Paul Whybrow
Full Member
I've added to my total of Did Not Finish (DNF) books this year. I try to make wise selections at the library, checking reviews of novels that I request, but all the same a few horrors get through. Life is simply too short to persevere in reading crappy books.
Admittedly, I forced myself to complete one truly awful best-selling crime novel, which had somehow sold millions of copies, and vented my spleen in the Back Room. It still makes me feel ill thinking about it.
In the last month, my DNF list has been joined by a 'thriller' set in the world of art theft, which was so slow-moving moss had grown on the pages. A debut crime novel was OK, but burdened with an excess of domestic details—I really don't need to know what flavour of crisps the protagonist's son prefers and why! As for a debut novel written by a publisher, set in the world of publishing, I can't believe that it would ever have been printed, if penned by someone without his contacts, as it was a self-indulgent in-joke poking fun at rivals and clients he'd known.
For brilliant writing, I was sad to leave the world of Tudor London, as imagined by C. J. Sansom in Lamentation, the sixth in his series about Matthew Shardlake, a hunchback lawyer who treads a careful path through the machinations of the royal court. It was a book that I dreaded finishing, as I knew it would be hard to find writing of comparable quality. Thankfully, I've been blessed by Dominic Smith's The Last Painting of Sara De Vos, and Elizabeth Strout's Olive Kitteridge, which are both captivating.
I've been wondering why some novels have this charm, and why others are tiresome company. I think it's to do with treating the reader with respect, by assuming that they have a brain that's capable of imagining things while the author takes them on a journey. The writer themselves disappears, as the reader enters the lives of the characters in the story. Certainly, an author's voice is detectable, in how they describe what's happening—letting their personality show, without taking a dogmatic stance that feels like they're lecturing the reader.
G. K. Chesterton summed up this potential failure well:
A good novel tells us the truth about its hero, but a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.
With poorly-written novels that bore or anger me, it feels like the author has proudly devised a situation that's unlikely to happen, but they don't know how to describe it—they want you to excuse their failings and not jump ship—and do the hard work for them, would you? Finely-written stories illuminate truths about living, perhaps making you think of things in a different way; they don't talk down to you. I'm reminded of something 20th-century Serbian poet Charles Simic said:
Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse, while all of the others were making ships.
A favourite book, one you'd be happy to re-read, provides light and warmth that guide and comfort you in some way, which may be pacifying or even thrilling. As an example of this, I've re-read Geoffrey Household's Rogue Male many times, as it's both exciting and reassuring to me, in how one man can stand up to oppression by a despot and his regime.
In my own crime writing, I aim to create an entertaining and thought-provoking tale, that's within the realms of possibility and that is factually accurate. I want my readers to bond with the recurring characters, so show their doubts as well as their strengths. It's important to remember, that fictional heroes are friends to book lovers. Getting the grammar, punctuation and spelling correct shows respect to the reader and to yourself, and should be the bedrock of creating a story.
If I honour the reader, they may buy my book—I can only hope—but, even if they don't, at least I've honoured the writing process and not let myself down.
How do you honour your readers?
Admittedly, I forced myself to complete one truly awful best-selling crime novel, which had somehow sold millions of copies, and vented my spleen in the Back Room. It still makes me feel ill thinking about it.
In the last month, my DNF list has been joined by a 'thriller' set in the world of art theft, which was so slow-moving moss had grown on the pages. A debut crime novel was OK, but burdened with an excess of domestic details—I really don't need to know what flavour of crisps the protagonist's son prefers and why! As for a debut novel written by a publisher, set in the world of publishing, I can't believe that it would ever have been printed, if penned by someone without his contacts, as it was a self-indulgent in-joke poking fun at rivals and clients he'd known.
For brilliant writing, I was sad to leave the world of Tudor London, as imagined by C. J. Sansom in Lamentation, the sixth in his series about Matthew Shardlake, a hunchback lawyer who treads a careful path through the machinations of the royal court. It was a book that I dreaded finishing, as I knew it would be hard to find writing of comparable quality. Thankfully, I've been blessed by Dominic Smith's The Last Painting of Sara De Vos, and Elizabeth Strout's Olive Kitteridge, which are both captivating.
I've been wondering why some novels have this charm, and why others are tiresome company. I think it's to do with treating the reader with respect, by assuming that they have a brain that's capable of imagining things while the author takes them on a journey. The writer themselves disappears, as the reader enters the lives of the characters in the story. Certainly, an author's voice is detectable, in how they describe what's happening—letting their personality show, without taking a dogmatic stance that feels like they're lecturing the reader.
G. K. Chesterton summed up this potential failure well:
A good novel tells us the truth about its hero, but a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.
With poorly-written novels that bore or anger me, it feels like the author has proudly devised a situation that's unlikely to happen, but they don't know how to describe it—they want you to excuse their failings and not jump ship—and do the hard work for them, would you? Finely-written stories illuminate truths about living, perhaps making you think of things in a different way; they don't talk down to you. I'm reminded of something 20th-century Serbian poet Charles Simic said:
Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse, while all of the others were making ships.
A favourite book, one you'd be happy to re-read, provides light and warmth that guide and comfort you in some way, which may be pacifying or even thrilling. As an example of this, I've re-read Geoffrey Household's Rogue Male many times, as it's both exciting and reassuring to me, in how one man can stand up to oppression by a despot and his regime.
In my own crime writing, I aim to create an entertaining and thought-provoking tale, that's within the realms of possibility and that is factually accurate. I want my readers to bond with the recurring characters, so show their doubts as well as their strengths. It's important to remember, that fictional heroes are friends to book lovers. Getting the grammar, punctuation and spelling correct shows respect to the reader and to yourself, and should be the bedrock of creating a story.
If I honour the reader, they may buy my book—I can only hope—but, even if they don't, at least I've honoured the writing process and not let myself down.
How do you honour your readers?