This postI need to be more careful what I write.
Ten days ago I blogged about Here, There Be Dragons when I was a third of the way through the book, and then two days later again when I finished it. Originally I said I liked it, then decided I didn’t like it quite as much as I’d thought.
And then last night the author left a comment on the first post.
Suddenly I feel bad about my critique in the second post. Not that the problems evaporated instantly or anything, but now there’s a real, live person attached to the book, whereas it was just a name before. It’s interesting how I’ve found myself re-evaluating my stance on the book, trying to find some way to like it. Very interesting. (Just kidding about the needing to be more careful, by the way. I needed a catchy opening line. :))
Having authors on the loose in the blogosphere does make for a new dynamic, you know — the things I write suddenly seem terribly transparent and exposed — but that’s a good thing. And it is an honor to have the author comment on one’s blog. (I bet the Harry Potter fans among us would have a heart attack for joy if J.K. Rowling left a comment on their blog. :P) It’s also good to think of these authors as real, breathing humans rather than just names, because authors are people too. :) I suppose the reason it’s hard for me is that most of the authors I read are already dead. If you mostly read contemporary lit, however, it’s likely to not be a problem.
Anyway, here’s my re-evaluation of the book in light of this experience. You’ll notice a shift in attitude. Or maybe you wouldn’t have, but now that I’ve said it, you will. :)
Problem #1 — no depth — remains. Granted, there was a lot of ground to cover plotwise, and it’s not like there wasn’t any character development at all, but I’d hoped for more. And with any luck that’ll start to happen in the second book. I do remember reading somewhere that Mr. Owen said we oughtn’t judge the characters based on this book alone because things will change.
As for problem #2 — tone — I finished Charmed Life (by Diana Wynne Jones, a British author) last night and loved it. Towards the end of the book I had one of those metamoments where I realized I liked the tone, and I thought back to HTBD, and then to other books, and I’m left wondering if I really do have an extremely strong predilection toward British authors. (Mr. Owen is American, by the way.) If this is indeed the case, then problem #2 is probably more a matter of my personal taste rather than any defect in the book itself. Perhaps I’m expecting a British tone — because of my own favorites — when that’s not really fair to the book or the author. (And yes, I’m quite aware that this could mean I won’t like my own books. :P)
Problem #3 — the physical appearance of the book — is Simon and Schuster more than Mr. Owen, so I’ll discard that for now.
This whole thing reminds me of a story I read a few days ago in Meridian Magazine:
The story is told of a woman that loved to read. From her earliest childhood memories, she loved books and reading. As a young woman she had made an oath with herself that she would finish any book she began; she would read it cover to cover. One afternoon she settled into her favorite chair with a book from an author she had never read before. Before the hour was up she knew she did not like the book. Perhaps the worst book she had ever read. Vowing to keep her oath, she labored the next several days to finish. Once done, she shoved the volume on a high shelf in her library declaring it trite, silly and very boring; without purpose or merit. Indeed the worst book she had ever read.
A short time later she found herself at a fashionable social gathering. The finest in the community were in attendance. She soon found herself in a conversation with a man she had never met before. She found him amusing, articulate, well read and very interesting. Perhaps one of the finest persons she had ever met. Sometime into the conversation he asked if she had ever read the book she had recently dismissed as nearly unreadable. Measuring her words carefully she answered yes, she had. With delight he introduced himself as the author, then devoted the remainder of the conversation to her and her life pursuits.
That night she went home and rescued his book from the dust and clutter of the top shelf and began to read. The beauty of the prose, the depth of the characters and the wisdom of the story quickly took her in. She read through the night, unable to stop. She finished reading as the light of morning broke through her windows. She found a prominent space in the library and placed the book in it; then declared, that without a doubt, that this was the finest book she had ever read.
While I certainly don’t think Here, There Be Dragons was the worst book I ever read — not even close — I do think that perhaps I need to give it a second chance. If any of you have read it (or start reading it), leave your comments below.
And goodness, this post ended up being a lot longer than I intended. :)
