::Acquired Taste

Pity me, gentle reader. Although I have read some excellent books lately, with others jostling for attention on my shelves, I have spent the past week flogging through Ken Follett's World Without End, his tale of Black Death, medieval architecture and humdrum sex. Follett sells a lot of books, so he can live quite happily without my approval, and he's obviously digested the "conflict on every page" mantra*. Incident piles on incident, improbability on improbability, although after a while even this surfeit of action becomes wearisome. Once every couple of pages, breast-fondling occurs: this is the Middle Ages, and men of a certain stamp can't see a woman without lurching into grope mode. Readers will be reassured to learn that breasts in the period ranged from the fried egg profile to ample rotundity.

Perhaps the most ludicrous such moment comes on page 1078 (I really did get that far) in a dialogue of self-parodical risibility:

"I've never been good at breaking news gently," she said. "I'm pregnant."
"Good God!" He was too shocked to hold back his reaction. "I'm surprised because you told me..."
"I know. I was sure I was too old. For a couple of years my monthly cycle was irregular, and then it stopped altogether -- I thought. But I've been vomiting in the morning, and my nipples hurt."
"I noticed your breasts as you came into the garden. But can you be sure?"
"I've been pregnant six times already -- three children and three miscarriages -- and I know the feeling. There's really no doubt."
"Well, we're going to have a child."

You have to read this several times to savour the full crassness of the passage. "Good God!" He was too shocked to hold back his reaction irks with its redundant commentary; had it been necessary at all, it should have been before the exclamation. My monthly cycle has been irregular ... Good God! I am too shocked at the tinniness of this to hold back my reaction. I noticed your breasts as you came into the garden. This spectacular non sequitur defies any kind of logic: are painful nipples really so obvious, even in Follett's mammocentric fictional world?

Writing of this standard annoyed me particularly in the context of the book I am currently reading, Patrick Rothfuss' The Name of the Wind. This is a fantasy with prose of relaxed elegance, a pleasantly judged humour and an engaging authorial voice. Yet Rothfuss, a purveyor of mere fantasy, the preserve of maladjusted adolescents, sits on the bottom table in the Grand Hall of Literature, while Follett, though never likely to win the Booker Prize, basks in vast sales and a degree of critical success. Ladies and gentlemen, there ain't no justice.

* the rather more challenging maxim introduced to me by David Isaak, "a gem on every page", has not been fully implemented. Is there a school of creative writing which demands "a turd on every page"? Or indeed "a tit on every page"...

Bite-Sized Reviews

I've got through a decent crop of books over the past week, so before the moment passes here are my thoughts on them.

First up was Khaled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns. Hosseini is an accomplished story-teller. More than one reviewer makes the comparison with Dickens, and the similarity is evident in the bold strokes with which the characters drawn and the high degree of social engagement. It's a good read, but the characterisation feels perfunctory at times. It's not as well-structured or engaging as The Kite-Runner but the quality of the prose, the sense of place and the narrative drive make it a recommended read.

Even better was Kate Summerscale's The Suspicions of Mr Whicher, a true-life account of a hideous crime from the nineteenth century. Summerscale is excellent at drawing out the social context of the case, its impact on the "sensation" fiction of writers like Wilkie Collins and Mary Elizabeth Braddon, and the way in which the class distinctions of the time prevented the crime's early resolution. It's likely to appeal to anyone with an interest in the nineteenth century, crime or indeed crime fiction.

Next I've picked up Ken Follett's World Without End. At over 1,200 pages (I'm on about page 60), "novel without end" might be more appropriate. Follett engages and infuriates in equal measure. He's a contemporary thriller-writer turned historical novelist, and while his enthusiasm for the Middle Ages and the extensiveness of his research shine through, I'm not sure the move is wholly successful. His control of plotting and pacing, as demonstrated in the earlier volume Pillars of the Earth, is exemplary, but his grinding infodumps lack finesse and the dialogue can grate. If you like stories set in this period there are better ones out there.

Finally, there's Joe Abercrombie's Best Served Cold. Abercrombie is in many ways a writer after my own heart, whose fantasy is clearly rooted in a wide reading of history. I've posted a much fuller review over at Science Fiction and Fantasy Enthusiasts: suffice it to say here that this is a book lovers of fantasy should read.

* * *

I can't end without noting that Alastair Reynolds, a fine science-fiction writer, has signed "£1m book deal" with Gollancz. The deal is for 10 books, and the amounts quoted in the press are invariably exaggerated, so this is hardly money for old rope; and it will be a long time before he sees all the money--if ever. I haven't read a lot of Reynolds' work, but I've enjoyed what I have read. Century Rain is a clever engaging futuristic noir novel, while "A Spy in Europa" is a highly accomplished short story.

It's good to see a major imprint investing in a science-fiction writer in this way. I hope the deal works out for everyone.

What Happened Next?

British viewers will probably be familiar with A Question of Sport, in which sportsmen and women submit themselves to thirty minutes of largely undemanding questions about...you guessed it, sport. One of the most entertaining rounds is "what happened next?", in which a clip of sporting action is stopped just short of the generally unpredictable denouement (for instance, a seagull descends and abstracts the ball just as the golfer is about to take his putt).

"What happens next?" is the question which the writer has to address every day. Not "what is the thematic significance of my work?" (this question is valueless, or even meaningless, to the writer) or "how soon can I stop?" ("not yet" is usually the answer...). Writing fiction is the business of arranging one event after another in plausible sequence, which need not necessarily be chronological.

I may be leaking a writers' trade secret if I say that this is not always the most difficult part of writing. Some aspects of evolving the story may be sticky, but generally one piece of the story evolves into the next without too much coaxing. An exception to this area, for me at least, is battle scenes. These have to be as tightly choreographed as a ballet if they are to convince and to be comprehensible, and in The Dog of the North, the battle of Jehan's Steppe and the siege of Croad were the two "what happened next" segments which I found the most difficult to write.

I was delighted on my recent trip to America to discover, for only $15, a handsome hardback entitled Battles of the Medieval World 1000-1500: From Hastings to Constantinople. This unpretentious book takes twenty major battles of the period, briefly outlines the historical context before giving us a detailed account of the dispositions of the troops and the course of the battle. As a bonus, there are clear illustrations of the arms and equipment of the troops involved. For a writer like me, who needs to put the occasional battle on the page, this book is a godsend. I am completely shameless about recycling from historical sources in my fiction (much better writers have done it).

Battles of the Medieval World is a splendid demonstration of "what happened next" on the battlefield. It is likely to be a book with a limited audience--hence its place in Barnes and Noble's bargain bucket--but of its kind it's perfect.

Next time you come across a set-piece battle scene in one of my books, odds are Battles of the Medieval World will have been consulted intensively...

Epiphanies of New York

1: Running in Central Park

At school I was averse to any form of exercise, and it was not until my early thirties that a friend asked me to do a "fun run" and I realised that actually I liked running. Ever since, I've run two or three times a week, injuries aside.

Last year when we went to New York I regretted not taking my running shoes when I saw all the runners gambolling in Central Park. This year I didn't make the same mistake. In my week there I managed to squeeze in three five-mile runs - quite a hefty mileage for me.

The first run in the Park was an astounding experience. At 7am the roads were thronged with runners--as many as if there was an organised event taking place. Running is essentially a solitary activity (the Zen aspect of it is part of the appeal) but it takes on an added dimension when there are others around. For someone who loves running, a sunny morning surrounded by trees and grass, with scores of other runners alongside you, is just about as good as it gets. And, like all days when running is perfect, you even forget that you're tired.

To have such a serene, almost transcendental, experience in the middle of one of the world's busiest cities is something I never expected. The view from the central running track itself, ringed by trees with skyscrapers behind them reaching up into the early-morning mist, is one I'll never forget.