Reading for Writing

On the way back from Los Angeles, I started reading Jennifer A. Nielsen’s The False Prince. I had read a raving review about the novel on the Book Smugglers blog where Thea compared it favorably to Megan Whalen Turner’s The Thief, which I had also loved. And so I had high hopes. Contrary to my expectations, I was not blown away. Instead, I learned a lot as a writer.

The False Prince is written in short paragraphs and easy-to-read language. The chapters end with cliffhangers which tempted me to keep reading. Sage, the protagonist, is a likable character, strong, smart and rebellious, just like I’d expect a fourteen year old boy. And I loved the story: four boys competing to be the next prince of a fairytale-like country.

There were several things which disappointed me about the novel. There is a beginning of an internal conflict: Sage is not certain he wants to be king and is not sure that he will make a good king. But this moral dilemma did not unfold enough. I was not convinced that Sage believed either of the other boys would make a better king, and I could not understand his reasons for thinking he would not be good enough. He certainly seemed the obvious choice, if only because he is the narrator. To me, the other boys felt under-developed and bordering on stereotypical: the sick, the strong, and the smart.

The internal conflict especially seemed to me hampered by the fact that Sage hides a secret which is only revealed to us by the end of the book. After a chapter or two, I suspected what this secret is. After five chapters, I was sure. I think this secret, which I won’t reveal just in case you plan to read the book, is what most prevents the novel from fulfilling its potential. It is the greatest block to revealing Sage’s thoughts, prohibits him from truly growing as a character, and diminishes the suspense of the novel.

The lack of suspense also arose from the fact that the villain is an obscure character who barely appears in person in the book. Veldergrath’s notoriety perhaps received some credibility because his name resembles Voldemort’s, but the assurances within the novel that he is evil come from Conner, a character who I did not read as reliable and who clearly had ulterior motives. None of the characters challenge the certainty of Veldergrath’s villainy anywhere in the novel, and he is removed, without proof or trial, from his position by the end.

Adam Gopnik from The New York Times Book Review, called The False Prince a “page turner, not a page earner.” The book did help me pass the time of the drive back from LA, and in the end it did make me think a lot about writing techniques and editing. For being entertained for a few hours, and for this opportunity to learn as a writer, I am always grateful. For these two purposes, it was a fabulous book.

The Adventure of Reading

Going to first grade changed my life, but as is often the case with life changing events, this one is stamped in my memory with trauma. Blond pigtails, sandals, a big backpack with new pencils and notebooks. A good little girl. My father walked me to school and left, the yellow door closing behind him, trapping me in the classroom.

I cried every morning, but there was no going back, only forward. I did not know it then, but before me stretched nineteen years of school. In the future, I sat in classrooms jotting down science notes, calculating complex calculus equations and analyzing the supply and demand of Absolut Vodka. But not yet. In first grade I still had to learn to read.

My classmates and I had tiles of Hebrew letters and vowels, and we played with them, putting them into words. I remember thinking the word Ima, the Hebrew for mother, looked strange, my child sense of wonder admiring the particular shape of the word, the dot of the vowel beneath the elegance of the aleph. And so I learned to read.

At school I learned letters and words, but it was my mother who taught me to love a good story. At the library we scanned the shelves, searching for another book to add to our growing pile. I read Janusz Korczak’s King Matt the First, Sir Walter Scott’s chivalric Ivanhoe and Quentin Durward, Dumas’ Three Musketeers. I devoured every James Herriott I could find, All Creatures Great and Small, All Things Bright and Beautiful, All Things Wise and Wonderful. I laughed till I fell off my bed reading Gerald Durrell, My Family and Other Animals, Birds Beasts and Relatives, A Zoo in My Luggage.

I read all through the day and under my blanket at night. I hid my books under text books or in my drawer, tricking my mother into thinking I was studying for tests. I lived in books, imagining myself a heroine, going on an adventure, discovering new lands. And finally, since I’d been asking, the forces of heaven obliged. My parents took us for a year to South Africa where we experienced Apartheid firsthand but also explored exotic birds, elephants, lionesses and other wild animals, the Victoria Falls, and Kruger National Park.

Then, as though realizing that I have not yet learned to appreciate real life and was still sticking my nose into books all the time, a whirlwind of adventure ensued: California, the army, marriage, children, divorce, writing conferences, travel, rock climbing and so much more.

The adventures of serving in the army and having a new dog

I’m still crazy about reading, and I often wish that adventures were limited only to books, or at least came with a manual. I remember the little girl with the pigtails, her innocence, what little idea she had of what life still held in store. And I realize: I have lived a book, perhaps not edited by the best hands, but still with a great plot and lots of character development.