The second book I read was The Wizard Test, by Hilari Bell. I read it all the way through, and was moderately entertained as I did so. Bell has some strengths; the world she wrote in was neatly drawn, though not remarkable, and she created a couple of pretty good characters. The secondary character, in particular, was very engaging. But still I didn't find the book worthy of the hearty endorsement Uncle Orson gave it. It seemed altogether too lightweight: not in themes or content, but in execution. It was a book I could have written, without giving it too much sweat. In fact I would guess Hilari Bell is at about the same level I am as a writer. Difference is I mean to get a lot better before trying to have anything published.
There's a lot of inventiveness in the book, and good details holding images together. There's a nicely constructed social system, with soldiers, who are held in high honor, and wizards, who are considered unreliable and looked on with scorn. The main character is an aspiring soldier who's found, to his dismay, to have aptitude for magic. He's an interesting enough character, with strong desires. It's not his fault he's named Dayven, which sounds far too much like an uber-trendy baby name of the present day (though I admit my perspective was already turned that way, having read that the main character of another of her books is named Makenna.) And the writer creates both some good, tight situations and some interesting moments.
The problem? I was not remotely moved or captivated by anything in the book. I was, as Dave Lister would say, completely ungripped. I read it, and was entertained enough to keep reading, but if every copy of the book in the world, including mine, had spontaneously combusted while I was in the middle of it, it wouldn't have disturbed me for a minute.
Actually, that's a great test to put a book to: the spontaneous combustion test. If every copy spontaneously combusted while someone was in the middle of reading it, thereby preventing them from ever finishing, how upset would they be? My mind scans over a list of old favorites: Emma-- greatly upset. Crime and Punishment-- greatly upset (except when I was writing my paper on it. Then I would have been ecstatic-- but by then I had finished it anyway, so never mind.) Lord of the Rings-- greatly upset. Ender's Game-- just about frantic.
Anyway, for all its mild virtues, The Wizard Test utterly fails the spontaneous combustion test. Not only did it not hold me in any kind of suspense, it failed to move me in any way. I can only think of one moment in the book that aroused any kind of emotion in me. And it's not the fault of the plot: there's lots of great issues, like loyalty and friendship, an interesting moral dilemma, war and peace and destruction of the land.
I've read books that had this problem before. Some of them came from one of my favorite authors, Lloyd Alexander. Many of his later books just seem lackluster, like he's skimming the surface of a good story, but never quite diving down into it (and thus not allowing the reader to dive into it either.) I don't know what this comes from, but I suspect it is laziness: a writer knows how to string together a good plot, and does it smoothly, almost mechanically. A story doesn't come alive, though, by a smooth mechanical process. It takes wrestling, wrestling with characters and details, and it takes flexibility, a willingness to let go of your first ideas so that they can bloom into new shapes. That's what I think, anyway.
For someone like Alexander, he can get away with writing a lightweight book because he's already such a big name in the genre that they'll publish anything he writes. Now I'm interested to read Bell's other books, to see if they all suffer from the same problem or if she wrote The Wizard Test coasting on an earlier, much more difficult book.
Lessons learned:
1) Don't be lazy. Work harder to know your characters, to make them come to life. Think more freely and loosely about your plot; when something's not working, be truly creative with your new ideas. Don't be afraid to go into difficult places. If it doesn't hurt a little, it's not great writing.
Monday, April 24, 2006
a quartet of book reviews: I
One of the coolest things about my job (my aspiring-novelist job, that is, not any of the others that I occasionally hold) is that part of the job is keeping up on the most recent books in my field. The upshot of that is that I get to consider it a duty to read lots of JFIC and YA fantasy novels... which is pretty much my favorite thing to do anyway.
Conveniently, Uncle Orson is a big fan of this genre as well, and has reviewed quite a few books recently. I picked up Megan Whalen Turner's Eugenides books not long ago on his recommendation, and enjoyed them so much I went combing through his past reviews for other recommendations. I picked out four, all from different authors, put them on hold at my library, and have diligently been plowing through them over the last week.
It's a mixed bag. He's an interesting reviewer, is Uncle Orson... I tend to agree with him in principle on what makes a great story, but I've found I often disagree with him when it comes to how well a particular book or movie does in fulfilling the principles. All four of the books I got received high praise, but I found one of them unpalatable, one weak, and one good but not nearly as momentous as he made it out to be. I've learned a good bit already about my craft, though, from reading them.
The unpalatable one was Mira, Mirror, by Mette Ivie Harrison. I was very excited about this one: it's a spinoff of Snow White, telling the story of a girl who was betrayed and trapped in a magic mirror. What a cool concept! To my disappointment, though, the Snow White story was barely touched on, and finished off, as far as I can tell, in the first chapter. The rest of the story seems to be entirely unrelated to the fairy tale, and instead tells the story of the mirror-girl's own redemption. I say "seems" because I only got a few chapters in. The promise of seeing a new and intriguing twist on the familiar story held my interest during the prologue, but once it became apparent that we weren't going to deal with Snow White, I found little reason to keep reading.
Two factors combined for this book's downfall. First, it's unpleasant. Magical power, in this story, comes from absorbing the life-force of another, usually by being present as he, she, or it dies. Apparently the more painful the death, the more power it gives. This doesn't make for a world I'm anxious to spend a lot of time in.
Unpleasantness alone, though, isn't enough to make a book off-putting. A book in an unpleasant world, or dealing with unpleasant things, can be very compelling. But it has to be compelling. This book, as far as I read it, simply... isn't. In fact, on the whole, I found it pretty dull. The world seems to be generic fairy-tale land, a woodsy medieval society without any distinguishing features other than the death=magic idea. And the main character is even duller. She starts out weak and innocent, and becomes weak and guilty. After being trapped in a mirror for a hundred-odd years, she has few scruples about doing what it takes to get herself out, from killing a huntsman to deceiving a lost peasant girl.
It is hard to be sympathetic to a character who behaves cruelly. It is even harder to be sympathetic to a character who behaves cruelly out of weakness. She does the things she does because she is desperate, but there's no power even in her desperation. There's no strength anywhere in her to make her interesting, no potent conflict. She doesn't agonize over the huntsman she kills to keep herself alive; she just feels vaguely sorry but tells herself she had no choice, and lets it go.
This illustrates for me something writing teachers have always said: characters need to be strong. They can be nice or they can be mean, they can be powerful or powerless, but there needs to be strength. Passion. Conflict. Something. If she's going to rationalize her behavior, let her rationalize passionately. Whatever she's doing, let her struggle. If this character had been sweet and pleasant and kind, I might have kept reading, but I would still have been bored. But an unpleasant and dull character gives me no reason at all to keep going.
The peasant girl who the mirror-girl seizes on as her ticket to freedom is, as far as I can tell, a sweet and pleasant and dull character. From the shape of the first few chapters, I could tell you how the story will proceed: the nasty and dull mirror-girl will continue trying to take advantage of the sweet and dull peasant girl, until the peasant girl's sweetness begins to penetrate and the mirror-girl has a change of heart. Maybe at some point some intensity will gather somewhere, and the book will become interesting. I don't really care to find out.
Lessons learned:
1) A fascinating biography, remarkable predicament, or link to an interesting subject are not enough to make a character interesting. If there is no spark or strength or struggle, the character is going to be boring, and that is that.
2) If you're going to make your story or your setting unpleasant, you've got to work extra hard to make it worth reading.
3) No one owes you a reading. You have to earn the readers' interest, and you have to earn it from the beginning, or they will get bored and quit. It doesn't matter how powerful and fascinating your ending is, if you lose half your readers at the beginning.
Conveniently, Uncle Orson is a big fan of this genre as well, and has reviewed quite a few books recently. I picked up Megan Whalen Turner's Eugenides books not long ago on his recommendation, and enjoyed them so much I went combing through his past reviews for other recommendations. I picked out four, all from different authors, put them on hold at my library, and have diligently been plowing through them over the last week.
It's a mixed bag. He's an interesting reviewer, is Uncle Orson... I tend to agree with him in principle on what makes a great story, but I've found I often disagree with him when it comes to how well a particular book or movie does in fulfilling the principles. All four of the books I got received high praise, but I found one of them unpalatable, one weak, and one good but not nearly as momentous as he made it out to be. I've learned a good bit already about my craft, though, from reading them.
The unpalatable one was Mira, Mirror, by Mette Ivie Harrison. I was very excited about this one: it's a spinoff of Snow White, telling the story of a girl who was betrayed and trapped in a magic mirror. What a cool concept! To my disappointment, though, the Snow White story was barely touched on, and finished off, as far as I can tell, in the first chapter. The rest of the story seems to be entirely unrelated to the fairy tale, and instead tells the story of the mirror-girl's own redemption. I say "seems" because I only got a few chapters in. The promise of seeing a new and intriguing twist on the familiar story held my interest during the prologue, but once it became apparent that we weren't going to deal with Snow White, I found little reason to keep reading.
Two factors combined for this book's downfall. First, it's unpleasant. Magical power, in this story, comes from absorbing the life-force of another, usually by being present as he, she, or it dies. Apparently the more painful the death, the more power it gives. This doesn't make for a world I'm anxious to spend a lot of time in.
Unpleasantness alone, though, isn't enough to make a book off-putting. A book in an unpleasant world, or dealing with unpleasant things, can be very compelling. But it has to be compelling. This book, as far as I read it, simply... isn't. In fact, on the whole, I found it pretty dull. The world seems to be generic fairy-tale land, a woodsy medieval society without any distinguishing features other than the death=magic idea. And the main character is even duller. She starts out weak and innocent, and becomes weak and guilty. After being trapped in a mirror for a hundred-odd years, she has few scruples about doing what it takes to get herself out, from killing a huntsman to deceiving a lost peasant girl.
It is hard to be sympathetic to a character who behaves cruelly. It is even harder to be sympathetic to a character who behaves cruelly out of weakness. She does the things she does because she is desperate, but there's no power even in her desperation. There's no strength anywhere in her to make her interesting, no potent conflict. She doesn't agonize over the huntsman she kills to keep herself alive; she just feels vaguely sorry but tells herself she had no choice, and lets it go.
This illustrates for me something writing teachers have always said: characters need to be strong. They can be nice or they can be mean, they can be powerful or powerless, but there needs to be strength. Passion. Conflict. Something. If she's going to rationalize her behavior, let her rationalize passionately. Whatever she's doing, let her struggle. If this character had been sweet and pleasant and kind, I might have kept reading, but I would still have been bored. But an unpleasant and dull character gives me no reason at all to keep going.
The peasant girl who the mirror-girl seizes on as her ticket to freedom is, as far as I can tell, a sweet and pleasant and dull character. From the shape of the first few chapters, I could tell you how the story will proceed: the nasty and dull mirror-girl will continue trying to take advantage of the sweet and dull peasant girl, until the peasant girl's sweetness begins to penetrate and the mirror-girl has a change of heart. Maybe at some point some intensity will gather somewhere, and the book will become interesting. I don't really care to find out.
Lessons learned:
1) A fascinating biography, remarkable predicament, or link to an interesting subject are not enough to make a character interesting. If there is no spark or strength or struggle, the character is going to be boring, and that is that.
2) If you're going to make your story or your setting unpleasant, you've got to work extra hard to make it worth reading.
3) No one owes you a reading. You have to earn the readers' interest, and you have to earn it from the beginning, or they will get bored and quit. It doesn't matter how powerful and fascinating your ending is, if you lose half your readers at the beginning.
Friday, April 14, 2006
a poem by someone else, for today
The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.
Our only cure is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam's, curse
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.
The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.
The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.
The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood--
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.
-T. S. Eliot
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.
Our only cure is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam's, curse
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.
The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.
The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.
The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood--
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.
-T. S. Eliot
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