointing out that the initial question about seeing an invisible dragon was silly, the child closes with a wonderfully perceptive insight: 'You can never see one by looking straight at it. You have to look at the person underneath'. . . Both sensitive and sensible: If some dragons can't be vanquished, with time and help they can be borne."

Read the full review here.

I loved my friend Elizabeth Dillow’s response, when she said, “I cannot imagine two more Angie-esque descriptors: sensitive and sensible.” And it’s exactly the same thought I had when I read the review. Those are words that describe me to a T! I’m sensitive to the point of oversensitivity…and I sometimes think I’m too sensible and practical for my own good.

In fact, until I attended a lecture from the novelist Ann Patchett at the Salt Lake City Library over a decade ago, I suspected I might be far too sensible to write fiction, even though I had long dreamed of doing so. You see, I didn’t consider myself an artiste, and I’ve never been in constant communication with the muses. I’m not wild, impetuous, or eccentric, as befits the common stereotype of the artist or novelist.

But Ann Patchett is utterly sensible herself. She opened my eyes to the truth: even quiet, constant, practical girls can write beautiful books. You just show up at your desk, day after day, and put in the work.