The Magdalen Reading, Abrosius Benson, about 1520
Dave Farland, a writing mentor of mine, often lectures about why people read — and why writers need to know why people read. His analyses have always made me think about why I read and why I write.
For me, a book needs to engage both heart and mind. All fiction ranges on a continuum between these two oppositional yet complementary parts of the soul, and I don’t embrace either extreme to the exclusion of the other.
If I want purely intellectual exercise, I won’t read a book; I’ll do some sudoku or contemplate the periodic table of elements. If I want purely emotional exercise, I’ll snuggle my corgi or ride a rollercoaster. When I read, I want both intellect and emotion engaged to one degree or another. I want to be somewhere in the middle of the spectrum.
I love gorgeous, powerful language. But as a reader and as a writer, I am acquainted with the dangers of self-indulgent, distracting verbiage as well. I want to fall through the words into the story, but sometimes the words get in my way.
One of the things I dislike about some books is a lack of transparency. Many otherwise skillful writers get caught up chasing the mirage of pretty language at the expense of the narrative. The result for the reader is like listening to The Allman Brothers play a live gig: you know the band is having a grand time showing off during the twenty-minute solo, but the (non-stoned part of the) audience starts yawning and looking around after awhile.
Another annoyance is the snob factor. Some books take more patience to read; that doesn’t necessarily mean that it is better, or that its readers are smarter. My opinion is probably not widely shared. Put any David Foster Wallace fan next to any Diana Gabaldon fan on a subway train and see which one gets a smug look on her face first.
(Hint: it won’t be the Gabaldon fan; she is too busy cavorting with Jamie Fraser in eighteenth-century Scotland to notice anything else going on around her.)
On the other hand, emotional, purely plot-driven novels (I call them “airport books”) tend not only to leave me cold, they tend to leave me entirely once I’ve finished them. I’m a Bear of Very Little Brain, and what little I have is sieve-like: only the rich stuff stays with me.
I remember going on a Robert Ludlum kick one summer in college. I read about seventeen of his novels back-to-back. Even a month later, I doubt that I could have distinguished the plot of The Parsifal Mosaic from that of The Matarese Circle. Ludlum’s stories gave my adrenals a stiff kick, but left my brain right out of the narrative equation.
I am not disrespecting the plot-driven novel. It is an art form that serves a valuable purpose. I admire the craft that goes into them on every level and I think their creators are very good at what they do. I treasure many of them (see Gabaldon, above). They are a form of transport that is cheaper than a jaunt to Bermuda and (usually) less dangerous than recreational drug use.
And I love evoking emotion when I write. I like it when people praise my form and style, but I love it when readers tell me that I made them cry or laugh or shudder. If I’ve touched their hearts, I know I’ve done something right.
One of the reasons I love speculative fiction is that I find a higher-than-average ratio of successful marriages between story and idea. And I’m no doubt biased. Often a really cool premise can help me overlook underdeveloped characters or middling style.
But the best books have it all, don’t they? Round, ripe characters, suspenseful conflicts, and fascinating premises or thoughtful explorations of humanity’s great questions — all portrayed through graceful and clear prose. All these elements coexist frequently enough to keep even the most voracious reader busy.
I’ve written before about some of my “desert island” books, but other strong contenders for that hypothetical library are:
Sharon Kay Penman’s Here Be Dragons
Neal Stephenson’s Cryptonomicon
Stephen King and Peter Straub’s The Talisman
Frank Herbert’s Dune
Sigrid Undset’s Kristin Lavransdatter
Marisha Pessl’s Special Topics in Calamity Physics
Charles Palliser’s The Quincunx
China Mieville’s Perdido Street Station
John Crowley’s Little, Big
Toni Morrison’s Beloved
What about you? What is your personal recipe for a great read? What books have stayed with you or have demanded re-reading from time to time? Where are you on the heart-mind continuum? If you are a writer, what is your goal in this regard? As always, I welcome your thoughts.