Without sufficient plot to carry it along, I did find myself focusing on the writing in Inferno and I can only echo some of the criticisms. He does fling descriptions at his characters seemingly in the hope that they'll stick and I often think why, what relevance does it have? Handy character facts ahoy. He may as well tell me that a character has freckles (probably multitudinous amber facemarks). Why? What purpose does that fact have. Lots of people have freckles. Now, in the hands of another writer, perhaps our faithless narrator finds himself caught looking at those freckles, tracing lines between them, plotting new fantastic constellations. See, there's a story in there...
I'm reminded of Flaubert's Parrot by Julian Barnes. An academic is writing a biography of Flaubert and muses on the fact that in Madame Bovary, Flaubert refers three times to the colour of Emma Bovary's eyes, and each time they're a different colour. This, he argues, is not a mistake on Flaubert's part but a function of the significance of eye colour in the respective scenes. The point being that it doesn't matter what colour Emma Bovary's eyes really are. Sure, it might help you conjure up a mental picture of her - one that would be utterly meaningless. We can learn so many more interesting things from Emma Bovary's eyes.
I'm also reminded of The Teleportation Accident by Ned Beauman - for me, the best new book of 2012. Late on, there's an inaccurate reference to something that happened years earlier. The thing is, even though it's not presented directly as such, the event is being described as it is remembered by the protagonist. It's the character's memory that's faulty, not the editing of the manuscript. A neat trick that conveys a lot of information (mainly about the state of mind of the protagonist) elegantly and concisely. That for me is the hallmark of "good" writing.
Ned Beauman also has a way with metaphor that fans of Chandler will appreciate. For example: "There was enough ice in her voice for a serviceable daiquiri." Or: "The sort of moustache that could beat you in an arm-wrestling contest." In fact, the whole bonkers plot is very Chandleresque in many respects.
Personally, I find the trick to successful characters is for an author to provide enough of a hook to hang your imagination on, but really not much more than that. No elaborate structure is required. Less is so often more. As a reader, you don’t really need to know what colour their eyes are, their hair colour, their brand of jacket, not unless it furthers your understanding of the character. If not, I say let the reader fill the gaps, they’ll do a better job than the words of any writer, no matter how good.
I also find the trick of good metaphors and simile is avoid overdoing it, it’s fantastic to be led by smooth, uncluttered text and then be hit with a brilliant line, it’s like stumbling across a diamond. It’s great when an author uses a metaphor to squeeze so much meaning into a few words, letting your mind unpack them into so much more – that
there was enough ice in her voice for a serviceable daiquiri does that so perfectly, and avoids cliché. I like that. I’d still like to know where my stretchy cat line came from, it’s bugging me, but Google isn’t telling. I was thinking Bradbury or Vonnegut. If they don’t claim it, I’m keeping it. For the record, my cat is very stretchy, possibly infinitely so. She was rescued from her last owner, some bonkers German chap, apparently kept her in a box with a vial of radioactive material. Odd thing to do with a cat, I'd say. Claimed she was dead, but when I looked inside she wasn't.
Without sufficient plot to carry it along, I did find myself focusing on the writing in Inferno and I can only echo some of the criticisms. He does fling descriptions at his characters seemingly in the hope that they'll stick and I often think why, what relevance does it have? Handy character facts ahoy. He may as well tell me that a character has freckles (probably multitudinous amber facemarks). Why? What purpose does that fact have. Lots of people have freckles. Now, in the hands of another writer, perhaps our faithless narrator finds himself caught looking at those freckles, tracing lines between them, plotting new fantastic constellations. See, there's a story in there, we're being told that the narrator is infatuated.
Right - well, fine - that's great. Like another poster said, I'd buy your novel. When's it out?
But some of the other shit that's been recommended is not like that, as I've proved. And that isn't baseless accusation, I have downloaded and tried it.
And that’s fine really, I don’t think anyone needs to justify their reading matter (but hey, it’s smut don’t sit next to me on the plane reading it). One of the worst books I failed to read was
Captain Corelli’s Mandolin which someone insisted I read. I could’t get on with it. I did briefly flirt with a terror campaign against Louis de Bernières readers, but it seemed something of a minor overreaction, so I threw the damn thing over a hedge instead (Frith St, Shepherd's Bush, it's probably still there if anyone is interested). Godawful sludge.
I sadly have to finish my novels and find a publisher, all that dull stuff. It’s more of a hobby derived from my caustic emails around the office, which appear to have gleaned something of a cult following. It’s also probably quite likely they’ll get me fired at some point (well, frankly our product management team do act like punch drunk Oompa-Loompas, so I’m sticking with that one), which I expect is part of the interest, like watching a car crash.
Anyway, I need a plan B for just that eventuality and as my wife says, anything that keeps me from setting fire to things or doing DIY (they’re often indistinguishable) is a good thing. Anyhow, one is ready for a rewrite, but unfortunately after a long rant down the pub* about epic scifi novels, I accepted a challenge to write one myself, so I’m 300,000 words across the universe. Sadly, I’m deeply stubborn so I have to stick with these things, but actually it’s quite entertaining if possibly not very good. Given that a £10 bet is riding on this, it’s probably the worst per-word rate I’ve ever had. Note to self, do not get fired soon. I’d go back to writing smut (which did fund part of my education) but it’s all pictures now. Damn you, internet!
*This is one of a long line of things I’ve agreed to do down the pub, because at a certain time in the evening they all seemed perfectly reasonable and plausible (amongst others, these involve shaving my head [ha ha baldness, you lose], committing to losing six stone [if you find them, keep them], and becoming vegetarian [beans are truly the musical fruit, an entire symphony played on the devil’s trombone]).
