`first posted 15 Nov 12
The Guardian has reported that Fifty Shades of Grey has been nominated for the National Book Award. ‘Nuf said.
Now We Know Why the Publishing Industry is Doomed
3
Structure
~first posted 25 Nov 12
I just finished reading Cloud Atlas a couple of months ago. I’ve recently published my own first novel, and–no surprise–I think it’s great. Actually, for a little while there, I suspected that I may have written the best novel, ever. (I have subsequently learned that every single new writer feels exactly the same way. This was disappointing. We can’t all be
right.) I decided to read Cloud Atlas because I heard it was a truly great novel. It was certified great by winning the Man Booker Prize. I’m impressed by this, but only because I think that the name of the prize is so much more impressive than the relatively mundane sounding National Book Award. (Note to anyone thinking of nominating my book for the NBA–I would not be adverse just because I think they can come up with a sexier name for the award.) Also, I began to see trailers for the film adaptation starring Tom Hanks. This also fits my definition of greatness for a book–the honor of being adapted (at great personal profit to the author, no doubt) into a film starring Tom Hanks. So, I was impressed that Cloud Atlas was a truly great novel. I wanted to see if my book was in the same league.
I think Cloud Atlas is a great book. I enjoyed it. It is not the best book ever, in my opinion. In case you haven’t read it (it is my impression that a lot of people haven’t read it), the book has a unique structure. Every review, and there have been quite a few, focuses on the structure of the book. Basically, the book is divided into six separate journals spanning a period from the nineteenth century to the post apocalyptic future. The journals are split in half, however. Each journal ends abruptly in mid-story. The next journal takes up with new characters in a subsequent time period, with a few fairly thin hooks implying that the subsequent journal is meaningfully connected to the one you just left. (I’m sorry, but having two characters in different time periods sporting similar birth marks doesn’t impress me as a deeply meaningful insight into the timeless nature of the universe.) After the middle journal, the book takes up the second half of each journal in sequence. You can’t argue that this isn’t a unique structure for a novel. Very unique.
Unfortunately, I found that this very unique structure actually detracted from what otherwise was an exceptional book. Mitchell masterfully employs various dialects in each of the stories, going so far as to invent a future pidgen English that is fascinating in its own right. But the fragmented nature of the narrative compromises every other aspect of the novel. It negatively impacts character development, narrative arc, and especially the tension that creates interest for the reader. Worst of all, the structure is so artificial that it becomes a distraction, a too-obvious and opaque window through which the reader is forced to observe the story. The reader is required to recall details from earlier journals, easily confusing aspects of each journal. It bothered me.
I have had similar experiences with the occasional book that can’t settle on a point of view. The book starts in first person, but suddenly shifts to the third person. Then we’re back in the head of the protagonist. I get it, first person is tough to write in. I’ve tried it, and failed. The author is severely limited. So if that structure is not going to serve your narrative needs, don’t go there. Personally, I find the switching point of view wrenching and distracting.
As a reader, I want the structure of the book to serve my needs, to disappear as I get involved in the story. I don’t want to see the author’s devices, even if they are unique and masterful. Let me get lost in the story, which I can’t do if I’m constantly being reminded of how hard the writer is working. Structure needs to serve story, not the other way around. Unless you’re trying to win a really cool award.
“Overcourteous Assholes” Like Me
~first posted 12 Feb 13
You may have heard that we had a bit of snow recently here on the Eastern seaboard. 
Where I live, on the north shore of Long Island, our little New England hamlet got thirty inches of the stuff, with fifty mile per hour winds raising drifts over six feet. If snow can be biblical, this was getting close, at least for those of us who don’t live in North Dakota. We were literally “snowed in” by drifts halfway up the doors and windows. So you can surmise how happy and thrilled we all were to finally be plowed out at the wee hours of this morning. Free at last! None too soon, either, as I’ve had to remove all the knives from the kitchen and throw them out a second story window–the wife and I were getting a little “stir crazy.”
Today is a beautiful, blue sky day in the mid-forties, with bright sunshine sparkling off the still pristine whiteness blanketing everything. You’d think that everyone would be kind, and happy, and pleasant, just thrilled to be alive. You’d be wrong.
So, just now I was driving merrily along our recently plowed streets, doing one of the many things I couldn’t do because I was “snowed in.” The roads are still very narrow, with huge banks of snow on each side. We’re all driving around at about thirty miles per hour, even on the main streets. So there I was, approaching an intersection with a red light, several cars already stopped to wait for the signal. I notice a car inching out of a side street just ahead, trying to see around the huge drift. Being the guy I am (we’ll get to that), I stop and wave him in. As he waves back and moves in, the guy in the car behind me leans on his horn. Really. Not a toot. A real extended blare. Twice.
Now, I know that this has happened to you. It has happened to me lots of times, not to mention all those times the jerk in the Mustang behind you honks if you don’t jackrabbit off the line within 3 milliseconds of the light turning green. When I was (much) younger, and in a time when not everyone was packing a pistol in their glove compartment, I remember responding once by sticking the car into park and walking back to the asshole. When I knocked on the window and he rolled it down, I asked if I knew him. No, he stammered, and started swearing. Well, I said, I’m sorry, but when he honked I looked in the mirror and he looked kinda familiar and I figured he honked because he was Billy who I hadn’t seen in, oh, must be almost six years now, but you’re right, you’re not Billy, really don’t look much like him at all now that I can see you up close, so I’ll just be going then. I got back in my car and timed it just right so the light was yellow again, allowing me to give the guy one of those “ain’t life funny” shrugs that I like to give guys like that as we sit through another cycle of life/traffic light together. Try that now and the dude will shoot you in the eye.
On this occasion, we’re sitting in a line of stopped cars waiting for a red light. On what basis does one deserve a honk for that? But I’m in luck, as the light cycles but Mr. Honker and I don’t make it through, ending up side by side. I couldn’t resist (again, don’t try this if you live in Arizona), so I rolled down my window. I was genuinely curious to learn why the guy had honked at me. He was pretty old, very late sixties or early seventies, and looked to be a reasonably pleasant person on the surface. Maybe he was rushing because his great-great grand daughter was in labor and he was afraid that I would make him miss the delivery. I didn’t know. Never going to know, either.
Elderly Mr. Honknose rolls down his passenger window and turns beet-red, yelling that “It’s over-courteous assholes like you (meaning me) that are going to get me (meaning him) killed.” He embellishes this with the standard set of NY resident traffic epithets that one must memorize to pass the driver’s license exam in this state. Then the light changes and he spews snow/ice/salt/phlegm onto nearby pedestrians by flooring it and roaring through the intersection. Never got a word in.
I was offended. I think that I’m a good driver. I know that this is subjective, and others describe my driving differently. My wife, for instance. She describes my driving style as “old womanly.” Please note that my wife is devoutly opposed to any use of the brake for any reason and at any time. I describe her style of driving as “bat out of Hell.” Today, however, marks the first occasion when I have been called an “overcourteous asshole.” I have marked the calendar. I wish to formally announce that I am licensing for my own use the phrase “overcourteous asshole” and even the word “overcourteous,” now and forever. I will be releasing a line of hats, shirts, and bumper stickers featuring such catchy phrases as “Warning: Overcourteous Asshole at the Wheel” and “I Brake for Overcourteous Assholes!” As for the old geezer who actually came up with the phrase, he can suck wind. He’s not overcourteous.
Wiser
Quote
“Girl, you are wiser than your years.”
“Actually, Randall, I’m just older than I look.”
God Bless the Dead
Evan Geller
Character
~first posted 15 Nov 12
I’m pretty old, and as a consequence I’ve met a fair number of people over the years. This is not to say that I’m sociable–absolutely not. I’m the guy at the party that appears to be reading the label on the bottle of wine he just polished off for an inexplicably long time. On the rare occasion some interesting party-goer would approach me to engage in wine related party conversation, I’d immediately panic and admit that I know nothing about wine. And then excuse myself to find the bathroom. That kind of sociable. But I’m married, with many children. Inevitably, one finds oneself socially interacting with one’s spouse, one’s spouse’s friends, the parents of one’s children’s friends, teachers of one’s children, and occasionally one’s children. Can’t be helped. In addition, I work as a surgeon. This employment involves a great deal of socializing. I’m constantly encountering patients, fellow health care professionals, the occasional malpractice attorney. Not all of them are under general anesthesia, a fact that is horribly depressing in the case of the lawyers.
As a consequence, I’ve met some people. Some are “real characters,” if you know what I mean. Just this morning, in fact. It was 4 am, and I was seeing a young woman in consult in the ER. I didn’t want to, I was writing at the time and experiencing a pretty good flow but, unfortunately, on occasion a person will die if I don’t actually answer my page and go into the hospital, so I’ve pretty much decided that the surgery thing takes precedence. So I hauled myself in to see this thirty-something nice lady suffering from a gallbladder attack (teaching moment: we in medicine call this “acute cholecystitis”–feel free to use this as a conversation starter at your next cocktail party, just not with me). She was with her mother and younger (twenty-something) sister. At 4 am, this is either a sign of an intensely loving nuclear family or evidence that they are homeless (so soon after hurricane Sandy, homeless is not out of the question). After explaining that the woman will need surgery, I ask if they have any questions. The patient does not. Mom looks at me with great intensity and asks, “Are you gonna take care of my girl?” “Yes, I am,” I assure her. “You gonna take GOOD care of her?” “I sure am,” I say, smiling reassuringly. “Cause if you don’t,” the woman continues, “I’m going to come and find you.” She wagged her finger at me. “Oh,” I said.
Now, I’ve been threatened on numerous occasions. On two occasions, the threatening was being done by an individual with a knife. Not my wife, though. I’ve been threatened by patients before, plenty of times. One was a NY Supreme Court Justice, who said to me just as he was being rolled into the OR, “You fuck this up and it will be the last thing you fuck up for the rest of your life.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by this, and I pointed out that, actually, if I fuck this up, it will be the last thing I fuck up for the rest of your life. Unfortunately, Supreme Court justices seem to have no sense of humor. One patient was an organized crime boss (I practice on Long Island), and his threat was much more convincing, believe me. Usually, when faced by this sort of talk, I just ignore it or nod appreciatively. But it was 4 am and, like I said, I’m old now and I handle sleeplessness poorly. So without really thinking, I said to the mother, “Little bit of advice. Never a good idea to threaten your child’s surgeon. Just saying.” And then I left to do my charting. From outside the room, I hear the twenty-something sister say in Long Island/Jersey Shore falsetto, “OMG, I am SOOOO embarrassed! Did you just you hear what he said? You threatened him! He is, like, going to so hate you!”
No, I don’t hate her. I love characters. Maybe I’ll just put her in my next book.
Just Saying, Folks
Just found out that God Bless the Dead has been selected as a Book of the Year Finalist by ForeWord. Drinks on me.
Conflict
~first posted 13 Nov12
Without conflict, there is no story.
And we love story. Humorous banter, pungent descriptions, unique situations are appreciated, of course. We are discriminating consumers, demanding the greatest elegance in our author’s elocution. But listen up, buddy–What’s the problem, here? Page one, line one: Who’s in trouble and why? How deep in it is she? How incredibly glad am I that I’m just reading this thing and not actually the one who has gotta get out of the box, evade the killers, patch up this gaping wound and overcome my significant other’s histrionic infidelities? I’ll give you two paragraphs, tops. Okay, maybe three if the first one has some really great hook of a description of something, but then it better be damn good or sayonara, cupcake. There are a million things to read out there. I got no time for you, otherwise. Tell me a story.
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