Category Archives: Writing

Book Review: The Blinding Knife

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So, I officially hate Brent Weeks. Not actual hate where I wish him harm or anything, but more in the “man, you’ve made my life inconvenient” sort of way.

The Blinding Knife is the second in the Lightbringer series, following The Black Prism. My hatred stems from his magic system and world building. Eight years ago (I know, because I have my notes), I came up with this fun magic system involving the color spectrum, where people have different powers based on the color of light they’re exposed to. That’s super simplified, but the basic premise. I told my idea to Gavin, one of my fellow MFA students, and he was like, “Oh, like the Brent Weeks books.”

Say what? I’d never heard of Brent Weeks at that point, and the idea that someone had already published a magic system that was the same as the one I’d just spent a ton of time working on was disheartening. At the end of the semester that classmate gifted me a copy of The Black Prism so I could see what similarities existed. And because he really liked the book.

Flash forward to this past summer. I hadn’t read The Black Prism yet, not because I didn’t want to, but just because of its placement on the “to read” list. I was thinking about another story, and I mentioned to my wife that creating a base number system based on the story’s pantheon seemed super neat, especially when information could be interpreted different ways. I put some work into that, but mainly it was an idea to come back to.

Then I started reading The Black Prism in the fall. And yes, the magic was based on light. To my relief, that was where the similarity ended. How the magic functions and is tapped into is completely different, but any chromatic based magic system I use will still be seen as less novel because of The Black Prism’s existence.

Then I read The Blinding Knife these last couple of weeks. And guess what it introduced? A base number system based on the story’s pantheon. My jaw dropped as it was explained in-story. Are you kidding me, Brent Weeks?! A friend of my is now joking that I read the entire series in the past and have shut it out of my conscious memory. He’s waiting for my next idea and for it to be something from one of the next books. Sigh.

But, as much as I can joke that I hate Brent Weeks, I am thoroughly enjoying his books. So, let’s review The Blinding Knife (with minimal Black Prism spoilers).

The Blinding Knife picks up immediately where The Black Prism left off. Kip, Gavin, Karris, and Liv each leave Garriston with their own revelations about themselves and their companions. Kip is struggling to find (and earn) his place in the Chromeria, while the shadow of his father looms over him. And he’s got that fancy knife. Gavin’s mortality clock has advanced and he still has most of his great purposes to fulfill. Karris knows, and boy is that conflicting. And Liv is seeing things in a new light *ahem* and needs to reconcile what that’ll cost.

A few new characters are also introduced as Kip learns how to use his magic, and those relationships are clearly setting up more drama in future books. The Colors are dragging their feet and Andross Guile is still a world-class douche. A card game is introduced that becomes important for multiple reasons.

One of the more interesting aspects of the second installment is how the magic system is able to expand without (usually) feeling like deus ex machina. Weeks uses a simple but effective tactic for this: everything we’ve learned is what the Chromeria has authorized. In other words, there are secrets to the magic that rebels, color wights, self-taught drafters, etc., can, in a narrative sense, spontaneously use, in a way that doesn’t feel like cheating on the author’s part.

We also dive a bit deeper into the religion of the world. In the first book, we heard Orholam’s name prayed to and cursed with all the time. Now we are introduced to the concept of the Old Gods. Religion becomes a central arc for one of the main supporting characters and drives much of the action in the story (as it does in the real world).

Another aspect that impressed me was the escalation of stakes. For example—and without giving spoilery details—there’s a romance between two characters. And it’s not working. Then, yay, it’s going to happen! Then, shit! Oh, it’s doomed. Then, yay, it is happening. Then, shit shit shit, there’s no way it’s happening now. I won’t say how it ends, but the escalations kept me on my toes and very concerned for the outcome of the characters.

I think the part I enjoyed the most about the book wasn’t something I was actively aware of while reading. And that’s the point, and the goal of fiction. I became so immersed in the story, in the world, that I was happily along for the ride. I didn’t stop to analyze or think about what was happening (that happened when I wasn’t reading), I was able to sit back and just read.

As with the first book, and as to be expected in epic fantasy, there are fight scenes galore. Most are small, some larger, and of course there’s always the climatic confrontation. These scenes didn’t exist merely to have physical conflict. There is a narrative and/or character purpose for each. And each does double duty to delve further into the magic system and the world the characters inhabit.

And that brings me to the craft topic of the review. I just said that fights are a staple, and being such, there’s the risk of a dime-a-dozen feel. That doesn’t happen here because of *drum roll* specificity.

Specificity is the cure for the common trope. It allows you to take any idea and make it your own, no matter how common or overly used. For example: You ever hear of Star Wars? Hunger Games? Interview with the Vampire? Wizard of Oz? What do they all have in common? They all follow the same story arc. Almost exactly the same. What makes them different? The details. Specificity.

I know that’s a very broad brush with which to talk about details making stories unique. Let me use another example, this time from The Blinding Knife itself. I’d mentioned the introduction of a card game in the world of the story. It’s called Nine Kings. As I was reading the story I was engaged with the cards and their descriptions, as well as the strategy Kip employed while playing. There are so many different cards that there can be different decks, and each deck is normally themed around a color (the colors of the Chromeria). I recall having the passing thought at one moment that it reminded me of Magic the Gathering, but then the story moved on and so did I.

Well, as it happens, Brent Weeks was introduced to Magic the Gathering after writing the first book, but before writing the second. He enjoyed the game so much, that he wrote his own version of it into the sequel. Now, for those who don’t know, I am very into Magic the Gathering. I’ve played since middle school and have two massive library card catalogs filled with cards. Even with my massive history and knowledge of the game, I only had the briefest of moments of recognition with Nine Kings. Why? Specificity.

Weeks was able to take a concept that I was very familiar with and tweak it, adding detail after detail after detail in order to make it unique and distinct. This can be done with anything, no matter the source material. Have a character with a physical ailment/limitation? That’s nothing new. But if you’re specific about it, it becomes part of the character, as opposed to a descriptor of the character. Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow’s Gabrielle Zevin spent chapter after chapter on Sam’s ankle/foot injury, and we were given a character whose physical limitations impacted the story in unique and heartbreaking ways, different from any other character with a physical limitation.

Depending on your choices, you don’t need to spend chapter after chapter on those details, but you need enough to make whatever concept or decision you’ve come up with fully your own. I say that I hate Brent Weeks because of the similar ideas, but the key to making that not an issue is specificity. We can both have magic related to light, but the how, the why, the drawbacks and benefits, all the nuances a magic system needs are what will separate them and make my story stand apart. Specificity.

Now, time for the big reveal. What tools in The Author’s Arsenal does Brent Weeks wield in The Blinding Knife?

For exceptional storytelling/narrative, I award the Quill Pen. There are a lot of balls for Weeks to juggle, a lot of motivations playing against one another, and it all flows so smoothly that the complexities don’t bog down the reader.

For depth and richness of theme, I award the Inkwell. Colors. The Light Spectrum. Wavelengths. What seems like a limited concept has been integrated into the world so richly that we’re fully on board with this unique magic system and how it colors *cough* every aspect of life in that world. Each color means something, and the characters act and react appropriately based on those colors.

And for world-building and setting, I award the Scroll. It sort of overlaps with the theme award, but I can’t say enough about the fully realized world we’re given and all the minutia included to ground that world and make it real. Details. Specificity. It’s all there.

A Blinding Knife has been the most enjoyable book I’ve read all year. My jaw literally dropped, I couldn’t put it down, and my wife more than one time had to sit through me retelling her aspects of the plot she had not one iota of investment in. Good times.

And there you are. If you have a suggestion for a review, feel free to drop it in the comments or send a message.

Book Review: A Court of Mist and Fury

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When I told one of my tenth graders I was reading this book, she was scandalized. We were on the topic of books because I saw her reading The Belgariad, which I was shocked by as I haven’t seen anyone reading that since I’d read it over twenty years ago. Apparently her dad’s making her read it. Good for him. And her, too.

Anyway, the idea that a dude, especially a grown-up dude, was reading that book was almost too much for her to take. I can only guess at her ideas as to why I was reading New Adult Romantasy (too sexually graphic for YA, IMO). Part of the reason was that I’d seen so much about the series across social media that I knew I’d have to give it a go at some point. Part was that Jacqueline Carey teed up the genre for me back in my Belgariad days. The third part of the equation was there were no holds on it in the Libby app. The stars aligned (and not just in the Rhysand sort of way).

Warning for book one (A Court of Thorns and Roses) spoilers. Obviously, in a book review for a sequel, there will be spoilers for book one. If you haven’t read it, stop here. If you have, here we go.

A Court of Mist and Fury picks up with Feyre and Tamlin, she newly fae and he once again fully empowered. They’re engaged, they’re in love, just what’d you’d expect following the ending of the first book.

But things are not as they seem. Feyre had made a deal with Rhysand to spend one week a month with him in the Night Court (sans John Larroquette), where she’ll learn exactly who Rhysand is, and what life is like for the fae when not under Amarantha’s thumb.

Feyre not only has to deal with that bargain, but also the fame that comes with being the one to stop Amarantha. Everyone knows, and everyone is very, very grateful. And I’m not just talking about her Summer Court subjects (she is engaged to Tamlin, after all), but the fae across all the courts.

I don’t want to get into spoilers, and because the narrative structure of this book is different than A Court of Thorns and Roses, it’s hard to say more than what I already have without giving away surprises. What I will do is offer comparisons between the two.

More magic? Yes. More of the hot and sticky? Yes. Higher and clearer stakes? Yes. More fun action? Yes. More Feyre acting illogical? No, thankfully. All around, it’s a better book than the predecessor.

I spent most of the first section afraid that it would be nothing but illogical Feyre, but as soon as it switched gears I was on board. Tons of fun character development, world building, and contextualizing moments from the first book that enriched the narrative and made me like the first book more than I initially did.

Some of the non-perspective character motivations were a little shaky at times, but with so many characters, it’s hard to make everything fit snuggly. It has been the most fun read of the year so far, but it’s not without its flaws.

Which brings me to the craft subject of the day: foreshadowing.

Foreshadowing is a fairly common concept, but also very broad. Simplistically, foreshadowing is a warning or indication of a future event. But that definition implies we recognize the foreshadowing. Sometimes that’s the point, to purposefully clue the reader into something. Concrete foreshadowing. When Romeo dreams of seeing Juliet dead, the audience knows that’s how he’s going to find her. When Chekhov overtly draws attention to the gun, we know it’s going to play a role.

Other times, we’re given hints that only make sense after the reveal. Prophecy foreshadowing. Like in Sixth Sense, when the kid says he sees dead people, and they don’t know they’re dead. When we find out Bruce Willis is dead, that line carries a lot more meaning. Or even in A Court of Thorns and Roses, when there’s the line about Tamlin’s stone heart, we think it’s a common metaphor about being cold, or callous. Then we find out it’s a literal stone heart which is the key to defeating Amarantha.

Flashbacks and flash-forwards are another common medium for foreshadowing. In Hunger Games, we get the flashback of Peeta giving Katniss bread, essentially feeding her when she’s in need. Later, when Peeta needs feeding, Katniss feeds him, balancing out that act of kindness.

Next up is abstract, or symbolic foreshadowing. This is often used with setting. It was a dark and stormy night, or, a fog settled over the town. It can also be used with objects that have cultural meanings/baggage. In American Beauty, there is the iconic scene of the young girl lying in a pile rose petals, with more falling on her. Roses are often a symbol of romance and lust. In the same movie, you see the main character’s wife methodically pruning the roses in her yard. This will give us expectations about his relationship with both those women.

Lastly, we have fallacy foreshadowing, or a red herring. This is similar to the concrete foreshadowing, except it is supposed to trick the reader, as opposed to give them insight. When Obi-Wan tells Luke that Vader killed Luke’s father, that sets up the surprise reveal that Vader is Luke’s father. In Game of Thrones, Littlefinger pits Arya and Sansa against each other, readying us for a sister vs sister showdown, but they join forces and turn on him.

Foreshadowing is effective in that we have learned how to interpret the various types, and when the reveal comes, we are pleased or satisfied. When foreshadowing doesn’t work is when it tries to be one type, and ends up falling flat, or turns into another type. When you set up a proper foreshadow, you essentially make a promise to the reader. If you don’t fulfill that promise, the moment falls flat, and you lose that reader’s trust.

As I mentioned earlier, Sarah J. Maas handles foreshadowing well in the first book, especially with that stone heart moment. There are good instances in A Court of Mist and Fury as well (the one that stick out involves her sisters), but also a mishandled one that, for me, kept me at arm’s length the rest of the story. I won’t give it away, I’ll just say it involves “merfolk”, so you know what I’m talking about when it happens.

So how does A Court of Mist and Fury fare with the Author’s Arsenal?

For world-building and setting, A Court of Mist and Fury earns The Scroll. We had a taste of the fae world in the first book, and we really delved deep and explored so many new locations and cultures, in addition to expanded on what we already knew.

And for character building, it earns The Seal. Many of the characters were presented in new light, and grew to be much more than they were before. The relationships between Feyre and her companions (and their relationships with each other) are was drive the narrative and suck the reader into this world Maas has created.

Unlike some other books I’ve read recently, I’m looking forward to the next installment. I’m just hoping Elain becomes more than just a pretty mannequin.

Side note: If I had the time and energy, I’d have tied The Belgariad into the review’s ending, a sort of foreshadowing. But it has been twenty-plus years since I’ve read them and it’s hard to remember specific details. Forgive me. :)

Book Review: The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet

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Welcome back for another book review. I want to preface this with an admission of the chance for bias. David Mitchell is one of my favorite authors, perhaps even my favorite, though it’s really hard to choose. One of my short pieces I plan to shop around once I think it’s good enough is actually about him. With favorites, there’s a tendency to overlook faults or take strengths for granted. I’ll try to do neither.

You may wonder why, if Mitchell is one of my favorites, I have not yet read The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet until now, when it’s been out for well over a decade. Circumstance and poor luck. Shortly after it came out and I acquired it, I moved. It went into one of many boxes, and most of those didn’t get unpacked for a while. By the time they did, I found a box had disappeared in the move, along with half my Mitchell books. I assumed they’d show up and then I’d finish reading it, but eventually I gave up hope and just now reacquired it.

That out of the way, let’s get to it. A spoiler-free review of The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, by David Mitchell.

The Thousand Autumns (I’ll refer to the novel thusly to save space and prevent finger strain) follows three primary characters: titular clerk Jacob de Zoet, unlikely medical student Orito Aibagawa, and Japanese-Dutch interpreter Uzaemon Ogawa (I’ll order Japanese given and family names as we’re used to in Western culture to prevent confusion). Set in Dejima, a trading enclave in Nagasaki, Jacob is trying to make money so he can marry his betrothed back in the Netherlands. He meets Orito by chance, and Uzaemon for need of an interpreter.

Map of Nagasaki from 1801 (Kyouwa 1, 享和元年). Dejima (also: Deshima) is clearly visible in the harbor. Printed by Yamatoya (大和屋板).

What starts off with the makings of a love story morphs into a story with ever expanding scope and the mysticism/magic you’ve come to expect in a Mitchell novel. Things are never as they seem, nor are people. More so of course than is expected anyway, as that sentiment can be applied to nearly every person or character.

Throughout the story, all the characters are faced with trials of morality and ethics. None as much as Jacob, Orito, and Uzaemon. Sometimes strong ethics serve a person well, other times they hurt. The ramifications of those choices drive the narrative as well as the whole Nagasaki region.

A few aspects I want to highlight in particular are setting, prose, and character. Let’s start with setting.

When I was in school, the foreign language I studied was Japanese. My wife also studied it, though she lived in Japan and focused more on the culture and history than I did. She read this book and said she found the setting boring because she already knew about the era and life of the Japanese and their policies regarding trade and foreigners and all the details were old news for her. What that tells me is that Mitchell has done his homework.

As a fan, I know that Mitchell has spent time in Japan as well and speaks Japanese, so it’s no surprise his knowledge of the language, culture, and history are so accurate. As someone who focused more on the language and less on the other aspects, I found the portrayal to be enlightening, the dynamics of Japan’s isolationism 200 years ago tremendously interesting and mind boggling at the same time.

There are true events woven into the story, like the attack of the British in Nagasaki, what I assume to be the Great Kaga Earthquake, and of course the warring European nations. These moments ground the reader in the reality of the world which serves to both strengthen the impact of Mitchell’s story and also highlight his unique book-to-book connections.

Moving on to prose, Mitchell was aided in that he was able to draw on Japanese symbology and propriety to help order rich, authentic words such that the sentences seemed foreign and familiar all at once. I noticed in particular a tactic of interspersing descriptions of setting between spoken words and actions that I don’t recall in his other writing, and that’s having just read Utopia Avenue a few months ago.

I haven’t the audacity, nor experience, to try and accurately portray another living culture’s mannerisms speech patterns, and when Mitchell does so in The Thousand Autumns, I never felt for once that he was stereotyping or using unusual vocal patterns as an interesting crutch, relying on the foreign sounds or diction to engage the reader. When Orito or Uzaemon spoke, their words read authentic and true, which is no small task. That holds true with their thoughts as well.

Lastly, before I go into craft, I want to mention a brief thought on my reactions to character. Talk to anyone who knows me, and they’ll tell you I’m not outwardly emotional, perhaps bordering on sociopathic. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but the point I’m trying to make is that I’m rarely emotionally responsive. For me to react emotionally to a book says something about its efficacy. (Unless we’re talking about rage quitting. Non-effective storytelling there. I’m looking at you Ready Player One)

There’s a moment, and I’m being vague to avoid spoilers, where Jacob has to say goodbye to someone. I got choked up. Like, tight throat, sniffles, the whole shebang. The moment wasn’t an overly dramatic profession of love, or a heart wrenching death of a beloved character, but a simple goodbye. The reaction this moment elicited could only have been achieved through solid portrayal, and thus investment from me, of the character Jacob.

Okay, on to craft talk. Today’s topic: Research.

I touched on this earlier in setting, but wanted to expand beyond the scope of The Thousand Autumns. I can think of few exceptions where research would not be necessary for a novel. I’m sure Neil Gaiman had to dig through tons of myths and religions when he wrote American Gods. Or Cherie Priest had to find maps and records of 1880s Seattle for her Boneshaker books. Research lends credibility to a story, but it also grounds the reader in the world.

Imagine you’ve picked up DaVinci Code and you’re following Robert Langdon through the Louvre and Dan Brown throws in something about racing past Rodin’s The Thinker on his way to the Mona Lisa. Dan Brown is pretty sure The Thinker is in Paris, and the Louvre has all the cool stuff, so it’s probably there. Spoiler: It’s not. It is in Paris, but it’s at Museé Rodin, not the Louvre.

The magic of DaVinci Code is all the research that makes the story, the interconnected bits of history, engaging the reader with history. Every place Langdon visits is real. I actually have an annotated copy of the book complete with photos and illustrations of the sites and pieces of art. Few people will know every art and history reference in the book, but having that information there raised the reading experience to a whole new level.

Research gives validity to the world of your story. And it doesn’t matter if your world is Earth or Mars or Xanth or something I’ve never heard of. Sometimes research it just finding the proper details. I’m working on a story where the protagonist is a carpenter and I had to learn how to build a chair with medieval era tools. I already knew how to with modern tools, but I can’t exactly have my character whip out a cordless drill. Or there was the story of mine just published in Space Brides. Exactly how bright is Jupiter if you’re standing on Europa? How far does that elevator ride through the ice need to be? Research.

I know sometimes research may seem like a slog, that every page you get to poses a new question that interrupts your flow. One trick is to throw a placeholder in so you can keep writing and do the research later. For months I had “HE BUILDS A CHAIR” followed by the rest of the scene. Another is simply read a ton about what your character knows or experiences before you write and you can just go with it. Or, if you’re David Mitchell, go live in Japan for a decade. To each their own. :)

I can’t really give advice as to how to best do research. That depends on you and your story. But I can’t stress enough the importance of it. We’ve all heard of the seven basic plots that all stories follow. What separates those stories from one another are the details. We get those details from research. Details enrich the reading experience and color your worlds. Find those details. Do the research.

Now, time to break out the Author’s Arsenal and throw some accolades at The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.

For accurate linguistic depictions and line to line pacing, I award The Parchment. For making me emotional and balancing culture with agenda, I award The Seal. And for the research, for bringing an accurate (of course accounting for factionalized elements) world of turn of the 19th century Japan to his readers, I award The Scroll.

For those who have not read David Mitchell, these awards should not be surprising. His novels are regularly long and short listed for awards, and the varied settings and times they take place in always present something new. My first exposure to him was Cloud Atlas. It is my favorite book of all time. Just phenomenal. But, if you’re thinking about reading The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, don’t. At least, not first.

I needed to put in here somewhere that most of his novels are loosely (some not so loosely) connected. You technically could read them in any order, but I think what makes the most sense (and my google search confirms my thoughts) is that you should read them in order of publication. That would mean Ghostwritten, number9dream, Cloud Atlas, Black Swan Green, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, The Bone Clocks, Slade House, and Utopia Avenue. For me, the weak link was Black Swan Green, but I know those who really enjoyed it.

Hopefully this review will have made a new Mitchell fan or two. Until next time, happy reading, and if you have any books you’d like me to read and review, let me know.

Banana Dance!

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Good morning everyone! Just on here to share my latest published story. Then I’m going to go back to my post-Christmas lounging and playing with my presents.

Ripe for the Future is a Christmas story about a newly divorced dad trying to navigate the holiday with his young daughter for the time as just the two of them. It’s cute, sad, funny, and of course is complete with song and dance. Because those just make everything better.

Enjoy the read, enjoy your holidays, and stay turned for more to come.