Lament #0018 - It's NOT Tom, Dick or Harry! Try harder!

My second rant of the day stems from a conversation with my sister last night, in which I was very heatedly lamenting a very strong pet-peeve of mine. It pertains to many fantasy novels, including those written by very prominent and respected names within the writing community. Before I proceed, I need to make it very clear that I admire and ardently respect these individuals, and that this is purely a personal preference--and that my own preference just makes more logical sense.

I will list four novels to use in reference to my pet-peeve, which is actually sort of a two-parter. Ready? Here they are:

• Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth series.
• Tad William's Memory, Sorrow and Thorn trilogy
  
• Christopher Paolini's Inheritance cycle
• Mercedes Lackey and James Mallory's Enduring Flame trilogy

What do these four different series of epic fantasy novels have in common? Setting aside a whole lot, they are all novels depicting worlds separate from our own. First, I'm going to focus on the first three.

Richard, Simon and Angela. Oooh, what do these characters have in common? Well, names like ours of course! Something wrong with that? No, not precisely. But let's try three other names, each from a respective series: Kahlan, Miriamele and Eragon. What's the difference here? Well, they aren't names like ours. Oh, sure. Each author has an explanation in the form of different parts of the world, yada yada. But that's sort of stretching the truth, don't you think? Again, I'm not disrespecting the genius of the stories (nor am I placing these three books on the same level, by any means) but it seems quite a stretch that the only names from our own world are commonplace English names. I don't see a Shao, Maria or Akira within the pages of these works.

Now, we take the fourth example, the Enduring Flame Trilogy, where there isn't a single "English" name to be found. "Great!" says I, "A real other world with no laziness attached." Quite the contrary, in fact. They went so far as to rename coffee, camals and oranges! But, now, here's a different kind of trouble altogether. It takes reading about shotors several times before we have a clear understanding that these are camals, in effect; not something utterly different and found in Star Wars. This isn't always a bad thing, but here's my point.

Take my world B'korba, in contrast to these other books (again, not comparing genius, don't take offense). There are no characters within my fantasy world called Harry, Tom and Mary. Only Sai, Fayne and Mikena. On the other hand, there are horses, apples and raspberry tarts. How can this be? Here's how.

A fantasy work is generally regarded by fans, myself included, as chronicled histories (while fictional) of other worlds. As such, it is an unspoken rule that these works are "translated" into English for our enjoyment. It's like taking a Japanese manga and putting English in place of Japanese in the speech bubbles.

There's a series, referred to as Detective Conan in Japan, called Case Closed in America. It's an early translation job in which all the characters (like Shinichi Kudo) are given different, American names for "easy remembering," (Jimmy Kudo?!) although it takes away the authenticity of the Japan-based work. Since, manga translations have been much more accurate (although far from perfect).

So, looking at a fantasy novel as a historical, translated work, is the translator seriously going to take the time to rename Sai, Sam; Fayne, Frank; and Mikena, MaryAnne? However, if what the characters are, in essence, riding are horses, is the translator going to call them naafari because in Sai's language that's how the same creature is referred? I highly doubt it.

My point: It's a different world. Don't be lazy, make it real! Take time. If a character is called Richard, don't call his significant other Kahlan--call her Kate! Or, better still, call him something closer to Kahlan's name.

Even if the author can come up with an explanation for why half the characters have English names and the other half don't, it comes across to me as laziness. You can do better, novelists. We expect you're brilliant enough.

Lament #0017 - Where did all the support go?

All growing up, we hear the words of our families and teachers, all saying the same thing: "What do you want to be when you grow up?" They don't laugh when we answer "Astronaut", "Famous Singer", or "Princess." They only smile and reply, "You can be anything you want to be."

Then we hit our teenage years. We realize that princesses don't live in America, singers live poor lifestyles, and astronauts rarely make it into space. So we become rather cynical, or we jump to different dreams. As we decide on something a little closer to home, we share these new dreams with friends and family, and of course everyone is supportive (although their smiles may be a little less genuine, what does it matter? we'll show them).

When a teenager, I was asked what I wanted to be. My reply was always, "An author." "Of what?" "Fantasy." That answer was either followed by a badly guarded expression and a stiff, "Oh," or an excited, if disbelieving glint in their eye and, "Oh, really? When you're famous, I want to read it!" "Sure," I'd reply, beaming, absolutely certain that it would happen, and wouldn't they be surprised?

Then it was time to grow up. I moved out and my friends moved on. Upon occasion I would run into one of these long-ago friends and they'd ask, "How's your book? I still want to read it when your famous."

"I could give you a copy now," I offered.

"Oh, sure. That'd be great. I don't have a lot of time, but, ya know, I'd love to read it."

Naively, happily, I'd send them a copy. Six months later I had heard no response, and upon our next encounter:

"Have you had a chance to read my book?"

"Er, no. I've been busy, but I'll get to it soon. And hey, I still want a signed copy."

"Of course," I'd say, and after several such encounters with different people, I learned my lesson. Never again would I share my unpublished work with fair-weather friends. No doubt these same people, upon my actual published work, would reappear in my life with every claim that they, "read it before it was published!" (ha ha) and "She's my best friend."

"Right," I'd say. "After those who believed in me."

It seems that when we're small we can do anything, be anyone, and go anywhere. But when we're adults we're expected to change, become something ordinary and practical, or we just "won't go anywhere." How disheartening, how pathetic. That we set aside the dreams of our youth because no one really cares. Oh, certainly, I have a lot of dear supporters, especially within my own family. But of those friends who grew up with me, knowing my dreams, conversing with me about my story, I can count on one hand those who still actually believe in my ability enough to help me now, by reading a manuscript in their spare time.

One good thing, at least it's a means of knowing who really cares, and who only indulges in the moment. I will not forget the people who have supported me when there may be no national recognition; only a dear memory etched in my own heart, forever.

Here's to you, foul-weather friends. Those who believe in me now, before the future becomes our present.