What Fantasy Fiction Means to Me

I’ve enjoyed the swords and sorcery genre since my first exposure to The Hobbit over a quarter of a century ago. The legends of King Arthur and his knights of the round table, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Beowulf, world mythologies and folk lore in general, even the Egyptian pyramids, the mysteries of the Aztecs, Stonehenge, the Easter Island monoliths, or the noble and often brutal ancient histories of long forgotten cultures of antiquity, their relics, talismans, artifacts, and the stories that those items themselves have since inspired – all these things have teased me with wonder and excitement throughout my reading career. And the fiction that to some degree parallels this source material has for a long time held a special place in my heart.

I was finishing up my reading of yet another fantasy fiction flop (The Sword by Deborah Chester, book one of a trilogy), when I decided to offer what I consider the secret recipe for creating enduring fantasy fiction (ff). Consider this an open letter of sorts to prospective ff writers and audiences of both adult and young adult fare. But let’s first clarify by way of contrast what I mean by fantasy fiction (ff) before we move on to what constitutes the good stuff.

Stories like Peter Pan and Harry Pothead, while considered fantasy or fairy tales by some, are actually examples of escapist fiction – worlds where there’s no price for power and little if any consequence for bad choices. These are stories about kids who can fly with or without brooms and wield wands hurly-burly. They’re best equated with, say, Santa Claus. The impossible is taken for granted. Questioning the origins, physics, or source of such powers isn’t important to the story. This doesn’t mean escapism has no merit. But it’s not fantasy fiction.    

Fairy tales, at least the more modern ones geared toward children, generally open with Once Upon a Time and end with They Lived Happily Ever After. Barring those familiar phrases, they can be spotted most readily by their absence of emotion. Prince Cliché traveled to Scary Place, vanquished Meanie-Monster, rescued damsel Booty Call from the clutches of Naughty-Man, and so on. Such stories don’t concern themselves with character motivations so much as with offering a bit of chaste romance or a moral, and, ultimately, what happened is more important than who it happened to.

Whereas stories of enchanted lands that mirror our own, narratives that explore a hero’s faults and fears, distinguish the petty from the profound, confront the human condition, stir our conscience, enliven our spirit and, yes, even inform our faith, are more accurately considered fantasy fiction, or high fantasy even, depending on the themes. Life’s challenges are brought into better focus when we’re allowed to confront truth in ways that don’t offend our sensibilities. Enlightenment is achieved, or at least more likely, when the protagonist experiences challenges similar to our own, ideally in a more dramatic or spectacular setting.  

Whether a writer fails to incorporate these things could be a matter of interpretation. What I find vain and petty the writer might consider profound. It's also conceivable that many writers simply don’t know how to represent these themes effectively or that their efforts simply fall flat. A writer’s intent can be quite different from the finished product. But that’s what friends and family and feedback are for, and should be consulted before submitting that manuscript to a potential publisher.

In his book Stein on Writing, Sol Stein argues for the value of character development by pointing out when a writer kills off four strangers in a car accident, the reader’s response is “Who cares?” Strangers don’t emotionally impact the reader. But if the writer first establishes who those people are in the car and then allows the car to crash, we’re more likely to be emotionally affected and concerned.

That truth can be extended to genres. Most ff doesn’t attempt to explain the source of magic in their world. It's treated as just an alternate tool – what guns are for cops and robbers, what problem solving is for detective stories, what hyper drive is for sci-fi. Yet when those novels offer an explanation about those methods or that supernatural power, the story is enriched. Credibility is strengthened, especially when the structure of that world hinges on those marvels.

Another theme often lacking in ff, despite being best suited for the genre, is sacrifice. By sacrifice I don’t necessarily mean one dying to save another, though that event can be evocative if handled right. I mean the oft ignored importance of cost: the price for power. This exchange lends depth to a story’s context, and it defines the nature of high fantasy. J.R.R. Tolkien’s Rings Trilogy or Stephen R. Donaldson’s Thomas Covenant Chronicles are prime examples. What was not in the movie version of The Fellowship of the Ring when the company was being pursued by orcs and racing to the bridge of Khazad Dum in the mines of Moria is a great demonstration of the exertion of power and its cost on the wielder.

Suddenly at the top of the stair there was a stab of white light…. Gandalf came flying down the steps and fell to the ground in the midst of the company…. “I have done all that I could. But I have met my match, and have nearly been destroyed…. You will have to do without light for a while …”

Gandalf later explains what happened off stage:

“I could think of nothing to do but to put a shutting-spell on the door. I know many; but to do things of that kind rightly requires time, and even then the door can be broken by strength.…”

Keep in mind Gandalf in the books is immortal, one of the Maia, a spirit essentially, sent to Middle-Earth and assuming flesh and blood via the body of an old man, a Christ-like figure actually. Yet even then Gandalf, as seen in the above example, expends power at a cost, drains his physical strength, at least temporarily. 

If you saw the first act in the movie version of Stephen King’s novel Firestarter, you may recall the scene where the father and his daughter, who’ve escaped from a secret government experiment, are trying to hail a cab. The father has only a one dollar bill, but he knows the fare will be much more. He gives an address, hands the cabbie the dollar and makes this terrifically painful expression on his face while pressing his fingers to his temple. The cabbie miraculously sees a twenty dollar bill, not a one, and agrees to drive them. The father sits back in his seat and his nose begins to bleed. Again, this classic ‘price for power’ exchange lends a sense of realism to the context. After all, Superman had his Kryptonite. Achilles had his heel. Samson had his hair. This is the classic trade off, and it takes many forms. But to reject any of its iterations outright is to cripple one’s ff story-telling efforts.

Unfortunately, with today’s ff market, finding works by writers who understand the importance of the ‘price for power’ theme is like finding drivers who still use their turn signals. Like the power of myth, the lessons or techniques are either forgotten or dismissed. Instead, the genre is saturated with dreary stories of buxom beauties, mundane motivations, and ultimately shallow characters. Without the techniques listed above, the vast majority tends to be frivolous and forgettable.

Tales that allude to something beyond the tale itself by way of parallel, analogy, allegory, and metaphor are separate issues altogether, but they, too, tend to not only leave a lasting impression, but qualify for a much more enduring work than the transient trash that describes most ff, where the good guy (or gal) usually wins only because of things like superior brawn or wit.

Despite the other-worldliness of Middle-Earth or C.S Lewis’ Narnia or Donaldson’s Land, the stories – regardless of the strange peoples and alternate time – are rooted in basic truths, namely that our choices matter, that what we do has consequence. Often drawn from folk lore and religious teaching, the themes of sacrifice and suffering exemplified in these stories enhance the gravity of their outcomes. Essentially, for writers like Tolkien, Lewis, and Donaldson, fantasy fiction was anything but escapism.

Summaries and Critiques

Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson. Although the protagonist of this novel is a young teen, it wouldn't be fair to call this a children's book or young adult fiction. It has some dark themes. I'd liken it more to Huckleberry Finn or The Island of Dr. Moreau than to, say, The Princess and the Goblin, all of which were published round the same time as Treasure Island by the way, late 19th century. Unlike lots of books written over a hundred years ago that lean toward a more formalized tone or diction, you might be surprised by how smooth a read this is. A solid adventure story. Long John Silver is a strong villain. From start to finish, the tension never lets up. Every scene offers some danger and suspense. Shiver me timbers! And pieces of eight!

Live From the Battlefield, From Vietnam to Baghdad, 35 Years in the World’s War Zones, by Peter Arnett. Arnett has obviously lived a full and exciting life as a journalist. Unfortunately, despite his years of experience, his writing ability still leaves much to be desired. Paragraphs lacked focus; descriptions were bland and uninspired. The whole book read like a terse journal with news clippings thrown in for effect. Too many sentences began with the dreaded “There were…” and “There was…” Note: “There were people standing along the curb” isn’t as lean as “People stood along the curb.” Overall, the book, while informative, isn’t particularly fun to read. I was constantly reminded of the wrist-slapping motto "show, don't tell." Arnett told me a lot but didn't show much. 

The Carousel, by Belva Plain. A soap opera in print. Most of the characters are pretty stupid. Ian cheats on his wife, and the woman he has this affair with marries Ian’s brother, Clive, evidently to spite Ian. We’re told Clive contracts cancer from smoking, though throughout the entire novel, we never actually see him take a single drag from a cigarette or a draw from a smoking pipe or a cigar. One character learns of an affair his wife had with another brother and decides to kill that brother but shoots his beloved father by mistake. And so on.

The story continues to run this silly course but unlike your average General Hospital or Days of our Lives soap, this novel is summed up in the last two chapters. More dialogue than narrative too, which I didn’t like.

Texas Tales Your Teacher Never Told You, by C. F. Eckhardt. A fascinating romp through Texas history. Chock full of great stories and amusing facts about its heroes and legends. Written with a flare for Texas jargon, its character and charm make it hard to put down. Highly recommended. 

The Autobiography of Mark Twain. Edited my Charles Neider. As anyone knows who’s read his stuff, Twain was a great writer – insightful, cynical, hysterical, and a great observer of people and human nature. This man suffered a lot of personal loss, though, lots of tragedy, some of it ironic, which is even worse. Much of the material in this autobiography is laugh-out-loud funny, but some of it is heart-wrenching. In the introduction, the editor, Neider, points out that a couple of other permutations of the manuscript have been published before, back in 1924 and again in 1940. Incidentally, Twain gave further instructions that certain material was not to be published until many years after the publication of this particular edition. This was to protect the people mentioned therein, their families and their children.  This might not be unique, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it were. Twain was quite a unique personality, the story of the comet is one such example. I recently heard that another Twain autobiography was recently published. Evidently (as per his instructions in his will, I presume), the allotted time has elapsed, and the publisher is free to release material Twain was unwilling to have made known in the edition I read. There were some great photos of Twain in this book as well. Highly recommended.

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain is excellent. However, because the story is written first person by our protagonist, Finn, and because Finn’s diction, or patois, is drenched in over one hundred and twenty-five year old southern slang, the narrative is somewhat rough going, though Finn would say, "That ain't no matter." While certainly funny in places, the book deals seriously with slavery. Finn weighs the prejudices of the south against his own conscience. He decides that helping Jim escape is the moral thing to do, despite the sentiment of society. It’s a powerful message about one’s moral conviction at odds with consensus. An important work.

Other Twain I’ve read over the years and recommend:

Letters from the Earth, written after both his wife and one of his daughters had died. Like his autobiography, it was published posthumously. It’s cynical but amusing in places. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer is a wonderful classic. The Mysterious Stranger and other stories has some real gems in it. A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court is okay but not my favorite. Tom Sawyer Detective and The Prince and the Pauper are amusing but not his best work.

Writing Books

No writer worth his sodium chloride would claim great writers are born great writers. For one, the wording is redundant and we writers are cautioned against stuff like that. For another, even the music prodigy has to practice her scales. In addition to reading in a general way (or as Faulkner advised: “Read, read, read. Read everything.”) so too the writer needs to read books about the craft. Just as the physics major doesn’t opt out of his math classes, neither should the aspiring novelist disregard instructional books on the mechanics of composition or what constitutes an engaging story.

John Gardner’s book On Becoming a Novelist offers an astounding analysis of the writing process. His teaching experience is vast and authoritative, and he provides exceptional advice and genuine concern for the aspiring novelist. For those who insist the proof of the pudding is in the eating, one of Gardner’s tasty treats is a short novel called Grendel. It’s essentially the story of Beowulf from the monster’s perspective. Compelling, masterful, and a stroke of genius are all clichés now. But they’re applicable here. I couldn’t put it down. One of my favorites.

One Writer's Beginnings by Eudora Welty is a wonderful book, broken into three parts, each originally a lecture she delivered at Harvard University back in 1983. She had to have been in her 70s at the time, and her wisdom and insight are priceless. Her recollections growing up in Jackson, Mississippi reminded me in some ways of Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine. Both books are essentially devoid of any real plot and each imposes a sort of nostalgia on the reader who’s never even been to those places described. Or maybe I just have a weakness for craftily rendered reminiscing. In Bradbury's case, Green Town is fictional, after all, so we couldn’t possibly have been there, though it's based on his home town of Waukegan, Illinois. Either way, as I’ve mentioned many times in my blog, I can be drawn in by good writing just as easily as others might be gripped by a high-octane thriller.

I’m sure it’s safe to assume that like Welty, most if not all writers’ childhoods and families, both the good and the grim, influence their work. People in our lives often inform our inventions of fictional characters in our stories, the stories themselves, and so on. But Welty’s recollections give voice to this truth in a tenderly rendered way. If you enjoy reading, you’ll enjoy this book, even if you’re not a writer. But if you are a writer, there’s much to learn from this woman. She’s generous with her rich experience and knowledge.

The frame through which I viewed the world changed too, with time. Greater than scene, I came to see, is situation. Greater than situation is implication. Greater than all these is a single, entire human being, who will never be confined in any frame.

Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott, is a reality check for those of us who often get the foolhardy idea that being published is like winning the gold and that writing is the necessary tedium required. Anne asks us to remember why we write in the first place – because we enjoy and value the process itself rather than publication.

I’d say this is especially true when you consider the likelihood of getting published in the first place, not to mention the necessary steps that follow if you do: who’ll know about your book if you don’t promote it? Will your publisher devote anything to advertising a first work by an unknown writer? The self publishing industry is growing, but your book’s success still rests with your persistence, promotional technique, and luck. Some writers grow frustrated with how their advertising efforts cut into the time they could spend writing. And even the most famous authors make a pittance compared to other professions, unless of course you’re like Stephen King, Scott Turow, Michael Crichton, John Grisham or a handful of others who’ve sold rights to their novels to have them made into movies.

Lamott is also an amusing, quirky writer, and offers lots of personal anecdotes about her own journey in the writing field. She does place a higher value on fiction that concerns itself with truth over transience, meaning she seems to care little about producing publishable fiction for the sole purpose of financial success. This might explain why she stresses the joys of the writing process over the goal of publication. Some would insist this is elitist, to dismiss popular fiction while singing the praises of mining for that inner truth. Maybe.

Her advice is more general and less about mechanics, but if you need someone to encourage you to get busy writing and quit fretting over how awful that first draft is, she just might be the voice you need to hear right now. Recommended.

Renni Browne and Dave King co-wrote Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, How to Edit Yourself into Print. The book offers sound advice on strengthening basic elements of dialogue, narrative, and scene, as well as writing style and what to avoid. Keep a highlighter handy and don’t be discouraged. As with most good books on writing, a stiff upper lip is recommended. Browne and King draw from examples straight out of published works by famous writers and show you what went wrong where and how to improve it. An invaluable compendium for the serious writer.

Stein On Writing, by Sol Stein. This guy’s been writing and editing for decades. His experience and advice is formidable. Truly the best book for writers I’ve ever read. I must’ve highlighted half of the entire book. The three ideas that made the greatest impact on me were:

1) fiction is about creating an emotional experience, or as Stein puts it:

          Nonfiction conveys information

          Fiction evokes emotion

2) the character is everything. Stein says, “Characters make your story.”

The characters engage us first and are remembered most. The plots of individual books are chapters in their lives.

3) A story experience is shared by both reader and writer. This is why you should never talk down to your audience, nor should you try to impress them. Be yourself, for better or for worse. Or as I like to think of it: pretend you’re having lunch with a friend and telling him something you just can’t keep secret anymore. Maybe you want to make him laugh or gape. Stein says,

The pleasures of writer and reader are interwoven. The seasoned writer…confident in his craft, derives increasing pleasure from his work. The reader in the hands of a writer who has mastered his craft enjoys a richer experience.

Lastly, Stein says what I’ve felt for many years about what constitutes good writing. It was refreshing to find him articulate it so well:

When a writer…understands the electricity of fresh simile and metaphor, his choice of words empowers our feelings, his language compels our attention… When Shakespeare speaks, when Lincoln orates, we are moved not by information but by the excellence of their diction. …The best of good writing will entice us into subjects and knowledge we would have declared were of no interest to us until we were seduced by the language they were dressed in.

Other books on writing I do and don’t recommend …

The Golden Book On Writing, David Lambuth. Very helpful.

In Short, Louis I. Middleman. Pretty good.

The Elements Of Style, William Strunk Jr. & E.B. White. Definitely for anyone interested in writing well, covers some common abuses of terms, tenses, and diction.

Short Story Writing, Wilson R. Thornley. Helpful for understanding the basics to a solid short story.   

Secrets Of Successful Writing, Dewitt H. Scott. Not too helpful.

Someday You'll Write, Elizabeth Yates. You could skip this and not suffer.

How To Write Short Stories That Sell, by Louise Boggess. Slightly helpful but poorly done. 

How to be Successfully Published in Magazines, Linda Konner. Useful and practical. Includes interviews with both editors and freelancers. An eye-opener.

The Future of Reference Guides

The miracle of internet search engines has made reference books and other paper journals, scientific or otherwise, nearly as obsolete as microfiche. Unless you’re one of those hermits who hasn’t left his cave yet, you know today’s dictionaries and encyclopedias, hell, the whole Library of Congress, has been converted to the more convenient format of PDFs and other electronic intellectual properties. So whether you want to know the history of cotton or cotton candy or how many ways to pronounce the word ‘argot,’ your curiosity can be quenched with just a few keystrokes.

Published material in physical volumes won't reflect what new discoveries or research might later reveal, and short of a new edition or a future issue or some other addendum, these antiquated formats simply can't compete with their online successors. However, I'm reluctant to burn my reference guides just yet. Some are well organized in ways even the luckiest web surfer couldn't imitate.

Those Who Fought, An Anthology of Medieval Sources, edited by Peter Speed, is one such example. This is a good case for the value of book form. A well composed, informative, and fascinating look at the Middle-Ages in Europe. Ancient excerpts, mostly from eyewitnesses, read like confessions. Subjects range from one’s platitudes about kingship to the effects of the crossbow in war (which required armor too heavy for a horse’s effective mobility) to the incorporation of gunpowder and thus the end of chivalry. Recommended.  

The Writer’s Complete Fantasy Reference, an Indispensable Compendium of Myth and Magic offers a strong case for burning some reference books. Far from complete, replete with misprints, typos, and inaccuracies, the book yielded nothing I couldn’t have found elsewhere online. Written by multiple authors, the quality of the writing varies, and the subjects run the medieval gamut from armies and castles to commerce and paganism. Unfortunately, the treatment is more cursory than exhaustive.

For example, in a glossary in Chapter Four entitled Witchcraft and Pagan Paths under the section “Tools of the Trade” there’s a drawing of a scourge (essentially several thongs or cords depending from a haft sized handle) and a caption that reads

This is a military scourge. A Wiccan scourge would have cords of silk or leather.

Then further down the page 

Scourge: a whip or cat-o’-nine-tails, used to purify but never to draw blood.

However, from wikipedia.com I learned that the ancient Egyptians used a leather scourge to thresh wheat, that the priests of the Greek goddess Cybele scourged themselves and others and that their resulting stripes were considered sacred, that a hard material was affixed to many of the thongs of some scourges in order to tear into the flesh and that these were used to flog slaves. As for the military scourge, it was made of either leather or metal and used for corporal punishment. These scourges clearly would’ve drawn blood.

In short, as a stand alone, not recommended, even misleading.

A Cross Section of Genres

The Defense, by Vladimir Nabokov. A touching yet tragic story about a grandmaster's fixation on chess and the sympathy his somewhat morose genius engenders in his fiancée and her family. After his nervous breakdown, he’s prescribed abstinence from the game. And it isn't until near the end of the novel that his inherent need for the board inveigles him into plunging irretrievably into its familiar rows and columns. Nabokov is a genius with language, and his love of word play morphs into a dizzying merry-go-round of sly puns and mind games. You’ll smile at his similes and marvel at his metaphors throughout.  

The Maltese Falcon, by Dashiell Hammett. Crime/mystery novels rely almost exclusively on dialogue and terse detail. This generally fails to satisfy my reasons for reading in the first place. I believe literature is a superior form of storytelling over film primarily because narrative does what film can’t – allude, sometimes ingeniously, to things wholly separate from the things described, e.g. “The sun clung to the horizon like a bright barnacle”. I realize this is solely subjective on my part, but there you go. Having said that, both the plot development and the dialogue are first rate. 

The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins. I’ve long maintained that novels are superior to film. Maybe it’s just the avid book fan in me trying to persuade the average movie goer to read more. To those unconvinced, consider the complaints from fans online about how this movie glosses over or mistreats key elements in the novel. This shouldn’t surprise. When contrasting books to their movie counterparts, I’ve been disappointed with everything from The Lord of the Rings to Interview with the Vampire to Old Yeller.

A few months ago I didn’t even know this novel existed until I saw the movie trailer. At first blush it seemed like a silly premise to me – a futuristic version of the Roman Empire’s ancient Coliseum filled with the cast of Saved by the Bell. But a writer friend who hates most everything told me the books were good, so I decided not to judge the movie by its trailer and got book one of what turns out to be a trilogy.

I’m glad I did. Apart from the occasional cliché, it’s well written. The story is told in first person, present tense form, which is a nice change from the past tense standard. Collins knows the tricks of the trade. She applies every known plot device, and she often does more than one thing at a time. Details get introduced without slowing down the story. Describing someone new in a way that immediately identifies them, makes them memorable and relevant to the scene, and establishes their relationship with the protagonist are all important tools for creating an engaging read.       

The novel is disturbing, though. Without giving too much away, these competitors, or tributes, are not only randomly chosen and forced to participate in an arena death match. The totalitarian regime in this dystopia will punish the districts they're from if they refuse. But the real kicker is that these participants are children. None of them is over 18 years old. Katniss Everdeen, the protagonist, is only 16. Rue is only 12. This makes the killings more terrifying. They’re just kids after all. The best stories are the ones that are character driven. And because these characters are not only well fleshed out but also of such a tender age, the story is highly emotional. Collins knows how to pluck the heartstrings. Hell, she’s fashioned her own finely tuned harp.

Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country, by Rosalind Miles. Over the years, many writers have given us their versions of the King Arthur legends, some with better critical success than others. When I think back to the good ones like Steinbeck, Stewart, and Tennyson, memory recalls the not-so-good ones, too, like Lawhead and Monoco. Miles falls amid the latter with a splat. While the title and cover implies Queen Guenevere’s point of view (which I looked forward to exploring), instead Miles assumes the omniscient view. This is actually a good thing, since being stuck inside Guenevere’s head for pages on end got tedious fast.

Physical beauty is her only strength, evidently. Her schoolgirl predilections smack of melodrama. Riding to the woods for a tryst with Sir Lancelot, Guenevere, now thirty, expresses her sophomoric mentality with italicized ambivalence:

The same thoughts ran madly around in her brain.

I will not go.

I will go back to Camelot. 

He does not love me.

Why should I love him, when he does not love me?

Sadly, Miles, like Guenevere, does nearly everything wrong. For starters, the book packs more clichés than the Guide to Clichés Almanac & Dictionary. For seconds, every character’s interpretation of a given scene is exhausted, leaving nothing for the reader to surmise (apart from the thought that Miles must consider her readers incapable of inferring for themselves). Third, she doesn’t seem to know the difference between evoking and emoting, meaning she tells us how these characters feel but never writes in a way that allows us to feel it for ourselves. Lastly, the love scenes are little more than grocery lists of anatomy. Yawn. Kiss Gwen on the neck and read her profundity – Oh, my love, my love, my love. Since she’s hailed as a “well-known and critically acclaimed English journalist, novelist, and broadcaster,” I assume Miles was simply too busy to redraft her manuscript into something less shameful. 

Social Studies, by Fran Lebowitz. (1981) Like another one of her books, Metropolitan Life, this is a collection of amusing essays previously published in various New York magazines. Humor is hard work, but Fran makes it look easy. She points out that while she has no children of her own, she’s got advice for those who do:

Ask your child what he wants for dinner only if he’s buying.

If you must give your child lessons, send him to driving school. He is far more likely to end up owning a Datsun than he is a Stradivarius.

Children do not really need money. After all, they don’t pay rent … their allowance should be just enough to cover chewing gum and an occasional pack of cigarettes. A child with his own savings account and/or tax shelter is not going to be a child who scares easily.

On society:

People (a group that in my opinion has always attracted an undue amount of attention) have often been likened to snowflakes. This analogy is meant to suggest that each is unique – no two alike. This is quite patently not the case. People, even at the current rate of inflation – in fact, people especially at the current rate of inflation – are quite simply a dime a dozen. And, I hasten to add, their only similarity to snowflakes resides in their invariable and lamentable tendency to turn, after a few warm days, to slush.

This is good cynical stuff. Still, Metropolitan Life is even better.

Literary Impressions

I’d read a book of short stories by Stephen Crane years ago, but apart from “The Open Boat” and “The Blue Hotel,” which I know were included only because I’d made a note about liking them, I don’t remember the names of the other stories or even what they were about. As I say, it was years ago. But I’d also made a note: “One day I'll have to find The Red Badge of Courage. It's supposed to be Crane's best work.” Over the weekend I did. I can see why he’s considered such an important writer despite his short life (Crane died at the age of 28). Although complete and unabridged (which is how I prefer all my books), like his life, the book is relatively short. It was published in 1895, but there’s none of the awkward diction or stoic syntax you might expect from a book published over one hundred years ago. It’s a very smooth read. Crane’s vivid descriptions, paired with a liberal and insightful use of metaphor, approaches the profound. I’ve read a number of war novels over the years, and apart from Erich Maria Ramarque’s novel All Quiet on the Western Front, this is probably the best rendering of war I’ve come across. Ironically, Crane wrote and published this book without having any military background or experience. It was only after the book was published that Crane became a war correspondent.

Gilgamesh and Enkidu, translated by N. K. Sandars. I need to point out that this book is about the size of an index card and thinner than a cell phone. So I’m not counting it as a book, per se. Only 55 pages long. From a used bookstore for only fifty cents. I’m no math whiz, but that’s about a penny a page. I love myths, legends, and folk lore, so I had to grab it, even if it took only half an hour to read.

I’ll Always Have Paris, A Memoir, by Art Buchwald. Having heard this author’s name tossed around most of my life, I finally decided to probe the hubbub. Buchwald knew just about every celebrity alive at the height of his career as a newspaperman for the Herald Tribune in Paris. He traveled extensively, interviewed the rich and famous, ate with powerful people at the most expensive French restaurants, and like Hemingway, he, too, went on safari (only for Art it was precisely because Hemingway had; Art refused to shoot an animal). It’s a bland book with a few amusing episodes and plenty of dull reporting (essentially, and not surprisingly, like a newspaper). I realize gossip sells but who had an affair with whom just didn’t appeal to me. If only the writing were as engaging as the dirty laundry. Not recommended unless you’re paparazzi, only substitute the camera for reading glasses. 

Travels, by Michael Crichton. Not the most well written autobiography but certainly fascinating. It’s essentially a chronicle of his worldly and spiritual exploration. Crichton claims to have seen auras, participated in spoon bendings, visited an astral plane, witnessed and been possessed by entities, as well as other psychic phenomena. His telling struck me as genuine primarily because he didn’t seem to care whether his readers believed a single word. Strangely enough, at least to me, he attributes none of these experiences to a deity of any kind. In fact, either due to ineptitude or deliberate circumspection, Crichton makes no attribution to these powers at all. This left me disappointed. For Crichton, experiencing these things was apparently enough, but I would’ve preferred a bit of philosophizing, some commentary to accompany the claims.

His last chapter was dedicated to skeptics at Cal Tech. He hoped to address CSICOP (Committee for the Scientific Investigation of Claims of the Paranormal), and he prepared a speech outlining the limitations science suffers when dealing with these things. He also hoped his speech would further encourage open-mindedness. He was never invited. My primary complaint is that Travels lacks focus.

The Sound and the Fury, by William Faulkner. In an interview, when asked whether this was his best novel, Faulkner said it was certainly his favorite. Since it’s considered a classic, I wanted to like it. I did, barely. Passages are downright extraordinary, reminiscent of Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint; other portions are utterly unintelligible – reams without punctuation (sometimes several pages' worth), stream-of-consciousness – deliberately confusing points of view, ideas that neither belong nor remove an already confusing narrative plus hints at psychological turmoil sans significance I think you see what I’m doing here by demonstration. 

The format is frustrating, with the first ‘chapter’ dealing with one group of characters, the next chapter taking place eighteen years prior with a different set of characters altogether, then yet another chapter jumping ahead eighteen years but the very day before the first chapter, etc. In short, it was a mess. The appendix, which I enjoyed more than I did the novel, belonged in the novel itself and would’ve gone a long way to illuminate things in the story. I don't know why Faulkner would want to deliberately confuse the reader. This, to my mind, is the epitome of self-indulgence, and I can’t recommend it, except as exhibit Z to my long-held view that many classics don’t deserve the label.

The Winter of our Discontent, by John Steinbeck. Here, Steinbeck paints the wealthy as compromised souls: no one climbs without digging his heels into the backs of others – a ubiquitous (and flawed) concept among liberals but forgivable here in lieu of the superb writing. I’m rarely moved anymore by what I read (I tend to be overly analytical), but the end made me crunch my face and spill a tear. Curiously, Steinbeck and his protagonist, Ethan Allen Hawley, trade off telling the story throughout the novel. The author takes the first few chapters (third person perspective). Then Ethan narrates a few chapters (first person point of view). This wasn’t necessary, but it wasn’t distracting, either. So I didn’t mind. Highly recommended. 

A Darkness Forged in Fire, Book One of the Iron Elves, by Chris Evans.

Easily one of the worst novels I’ve come across since William S. Burroughs’ Naked Lunch. Forget character development or story structure for a minute. Let’s consider the basics. Like the musician memorizing scales before building a repertoire for his recital, the writer should familiarize himself with a few common principles long before considering the elements of story or publication.

1) Avoid clichés. Nothing kills your writing faster than tired terms and catch phrases. 

2) Be precise. This doesn’t mean use name brands or the metric system. But as Anton Chekhov said, “Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” Be particular. Instead of a run down of every article of clothing Rob wears, pick one item – his glossy alligator boots. Rather than a list of the furniture in the room, zero in on the Great Dane curled up on the fireplace hearth. A single detail will satisfy the reader’s curiosity about the cowboy’s outfit or the den’s décor, allowing him to get on with the story.  

3) ‘Economy of words’ could be the single most important principle, because even if the writing is terrible, there will still be less of it. Evans’ novel is over six hundred pages long. If he’d applied this one principle, his novel could’ve told as much if not more in 30,000 fewer words. Consider the difference between He looked over and saw Bill smiling and Bill smiled. Imagine sentence after sentence like that, page after page of disheveled prose in need of a buzz cut.

Not to single out Chris Evans, but with so many instructional books, workshops, and editing coaches today, authors who commit these rudimentary mistakes deserve every bit of ridicule the rest of us can muster. The more time the writer is willing to spend drafting, redrafting, and editing his work, the less time the reader is forced to spend reading it. Essentially, say all you want, but use as few words as possible. You get the idea. If only writers like Evans did.