Few stories have captured my imagination as The War of the Worlds. When I was in middle school, I was enamoured with the radio play. I listened to the original production; I wrote my own based on it (the big twist being that the Earthlings were invading Mars). When visiting family in Woking, I saw the monument of the Martian attack. I even purchased my copy of the book in Woking.
I failed to read it. My love affair with the tale continued. I attended live performances of the radio play. I skipped the Tom Cruise movie, preferring to let my mind be captivated with my own images of metallic Martian tripods shooting Heat-Rays.
Like Dracula, The War of the Worlds held a special place in my hear; the land of stories well loved but never read. Well, the Martians landed.
From the instant I began reading, I wished that I had my sketchbook in hand. The mental images were as vivid to me as though I were watching an animated movie or reading a graphic novel. I loved this book. Half way through I realized it. And while we all know the ending, what of the beginning and middle? These parts were as new to me as if I had never had any idea about the story.