Month: November 2011

Two readers of this very blog introduced me to The Hunger Games, a trilogy by Suzanne Collins that’s set in a post-apocalyptic world where the US has collapsed and folded itself into 12 discreet districts overseen by a Big Brother-like Capitol. I need to thank those two readers. The first book of The Hunger Games, which I wrapped up very late last night, was fantastic.

Their recommendation came about when I was complaining that Richelle Mead’s Succubus series wasn’t up to her Vampire Academy series’ scratch. What the hell, I wanted to know, could I read to fill the Vampire Academy-shaped hole that had punctured my reading life?

I saw an ad for The Hunger Games’ film adaptation when I was suffering through the after-midnight previews before Breaking Dawn kicked off. How had I missed a series that was successful enough to warrant a silver screen version, I wondered. And when I asked a friend and fellow editor if she’d heard of or read the series her response was: ‘I have friends who literally won’t talk to me any more until I read The Hunger Games. It’s on my list.’

Uhuh, I thought. Guess I’d better get reading.

Collins’ young-adult series was inspired by—what else?—late-night TV channel surfing. She was flicking back and forth between a reality TV show where young people were competing for money and fame and footage of young people fighting a real-life war.

‘…I was tired, and the lines began to blur in this very unsettling way, and I thought of this story,’ Collins writes in the Getting To Know Suzanne Collins at the back of the book. It perhaps explains the dark and haunting themes of near-future The Hunger Games, which is both the name of the book and the gladiatorial battle to which its protagonists are subjected.

Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark come from District 12, a poor mining town where most of its residents are living hand to mouth. Since her father’s death during an explosion in the mines, Katniss has hunted illegally in the nearby forest in order to help her family survive. When her 12-year-old sister, Prim, is drawn by lottery to be the town’s ‘tribute’ or effective sacrificial lamb to The Hunger Games, 16-year-old Katniss volunteers to go in her place.

It’s effectively a death sentence as, under The Hunger Games rules, competitors are placed in an arena and left to fight to the death until only one remains. With 23 others to contend with, including Peeta, the son of the District 12 baker and someone who gave her bread when she and her family were close to death from starvation, Katniss will be lucky to survive.

On a scale of one to Vampire Academy, The Hunger Games is probably an eight, but that’s huge kudos as that’s the closest any young-adult series has come to date. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to stomach the gruesome parts—logic, after all, dictates that the book has to catalogue 23 characters’ most likely harrowing, bloody deaths. But it was smarter than that, with the focus not on the deaths but on the battle of wits and survival.

Collins’ tale surprised me at every turn, with both her writing and her execution lending new life to an age-old tale of survival of the fittest, albeit one set in the future. It’s better written than Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series and Katniss is everything you could ask for in a female protagonist—she’s smart, self-reliant, has spunk, and doesn’t pine for a physically and emotionally unavailable boy (well, not much).

In fact, I couldn’t help but note that if you put Bella in the arena, she’d kill herself tripping over or by giving herself a paper cut long before the other competitors got to her. I have to admit that I also chuckled at Meyer’s inadvertently amusing book blurb: ‘The Hunger Games is amazing’. Like her entire writing style, it’s not exactly the most sophisticated, mind-blowing, or insightful statement.

Still, Meyer has a point: The Hunger Games is amazing and gripping from the very first paragraph of the very first page. I was, thankfully, and in this one instance, forward-thinking enough to order all three books in one hit. Instead of scurrying online to order and then wait for the second book in the series, I’m immediately able to pluck it from my to-be-read pile and crack its spine. I’ll check back in once I’ve read it, which should be, oh, in about two days’ time…

Inheritance, the fourth book in Christopher Paolini’s trilogy (no, that’s not a typo—I realise trilogies should be three) has reportedly become the fastest-selling book of the year so far, with one selling every 5.5 seconds since its release (in the UK, but presumably around the world too). I have to admit that I’ve contributed to that selling success, having long pre-ordered my copy. Albeit, it should be noted, entirely begrudgingly.

Paolini came to fame as a child prodigy with Eragon, a book he penned while he was still in his teens. I considered it pretty much a classic hero’s-journey-slash-Lord-of-the-Rings cliché, but enjoyable enough that it kept me reading. Besides, Paolini had done what I hadn’t, which was to write a best-selling breakout book—I had to try to read between the lines to glean some pointers.

I read books two and three for the aforementioned reasons. Plus, when you read the first book of what you know is going to be a trilogy you know you’ve effectively signed up for all three. What I didn’t originally sign up for was a fourth book and I was, frankly, pretty damn grumpy when I got to the end of the third and Paolini shrugged (well, not literally) and told us he was extending it to a fourth. And that we’d have to wait years for him to write said book.

I wholly admit and own that I came to Inheritance with a little you-lied baggage. But is it just me, or was Inheritance 849 pages of time-dragging sideshow before we finally got to the one thing we were there for: the showdown between Eragon and Galbatorix, his archenemy?

Maybe I’m being harsh, and my enjoyment was hampered by having read the previous three books a long way back and retaining only a hazy memory, but I felt that Inheritance started slowly. The Varden were just fighting some random dudes from another random city that didn’t really matter, while rehashing things like how Roran was brave and lucky in battle. That and Paolini was making up ridiculously and unnecessarily long and unpronounce-able names for things. Like ‘Thardsvergundnzmal’, which appears on page 210 and which apparently means ‘a fake’. Urgghhh. I actually snorted in derision at that.

I felt that none of the Inheritance scenarios or manners of overcoming them were as clever as they’d been in previous books, and I was willing Paolini and his characters to just get on with it. It wasn’t until page 286 that something happened, which was 285 pages too late for me; all I wanted to do was get to the end of page 849.

There were, of course, moments that I enjoyed. But they were far outweighed by the moments I didn’t. And that I wondered how Paolini or his editors thought they were good—or even feasible—ideas. Say, for example (and I’ve kept it vague but am still issuing a spoiler alert here), when:

• a character spirits away a spoon as a weapon with too much ease
• a seemingly indestructible character that’s killed even the most powerful of elves is brought down with something (and by someone) much less powerful (and mortally injured, to boot)
• much is made of a character’s fingernails and then it never goes anywhere
• a character isn’t quite as devastated as he should be when his dragon is killed
• complex and interesting characters that Paolini’s spent three books hinting he’ll eventually explain never get explained. Angela the herbalist is one such character. He actually apologises for not unpacking her in his note at the end of the book
• there’s no pay-off pash. No, really.

I realise this blog sounds like a grump-fest, and for that I’m sorry. But I feel as though Paolini subjected me to a fourth book and countless pages of not advancing the story and then cheated me out of the few good bits I wanted.

I wanted a page-turning, climactic finish to the trilogy. I wanted to be impressed by Paolini’s ability to weave and weft a compelling story. I wanted Elva to do something really incredible. I wanted to know about Angela. I wanted a mind-blowingly clever fight between Eragon and Galbatorix.

And I wanted Eragon to get the girl. This was not because I need every book to have a happily-ever-after ending, but because Paolini was steering us towards it at every turn. Then there wasn’t a romance, a wedding, or even a pay-off pash.

Was it just me, or did you spend the book thinking: ‘This wasn’t worth the wait. There’s nothing new in this book and, in fact, nothing that warranted stretching this story out. You could—and should—have finished it as a trilogy’?

Wanting to write without wanting to read is like wanting to ____ without wanting to ____.

That’s the premise this Salon.com article put forward in discussing the rise of wannabe writers who aren’t avid readers. I know, right? How could you have any desire to write if you don’t like reading? And doesn’t that mean you wouldn’t want to read your own work?

The article’s author very validly points out that, unlike writing, which is practically the equivalent of simultaneously opening a vein and banging your head against a brick wall, reading is largely effortless, calming, inspiring and, frankly, fun:

Reading, on the other hand, is not a struggle. It is an utter pleasure. And it is in this pleasure where I first took up the challenge of writing, in trying to emulate the wordsmiths whose stories possessed me so completely that the rest of the world would fade away so long as I kept turning the pages and allowed their words to fuel my imagination.

I mean, what inspired them to write if not an incredible writer whose work they’d read? And who’d want the pain of writing without the pay-off fun of reading?

I’ve always, unequivocally, wanted to be a writer. I just said vet in the early days because I didn’t know that someone could be paid to do something so incredible and as—occasionally, when the muse is playing fair—fun as putting words on a page. But that writing career was inspired by a love of words and letters and ideas introduced to me through reading. How else, I really want to know, could you get there?

Steve Himmer, quoted in this Salon.com article takes it one step more profound:

…I can’t help but remember that reading—both the careful selection of books and being given enough privacy to quietly read them myself—was among the first freedoms I had.

The article’s author continues the deep-thinking philosophical bent: ‘Humanity,’ he says, ‘is losing its ability to be alone with nothing but our thoughts.’

Hmmm, puzzling thoughts for a Tuesday, and ones that both perplex and frustrate me. What do you reckon? Can you be a writer without being a reader? Why would you want to be? And do you have any suggestions for filling in the above blanks—I haven’t yet come up with anything particularly clever.

If my memory serves me correctly, I’ve blogged previously about awesome post-it note messages flatmates have left for each other over time—many of which have been passive-aggressive.

Recognising their gold, designer Oonagh O’Hagan compiled them into a cute-as-a-button book entitled I Lick My Cheese, which is a reference to one flatmate’s note to another to try to put them off stealing and eating their store of cheddar (or the like).

Stumbling across a notes version of this concept in the form of www.passiveaggressivenotes.com took me back to my own flat-sharing days, particularly as the first entry I saw was this, the Toilet Paper Manifesto.

Without getting graphic, I recall a specific share house where a certain flatmate never, ever, ever contributed to the household expenses or chores. I arrived home late from work one night to be met in the hallway by two of my other flatemates with a roll of toilet paper. ‘We’re conducting a social experiment,’ they said, ‘to see how long it takes [insert name of dodgy flatmate here] to buy toilet paper.’

The long and short of the story is that we had to take our own assigned rolls of toilet paper into the bathroom with us, which was a royal pain in the wazoo and that saw me caught out more than a few times. And instead of solving the mystery, it deepened it, because said dodgy flatmate took some three weeks to eventually crack and we still don’t know what he did in the interim. Shudder.

There’s lots of other gold within this website’s virtual pages, including:

• people using notes to quibble about whether a toaster is, in fact, working
• shushing a neighbour who has an annoying, early morning habit of incessant clapping
• a guy being shamed for peeing out the window
• threatening to disable walking-stick thieves with, er, walking sticks
• an ‘individual’ obsessed with drawing phalluses
• comments for the wait staff who congratulated a customer on their, er, pregnancy
• and a hole sequence of ‘this is not a door’ images.

But those warrant discovering all on their own. Happy reading.

I blame the recent, brain-addling flu I had for my purchase of Succubus Dreams. That and the dearth of simple-carbohydrate books I could devour with Twilight, Harry Potter, Sookie Stackhouse, and Vampire Academy having come to an end with no films/series in reasonable sight.

And really, who isn’t fascinated by the word ‘succubus’, which is both sharp and soft in pronunciation and simultaneously predatory and sexy in meaning?

Even if my brain was fried when I ordered it, it wasn’t by the time I read Succubus Dreams. And by goodness this book is bad. I’m not very good at determining what predates what, but I’m pretty sure that Richelle Mead’s succubus series predates her Vampire Academy one.

I ordered this book because I figured that even some of Mead’s earlier works were guaranteed to be better than not having any of her works to read at all. I know, I know, but my Vampire Academy withdrawals are just. so. bad.

Not having done my research, I unwittingly lobbed myself into the middle of this series, which features Georgina Kincaid, a succubus owned by hell whose main task for all eternity is to sleep with men and suck out their souls/power by doing so. Cue eye-rolling snickers now.

Of course, she can’t sleep with her human boyfriend because she doesn’t want to ruin him or shorten his life. Cue more eye rolling and contemptuous snickers.

The book’s actually as bad as it sounds, with the level of ridiculousness amped to the max. It opens with Georgina sleeping with a guy, and basically has her sleeping with guys left, right, and centre. I’m not a prude, but (and I know writing that just about immediately contradicts the fact—sort of like saying ‘I’m not a racist, but…’ does) I was kind of surprised at just how much sex or how many sexual references this book offhandedly contained. That in itself is not a bad thing, but without a really strong storyline to link it together, it’s just a bound book that contains a lot of sex scenes.

Truthfully, when I wasn’t worrying about people seeing and judging me by the book’s cover on public transport, reading Succubus Dreams made me feel like I was catching a glimpse of Mead’s writing future. The strong, sassy female lead and the witty one-liners were beginning to take shape, and there were moments when I thought Georgina was Vampire Academy’s lead character Rose by another, unpolished, not-yet-fully-formed name.

That’s completely understandable and actually kind of a relief­—it’s nice to know that Mead’s writing genius has taken some honing and that she doesn’t get her storylines and skill via a direct line to muse-laden heaven. And I will admit that although I hated Succubus Dreams, I didn’t hate it enough not to finish it and I even fairly avidly read the teaser chapter of the next instalment of the series.

That said, I can’t quite bring myself to recommend it, unless you’re either as desperate in your Vampire Academy withdrawals as I am or up for some serious scoffing. Me? I haven’t yet ordered the other succubus books, but no matter how bad they are, I’ll never say that I never will.

You know you’re sick when you can’t even summon the concentration, energy, or book-holding muscles to read. That’s how I’ve found myself these recent weeks, having made it through winter with not so much as a sniffle only to be mowed down by a heavyweight-hitting November flu, which flattened me so comprehensively I begged my parents to make and bring me over the other thing I could swallow: mashed food.

You’d think that this unexpected but enforced downtime (even from writing for this here blog) would mean maximum time for reading, but sadly not. Instead, there’s been a lot of time lost to the unproductive illness-and-foetal-position ether.

I have to say that there’s something particularly galling about not even being able to walk to the bathroom without thinking you’re so fatigued you just might die but that then, after crawling back into bed, neither being able to sleep nor pass the healing time by reading. In fact, I think I’ve discovered what my definition of hell is and hope never to experience it again.

Coincidentally, I listened to a podcast of Radio National’s The Book Show (and even struggled to do that) where they interviewed author Elisabeth Tova Bailey about her book, The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating. I haven’t read the book yet, but I recognised well the premise of Bailey’s (or is it ‘Tova Bailey’s’?) experience that in turn led her to write the book.

Basically, an immune-depleting illness meant that she spent a very, very long time confined to bed, unable to read, write, or essentially do anything. Much longer than my week or two and I, frankly, don’t know how she didn’t lose her mind. It was during this confinement that she started to observe a common woodland snail (neohelix albolabris). It became a kind meditative lesson in observation and life and, of course, a way to prevent her from going completely batty.

I’m not good at drawn-out contemplation and have long acknowledged that I’m a plot-driven reader and need to be taken somewhere in order to stay engaged, so it’s highly likely that a book observing a tiny snail on a nightstand might just break me. Especially as that sense of frustration of being too sick to function but unable to truly rest is still too fresh.

But I can appreciate the cleverness of the idea, and its execution is, if the resoundingly positive reviews are anything to go by, incredibly well done. You can watch a small YouTube trailer and listen to the sound of a wild snail eating here.