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.

A Whole New World

Remember Disney's Aladdin, when Aladdin, dressed as Prince Ali, takes Princess Jasmine on a carpet ride? They fly over Egypt, Greece and China, with wild horses, pelicans, and soft, huggable clouds. For Princess Jasmine, who lived all her life inside her father’s palace, and for Aladdin the orphan boy, any place on the face of this earth is a whole new world.

There’s a sense of wonder in this particular Disney song that appeals to me. The magic carpet ride gives Aladdin and Jasmine an opportunity to view the world, sitting in comfort much like a reader does when reading a book, while the view (or is it the story?) unfolds before them. Books, like magic carpets, are a vehicle for adventure. And lately, at least, it seems to me that most fantasy novels are taking us farther and farther away from what we know, into foreign, author-created lands.

There are so many fantasy novels published in the United States these days, whether for adults or younger readers, and so many of these fantasy novels take place in an entirely new world which the author has written into existence. This new world often comes complete with a map, new customs, people in colors and natural abilities different from our own, and exotic wildlife. It’s not that fantasy worlds have not been imagined before -- Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and Ursula K. LeGuin (to name my favorites) have all written a whole new world for their fantasies -- and yet the sheer number of fantasies published these days amazes me and makes me wonder. Are authors reinventing the world, writing new countries and oceans into existence because the world has become so small? A global village, Hillary Clinton said. Perhaps our adventurous spirits as writers and readers long for new lands to explore?

Takes place in Greece-like Attolia, Sounis and Eddis

No more than a few years ago, Earth itself was a mystery. Many places were yet to be discovered: the heart of Africa, the tallest summits, Antarctica, the Amazon. Books reflected the Earth’s still pulsing potential for exploration. Fairy tales and early fantasy were located in the ambiguous “Once upon a time in a faraway land,” while myths, and stories of adventure took place in magical, as-yet-unreached places like the golden city El Dorado, the lost island of Atlantis, or the seat of the Greek gods on Olympus. The reader could aspire to see these places one day. After all, they were located here on Earth.

The dystopian fantasy world of Range

Today such faraway places as the Forbidden City of China or the Taj Mahal are familiar to most of us. With a click of the mouse I can see Antarctica and the summit of Everest without setting foot outside. If I chose, I could go there in person, and it will be my photos others will see with a click of their mouse. The world really is small, and I, for one, am grateful to writers of fantasy. You are stretching this planet’s mysterious magical appeal and my sense of wonder with your writing.

It Is Good to Die for One’s Country

Saving the world is a favored literary theme. Like Atlas, nearly every hero or heroine of fantasy must carry the burden of the world on his or her shoulder, an often thankless job. Most of them, in true “reluctant hero form,” dislike the job very much. And yet someone has to do it. The same someone (or sometimes someone else) has to pay the price.

In Andrea Cremer’s Nightshade Trilogy, that price is measured in freedom fighters, the searchers. The searchers risk their lives fighting magical beings who cannot be killed so that Shay, Calla, Ren and their friends can save the rest of mankind.

As I read through the three novels, I wondered at the single-mindedness of the searchers. They know that many of them will not return from their missions, but though overwhelmed by truly supernatural odds, they still do not hesitate to volunteer their lives for what they believe is the greater good. Like ants, they work together for a single purpose, some dying so that others, more important than them, could go on. More than that, the sacrifice of a loved one is accepted as honorable and vital.

Having grown up with Joseph Trumpeldor’s famous last words, “It is good to die for one’s country,” I am torn between admiration and resentment for this utter dedication to a cause. Trumpeldor’s death as defender of Tel Hai is, in fact, inspiring when remembering how many Jews had gone like sheep to the slaughter throughout history. Fighting for one’s country, being willing to risk one’s life for one’s country -- I was raised on these values, and they still fill me with a sense of pride at belonging to a nation where such heroes abide. And yet sometimes, hearing that soldiers, young men, were killed defending (for example) a grave which may or may not be the grave of a forefather who had died thousands of years ago, I am filled with anger at the sacrifice.

It is much easier for me to sort through my emotions when I’m only reading a work of fiction. Everything is so much clearer when there is really only one (or maybe two) plots going on. Love and war -- those are the two themes in Nightshade and its sequels. Some love and lose, others love and triumph. Some dedicate themselves to the fight, sacrificing themselves so that their son or daughter, their friends, or simply the next generation could survive.  It is so simple, really. The world must be saved. There is only one way to do it, and it is called self sacrifice.

We have a world to save, the young characters say. Indeed, they do. The story unflinchingly propels them forward through one sacrifice after another, through the deaths of comrades and parents. It is good to die for one’s country, for one’s group, for the greater good, for the world. Maybe, because it is fiction, those who die could come back, but still, they never do.