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.

Lament #0016 - Written words paint too!

With March almost gone, I realized that my rants have been few and far between. This isn't because I'm suddenly taking anger management classes. It's only because I have had so many rants lately, I haven't known where to start. But today--! Today I have a few rants.

I belong to a creative arts community on the web, and I've attended classes offline as well. I've conversed with people many times on the definition of art, and heard it defined by "professionals". These people all agree, in general, that writing is among the Great Arts.

Really?

Then what's wrong with everyone? There is no regard for writers, where there is an abundant amount of support for charcoal or water-color artists.

Why? I wish I knew. Certainly it's not for lack of books in the world.

"What are you talking about? People recognize novels as art!"

As well they should. But here's the thing-- NO ONE wants to read a novel. Granted, viewing a painting or wood carving is much less time-consuming than, say, reading a five-hundred page manuscript. But think about it: THAT'S WHY READING IS GOING OUT. People are lazy. NOT busy, but LAZY. They lack both the drive and the focus to devour a book, yet they spend countless hours pursuing other somehow more fulfilling endeavors.

Then there are those who hear a writer's dream to become a novelist, and dare to scoff because, "At least I went to school, where I learned a respectable career as a dentist." How dare they? It sickens me to hear that in order to be good at something you must always and only attend a school where someone else, someone older, teaches you THEIR methods of doing something, claiming it is the only right way. (This one paragraph is a premise for a whole new rant, I think.)

A considerable amount of my anger is fueled toward those silly artists in particular who paint a picture, then turn around and say to writing artists, "Ha! Here's real artwork." The sheer ARROGANCE of these people is unbelievable! I'd like to see them TRY to write a five-hundred-page novel! (Do, indulge me!)

Can people not realize that writing is as much career as pulling teeth? That it is as much an art as cinematography, or anything you might find in an art gallery? That it is as much a hobby as quilting, scrapbooking or photography?

Considering that it falls under three distinctive categories, how can it not make sense that writing is a wonderful thing? Career, Art, Hobby. Hmmm.

If you have issues with writers, take them up with God. He wrote the first book.

Lament #0014 - Ah! pain.

There was an early critique for the prologue of my novel Paradise?, which said "you seem to be alienating the 'masochist' audience," referring to the line, "...up until the part where one actually crashed into the ocean. That might not be so enjoyable. Unless of course one is a masochist, which, I hope, one is not. Or was not, seeing as how one is dead now."

An interesting thought, to be sure, and I appreciated the feedback. But here's the thing.

A true masochist would be grateful. Why, you ask? Simple. If the line from Paradise? singles out the masochist audience, and they are hurt by the reference, doesn't that help them, as they enjoy pain so much?

Honestly. I'm doing them a service.

You're welcome.

Lament #0012 - Can't anyone get it write?

Do you read fiction? I do. Or rather, I try to.

How much of the fiction you've read have had markedly satisfying endings? I'm not referring to those whose endings answered all questions or whose writing was decent or whose main male and female characters lived happily ever after. I mean, what was the last book you read which actually ended well. Very well. Like, with no sense of dissatisfaction whatsoever? (That feeling of let-down is something entirely different, as it just means you re-entered reality after a thrilling good read.)

The best book will leave you wanting more, because it was so good. Not because it missed a crucial element.

I can count the number of fiction novels which left me feeling content on one hand. I can't count the number of novels I've thrown across the room, burned (yes, burned) or left sitting on a shelf collecting dust because its ending was so poor. Perhaps I'm alone in this, but it says something of the state of things when a reader is left feeling like reading the bloody novel was a waste of her freaking time.

I hate it when you adore the characters, but there is not plot. Or it's a bad one. Or the plot is good, and the characters suck. Or both are great, but the end was abrupt, predictable or downright deplorable. I loathe it when the character you enjoy so much disappoints you by doing something stupid, and never redeems him/herself, ever.

Granted, not every reader will be satisfied with every book. Take the Twilight series for example. Obviously there are some pretty satisfied readers, as it's got quite the cult following. I am not among them. I tried reading it, and I will give Meyer points for not thoroughly sickening me. I simply couldn't handle the 17-year-old "romance", and so quit. That's perfectly fine with me. I tried, it failed me. Not to say it doesn't have its merits--it's just not my sort of readery. Your opinion, whatever it is, doesn't hurt me in the least. If Twilight gives you what you want from a novel, GREAT!

One of the first things which prompted me to write my own work was this dilemma: I can't find anything new worth reading. I keep resorting to the old and familiar, because those few books I thoroughly love are guaranteed to satisfy. But there are only so many times you can read the same thing. Where is the next J.K.Rowling or Lorna Freeman? I'm waiting, despairing, praying someone will write something right. Well. Good.

I want something which speaks to my heart, not my head and more base desires. I want something which motives laughter or tears or inspiration to be better. We need better books. We need better writers.

I have no doubt that out there, someplace I haven't yet explored, are the sorts of novels I'm looking for, and I hope I find them. Someone must have written one specifically for me. Where's my Twilight? Where's my next Harry Potter? Where's my lovable, eccentric Rabbit?

I read a statistic a while back which stated that if more people don't become interested in reading, then reading will virtually disappear within thirty years.

A separate group of statistics seem to back the first.

• 58% of the US adult population never reads another book after high school
• 42% of college graduates never read another book
• 80% of US families did not buy or read a book last year.
• 70% of US adults have not been in a bookstore in the last five years
• 57% of new books are not read to completion.
• Most readers do not get past page 18 in a book they have purchased.

If that isn't proof that the literary world is failing, what is? We need fresh blood. We need new ideas, or perhaps very old and forgotten ones. Obviously novels are lacking.

Something must be done, or people will have no reason to read anymore.