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secondhand reflections

Set me aflame and cast me free,
Away, you wretched worlds of tethers...

There are many words and phrases that should be forever kept out of the hands of book reviewers. It's sad, but true. And one of these is "self-indulgent." Whoever reviewed Neil's new novel, Anansi Boys, for Kirkus calls it "self-indulgent" (though the review is, generally, positive). And this is one of those things that strikes me very odd, like reviewers accusing an author of writing in a way that seems "artificial" or "self-conscious." It is, of course, a necessary prerequisite of fiction that one employ the artifice of language and that one exist in an intensely self-conscious state. Same with "self-indulgent." What could possibly be more self-indulgent than the act of writing fantastic fiction? The author is indulging her- or himself in the expression of the fantasy, and, likewise, the readers are indulging themselves in the luxury of someone else's fantasy. I've never written a story that wasn't self-indulgent. Neither has any other fantasy or sf author. We indulge our interests, our obsessions, and assume that someone out there will feel as passionately about X as we do.

I did manage to get Chapter Seven of Daughter of Hounds begun yesterday (indulging my own fascinations with old railroad tunnels, underground places in general, shadows, burnt-out automobiles, and mildew). It was a modest beginning, only 1,104 words, but that's decent. It's something to act as a foundation. But I am starting to fear this book. It's not unusual, that I find myself fearing a novel as I near it's completion. It happened with both Threshold and Murder of Angels. But here I am, past typescript-page 400 (as of yesterday), and I still have two seperate narrative threads. I thought that they would come together towards the middle of the book, but now we're past the middle of the book and, though they are bridged here and there, they remain divided. Partly, this is an artefact of the story's having been compacted by Roc's desires to keep it under 150,000 words. Partly, it's just some strange thing that seems beyond my control. I begin to wonder if there's actually some purpose in it. I don't want to force a confluence, as I hate the feeling that I'm forcing a story this way or that when it seems to have other things in mind. But I am near to forcing it, anyway. I can already imagine the comments from reviewers, the ones who will go on about how better the book would have been if only the two narrative threads had been united early on. But that's not what happened. That's not the way this story is happening. If I force it, I might break the whole thing apart.

Nothing much to say about yesterday. The mosquitoes are eating me alive. It happens every summer. They prefer my blood to Spooky's. I don't want to be delicious, anymore. What else? After Darkness, I wanted to see something else by director Jaume Balagueró. We chose The Nameless (Los Sin nombre; 1999), because it was based (to some degree) on Ramsey's novel of the same name. Sadly, it wasn't nearly as effective as Darkness, though it covered much of the same ground. But I'm open to the possibility that the film was so marred by the atrocious dubbing job (I just wasn't up to subtitles last night) that it would be unfair of me to judge it until after I've seen it in Spanish. Also, I started playing Pariah on XBox. So far, it's a particularly claustrophobic fps. The game's world is well-rendered, the voice acting's better than usual, and the music's quite good — but I can't help but feel I'm playing Halo 2 over again or that I've only unlocked some secret side-mission. And that's probably not a fair estimate, either. I hate it when reviewers dismiss something for not being "original." Originality is the most deadly mirage in all of art. You can chase it from now until doomsday, and you'll only find yourself lost and dying of thirst. Anyway, that was yesterday.


Jul. 25th, 2005 02:56 am (UTC)
a critique asks us to form impressions of impressions.


The opinion of a critic may be more informed than one's own by longer study of literature,

I think this may be the ideal of a critic, but, in reality, I think that it's the exceptional critic who's actually educated and/or well-read enough to take on the job.

It's nice to hear you say that. A while ago, someone who was briefly my friend, criticised a novel I wrote, a couple chapters in, as being too self-indulgent. Eventually, as if trying to soften the blow, she said that she ought to have been looking at my work with the lower standards one ought to employ when looking at genre fiction. That she could not, in that context, fault my language for not being as beautiful as that of James Joyce.

This is simply appalling. Really. Truly. Appalling. I know it's not an uncommon attitude, but still...I mean, that she said that to you. Wow.
Jul. 25th, 2005 05:53 am (UTC)
I think this may be the ideal of a critic, but, in reality, I think that it's the exceptional critic who's actually educated and/or well-read enough to take on the job.

I think that every critic is interesting, even if it isn't an exceptional one - just because it makes you think and eventually debate, not only about "impressions of impressions" on a book/movie/work of art, but more importantly about what is literature/cinema/art. Like we do.

Now, I agree about the "every writing is self-conscious"...
Jul. 25th, 2005 08:35 am (UTC)
This is simply appalling. Really. Truly. Appalling. I know it's not an uncommon attitude, but still...I mean, that she said that to you. Wow.

She was someone I met at school and many of the students had a pretty hostile attitude towards any student fantasy writing. Meanwhile, their ability to enjoy what I consider to be extremely dull "slice of life" stories continually baffled me, but maybe I'm being catty. Anyway, I think the general inability to even temporarily subscribe to someone else's fantasy probably had something to do with their marriage to certain fantasies about the way things ought to be written.

The person in question, I think, put a little too much pressure on herself and took it out on others. It's telling that she was never able to complete any writing projects of her own. I, on the other hand, don't plan on giving up simply because I may never end up being James Joyce. Too many of the students I've met have been too worried about looking dumb.