Tag Archives: fantasy

Sometimes I can be a truly horrible person

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I did it again. I got into a stupid tiff on Facebook. Fucking Facebook. Sometimes I think they should really revoke my Facebook privileges.

No! Don’t do that. I take it back.

I live in complete isolation. I needs my Facebook.

Anyway. Here’s what happened: I posted a link to this article on my sister’s wall. (For the rest of this story to work, you should probably go ahead and read that. I know y’all don’t like to click on links. I have the numbers to prove it. But it’s the crux of the whole thing I’m trying to do here. Sorry.) Because she’s also a huge Harry Potter fan and was also a Literature (with a capital L) major in college, I thought she’d find it interesting. She didn’t. So then, our cousin commented “HA HA HA!!!!!!,” which ruffled my feathers a bit (I’m easily irked by extraneous exclamation points). The damn thing is about child abuse, and I could see no way in which that would be funny. And I said so. And I was probably snippier than I needed to be about it but, you know, ruffled feathers and whatnot. To which my cousin replied: “A conspiracy theory on a fictitious children’s book. FUNNY!”

What went through my mind was, Well, clearly, she just read the headline and didn’t read the article. No one could possibly find humor in this. It’s too awful. You see my logic, right? At this point, I’m not being an asshole. Yet. Just give it a second. My booknerd dander was up so I said: “The theory itself is really interesting, and totally plausible. Just because it’s a children’s book doesn’t mean it can’t be serious literature with heavy issues.” What a fucking Lit major thing to say. I could have said a lot more Lit major things, but I let it go. I had met my snippy bitch quota for the day, I guess. Achievement unlocked!

A day later I sent my cousin a message to apologize. She hadn’t given me any indication that her feelings had been hurt, but I didn’t want to take the chance. Family’s family and I know I can come off more harshly when I’m typing than I would in conversation. She wrote me back. And I cried. It was a play-by-play account of her own abuse as a kid, which of course I won’t put in print here. But trust me, you wouldn’t want to read it anyway. Here’s the part where I’m an asshole. Ready?

I had completely forgotten that all of that had happened to her.

I was there. I knew shit was bad. I should probably make it very clear at this point that this particular cousin was adopted into our family after escaping her own horrible one at age eleven. No one in my own family would treat a kid like that. We do the exact opposite, take them in with open arms and love them with everything we’ve got. It was rough, though. And I don’t want to talk about it.

Anyway. Moving on. So then I have a conversation about child abuse in literature with her and it completely slips my mind that she knows what she’s talking about in way more important ways than I do? What a fucking jerk I am. Standing on my self-righteous little soapbox talking about books and their cultural impact and blah blah bullshit. Completely irrelevant in the greater scheme of things, right? People (if you can call them people) hit little kids! In real life! That trumps anything I have to say.

Doesn’t mean I’m not going to say it. Maybe that makes me even more of an asshole. Might as well keep going. I’m on a fucking roll.

A small quote from my cousin’s message: “Harry Potter IS just a book. I know what the real thing felt like. To me that’s why taking the book somewhere it wasn’t meant to go is funny.” I get that. I really do. It’s all relative.

However.

I’m going to stand up for escapism. I have to. And if you don’t take that article seriously or see how one could read the whole HP series as an extended metaphor, fine, whatever. But we all agree that Potter’s family treated him like shit, right? I don’t see any way around that. If Hogwarts was all in Harry’s head, that’s tremendously unhealthy. And that would mean that his real life was a lot more awful than we could imagine, for a long time, and I don’t want to think about him that way. I would prefer to think that’s not what Rowling was trying to do or say. I like my fantasy worlds to be real, if that makes any sense. (It probably doesn’t.) He’s a great character, one of my favorites, if only because he overcomes so much to find happiness and purpose. Putting aside psychological hyperbole, he’s clearly a damaged boy. A broken boy with a bleak past, an uncertain future, and a lot of demons. The potentially beautiful thing is that real little kids with fucked up lives can read these books and relate to Harry. Maybe find some strength in his perseverance. Maybe not feel so alone. That’s got to be worth something, doesn’t it?

I saw this all the time when I worked in the children’s department at the Giant Evil Bookstore. There were a few regular customers who gravitated toward damaged characters or stories with underdog heroes. Often they were the kids with the sad eyes. I had one little guy who used to come in all the time. He was very tiny and always came in alone, usually paid for his books mostly with change. Smart as hell, reading way above his age level. Loved Harry Potter and Percy Jackson and The Graveyard Book and The Mysterious Benedict Society. One day I found him his book, told him to enjoy it, gave him a great big smile and patted him on the head. And he flinched. Almost broke my heart, you guys. Those are the kids who get something more than entertainment out of books.

Fuck, I can’t remember that kid’s name. That’s going to drive me crazy now.

I understand retreating into books. My family’s amazing. There wasn’t even a hint of anything coming anywhere close to abuse in my house. But I was socially awkward and extremely lonely at school. I read every book I could get my hands on. They were my friends. They were my adventures. I understand that I don’t have a leg to stand on to compare myself to kids with real issues. That’s not my point, nor is it my intention. I’m just saying that the right book could save a kid’s sanity, right? Help them see that they can get through whatever happens to them. Make them learn to stand up for themselves. Escapism is important. Fantasy is important. Reading about a kid with family problems, or a lonely kid, a kid like them, whatever their deal may be, can mean so much.

Anyway, I’d like to apologize to the world for being an insensitive jerk. And I apologize for being quick to jump on my soapbox. I’m not good with people. Clearly. That’s why I stick with books. They don’t get their feelings hurt when I act like an ass.

The Fantasy List, Part Two

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Seriously, if you don’t know what’s going on by now I can’t help you. Ok, fine, yes I can.

One note about this last part of the Listyness: I had a few runners-up that I couldn’t go without at least mentioning, so I tacked them on at the end. No big rambly paragraphs, just a little note about why I thought they should fall somewhere in your genre-reading schedule. Because lists are hard. Well, keeping lists short is hard. I have a list problem.

Here we go, the grand finale:

The Colour of Magic – Terry Pratchett (1983)

It’s all about the worldbuilding here. And monstrously huge series (this is the first of forty, but I haven’t read them all so I just put the first one on the list). Pratchett has masterfully created a fun, quirky universe with the Discworld books. And he’s funny as hell. Pratchett is to fantasy as Adams is to scifi, basically, and stands as the one overtly hilarious writer in this part of the list. Because variety is the spice of life? Or some other such boring cliché. But so much fantasy writing is gloom and doom and death and destruction and slaying with big shiny swords or spells and shit. It’s refreshing to get your otherworldly fix and your giggle fix simultaneously.

Others to try by Terry Pratchett:
Good Omens (with Neil Gaiman)
Nation
(both of these are non-Discworld books)

Imajica – Clive Barker (1991)

Epic epicness. And while I feel that word has been grossly overused of late, here I use it completely in earnest. Um, twice. Barker is another incredible worldbuilder, but he does it with such flair and finesse, without any pandering to the reader or unwieldy exposition. Plus, he’s a badass horror writer so his stuff always has a bit of a twist towards the dark. A little kink. And this book is so complex, I can’t even begin to summarize it here where I don’t have the room to ramble. Suffice to say it is a book that can change your whole idea of what books can be. Or, as my personal Tyler Durden said: “It was all other worlds and dimensions and creatures and shit.”

Others to try by Clive Barker:
Weaveworld
Coldheart Canyon

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll (1865)

Yeah, yeah. I know I said no kids’ books, but I lied. I’m a writer. It’s what we do. And Alice in Wonderland is arguably inappropriate for modern children. Consider the fact that when it was published there really was little to no distinction between literature for young people and that for adults. And it could also be argued that this book has no place on a list of fantasy books and belongs more squarely in the absurdist literature category. Which is probably accurate, but I’m including it here more for its influence than for its content. It’s important to the genre because it ripples and echoes through the minds of fantasy writers probably more than any other group of people. Excepting perhaps those of us who have taken too much acid.

Others to try by Lewis Carroll:
Through the Looking Glass
A Tangled Tale

American Gods – Neil Gaiman (2001)

How many times do I have to tell you to go read some Neil Gaiman? Seriously. I honestly think that Neverwhere fits more cleanly into the fantasy category, but I chose American Gods for the list because A) it’s fucking awesome and B) it fills the religiosity gap. Gods and myths are a huge part of the fantasy genre and I feel as though I’ve failed to adequately represent them here. American Gods is also a really interesting look at Americanism on a religious/mythological level. We’re so vocal here about our beliefs, and yet so often we fail to think about what it is that we actually worship. Takes an Englishman to point it out. (On a related note, the dying-god theme is also really fabulously explored by Tom Robbins in Jitterbug Perfume. It’s not fantasy but I’m sneaking in an extra recommendation here. Don’t tell anyone.)

Others to try by Neil Gaiman:
Neverwhere
The Graveyard Book

Arthurian Legends – Various (1000 AD – present)

Ok, this might be a cop-out, but there’s really no way around it. There would be no fantasy genre without Arthurian legend. Yeah, there would still be kings and queens and knights and all that chivalric blah blah. But the key term here is “legend.” The man (if he actually existed) has been made into mythology and is the standard by which all heroic figures are judged. These stories are so embedded in our literary and cultural consciousness that we take them for granted and don’t even notice that they’re there. And while I may not have one particular source to point you to, I cannot stress enough how massively important these nine centuries’ worth of stories are. Look it up, I guess. And go watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail again.

Fiction recommendations for Arthurian-legend-based stuff (from my sister, because she’s obsessed and I asked for her input – thanks, Sister!)
The Once and Future King – T.H. White
The Pendragon Series – Stephen Lawhead

In-betweeny ones and runners-up (briefly, I promise):

World War Z – Max Brooks: Because…well, because zombies.
1984 – George Orwell: Terrifying political takey-overness.
Frankenstein – Mary Shelley: For the gross science bits. Super fun.
Grimms’ Fairy Tales: Because they’re cautionary/morality tales couched in escapism.
Abhorsen – Garth Nix: A fantastic look at death.
The Neverending Story – Michael Ende: A story about a story about a story.
Robin Hood – Howard Pyle: Best non-stinky medieval characters ever.
Beowulf: Because Grendel = Gollum and I just wanted to throw that theory out there.
The Baroque Cycle – Neal Stephenson: Using real scientists in their heyday as characters in a mysterious plot? Awesome.
The Windup Girl – Paolo Bacigalupi: Reverse steampunk.
The Unincorporated Man – the Kallin brothers: Because corporations are fucking scary.

Woohoo! The end of Listy Goodness. That was fun, right? I thought so. But I wasn’t really here. I was off being ungodly busy. Maybe next year we’ll do scifi/fantasy movies during October. Thoughts?

The Fantasy List, Part One

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Ok, a couple of things up top. If you’re feeling lost and confused about what’s going on here, fear not! You can catch up quickly and easily by reading this post. And maybe this one.

Good. Now that we’re all on the same page, there is one big, fat disclaimer thing I need to say about this part of the Great Listy Experiment of 2012: I do not read nearly as much fantasy as I do scifi. I never have. I am much more likely to fuck up here and miss something important (which is not to be confused with missing something you love). Let’s not all tell me how dumb I am all at once, ok? Maybe just be positive about telling me about a cool book I might like to read instead. And then maybe, just maybe, I’ll read it and we can talk about it and all will be right with the world.

Once more, into the breach:

The Name of the Wind – Patrick Rothfuss (2007)

This one’s awfully new for me to think that it’s important, but hear me out. Besides the fact that it’s tremendously well-written, I think what Rothfuss brings to the table here is a kind of fanboy synthesis. Not that his work is derivative, not at all, but in his worldbuilding one can see the glimmer of someone so steeped in fantasy, so dedicated to the conventions of the genre, that he can break those rules with confidence. And while you may not know where he’s going, you become willing to follow no matter what. That’s just damn fine writing and to hell with genre labels.

Others to try by Patrick Rothfuss:
The Wise Man’s Fear
The Princess and Mr. Whiffle

The Magicians – Lev Grossman (2009)

Magic is one of the key elements in a lot of fantasy writing, but it brings with it a sort of onus of meaning. You hear “magic” and you think robes and hats and wands and bippity boppity boo nonsense, right? The Magicians blows all that shit right up. Which is why it made the list. Defying stereotype and doing something truly new and exciting is difficult in any sort of genre fiction. I once described this book as: “If Harry Potter had been raised by Hunter S. Thompson and Sid Vicious and then set loose on the world.” Plus, there’s a really cool aspect of book/story obsession that I think drives the characters in a super-interesting way. And it’s got a gritty, modern feel that’s a refreshing change from all that high castle tower crap that gets so boring so fast.

Others to try by Lev Grossman:
The Magician King
Codex

The Dark Tower (series) – Stephen King (1982-2004)

Shall we use the term magnum opus? Oh, why not? Let’s. Stephen King is pretty badass at anything he sets his hand to, but this series of (seven) books is truly a masterpiece of fantasy. The thing about King is that you have to trust him. The first two books are terribly odd, but if you stick with it, the world he drags you into is so beautifully intricate, so mind-bending and horrifying, that by the end of the seventh book you’re pissed that it’s over. I threw my copy across the room (and then slapped myself for almost breaking the spine on a first edition, first printing). There’s a really interesting layering of realities, as well, that’s unlike any other kind of fantasy writing that I’ve come across (although Clive Barker does come pretty close). And it’s Stephen King so there’s plenty of fun blood and guts and gore.

Others to try by Stephen King:
Eyes of the Dragon
The Wind Through the Keyhole
(both related to the Dark Tower in some way)

Game of Thrones – George R.R. Martin (1996)

Straight off the top: I have not read the rest of the Song of Ice and Fire series or seen the TV show. Do not give me any spoilers! I’ll be so mad. This book made the list alone, without its series mates, because it’s pretty much everything I think of when I think of fantasy. Politics, deceit, stupid names that are impossible to pronounce, maidens in distress, battles, fucking dragons. Come on. “Quintessential” is not a word that I use lightly, folks, but I’m going to pull it out here. I just have to. And Martin is a fantasy writer’s fantasy writer. He uses every clichéd trope you could possibly use but with such aplomb, and in such a gritty, dirty context, that I totally forgot that I don’t even really like castle intrigue-type novels. And it’s got a really cool changing-viewpoint structure that I enjoy quite a bit. I’m going to read the rest of the series as we get closer to the last book’s release date so I don’t have to be agonized by the wait. Seriously, don’t tell me what happens. For real.

Others to try by George R.R. Martin:
Fevre Dream
Dying of the Light

The Lord of the Rings – J.R.R. Tolkien (1954-1955 – 1937, if you count The Hobbit)

This one’s the big daddy of epic fantasy and y’all would have my head if I didn’t put it on here. However, I must say that I’m really not a huge Tolkien fan. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the series, and they’re absolute must-reads, but I’ve read them twice and I think I’m probably done with them. But as far as fantasy goes, as a genre, everything that has come after has been affected by Tolkien’s work. It’s the nuclear fallout of the genre, basically, the one that all others are held up to for comparison. The touchstone. Doesn’t get more important than this. Also, I think I may have accidentally married Tom Bombadil. Score.

Others to try by Tolkien:
The Silmarillion
The Children of Hurin

To be concluded next week…

Why do fantasy writers always have awesome beards?

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So I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my housemate’s 14-year-old son, talking about the book reports he has to write before he goes back to school next week. (When did kids have to start doing homework before school even started? Seriously, WTF?) It’s a great list and, apparently, a great school, and the kid’s stoked. The whole situation is very happy-making. But what really made me smile was that one of the books on the list is Men at Arms by Terry Pratchett. Awesome. And the kid says to me “But why not have us read The Colour of Magic? It’s the first book in the series. It just doesn’t make any sense.” And then he gets up to go email his teacher about it. So either A) he’s already read Colour of Magic and is trying to get out of extra homework or B) he’s actually heard of Pratchett and wants to read the series in order. Either way, a child after my own heart.

All of which is a completely irrelevant lead-in to my telling you that I loves me some Terry Pratchett. (Such a hack! Me, not Pratchett, obviously.) I started reading the Discworld novels a couple of years ago. I think I got through seven or eight of them before we moved out here, and quite a few more since then. Still not all of them, but I’m on it. Cut me some slack – there are forty books in that series! Also, Good Omens, Pratchett’s collaboration with Neil Gaiman is fan-fucking-tastic (it’s like Small Gods and American Gods had a baby – a super-funny baby). I highly, highly recommend. But let us just talk about the Discworld books because…well, because they’re superfun and that’s what I want to talk about.

Basically, there’s this small little world which is flat (um, I probably could’ve skipped saying that, but whatever) and swims through space on the back of a giant cosmic turtle. And it’s got one ridiculously sprawly city that’s home to Unseen University (a university for wizards). The city is kind of something like maybe a little bit pre-Victoria London? Ish? And then everywhere else that’s not the city/university is a vague satirical “elsewhere.” A desert island, a set of rugged mountains, a Giza-that’s-not-Giza, etc, etc (but no suburbs, which is an odd omission, but the burbs are boring so who cares?). And then dunk the whole situation in magic and folklore and really odd people who don’t seem to understand irony and who have always lived in a world where weird magic-related nonsense happens. Hilarity ensues. Trust me.

I think the reason that I love this series is because it’s a monument to worldbuilding. Seriously, if you ever have to study worldbuilding, for whatever reason, start with Pratchett. (People do that, right? Just study stuff? No? Just me? Alright.) It’s so fucking thorough. Everything’s tied together perfectly. The prime directive of worldbuilding is that you, the writer, should know all the rules of your world, even if you never have to use them. And I guarantee you that if one were to ask Pratchett something about Discworld that’s not in the books, he would know the answer because it’s that well put together. Even the characters’ logic is skewed to their reality, as opposed to ours, down to the way they talk about weather or magic or gravity. Fluid. Seamless. Dude’s like a samurai. Not a word wasted. The characters are exquisitely weird. I’m a particular fan of Death. He talks IN ALL CAPS and his horse is named Binky. Who does that? Makes Death ridiculous? It’s awesome.

And, bonus, you don’t actually have to read them in order. You should usually read series in order, and honestly I would’ve preferred to just for OCD’s sake, but each book is loosely tied to all the others as opposed to each being a continuation of the last. Occasionally when I read one out of order there will be a joke or a scene that I don’t fully understand but so far nothing has come up that got in the way of the individual story. Which sounds like I’m damning with faint praise, but I’m really not. Because when I do get those things it’s like I’m in on a private joke. I love that, as a fan. And one day I will have read them all and then I get to get all the jokes. Mwahahahahahaaa…

Urm. Anyway.

I mentioned this briefly in my post about Douglas Adams, but Pratchett’s one of a very few authors that actually makes me laugh. Out loud. Quick, witty, clever, sarcastic, dry, British-tastic LOLs, you guys. And I don’t use any of those words lightly (except LOLs, because that shit’s ridiculous and you can’t ever say it with any gravitas, which I suppose is the point). It’s rare to find a fantasy series that doesn’t take itself seriously. Seems to be so for me, anyway. Most of them are all impending doom and there’s a damsel in distress and the dragon’s holding my family hostage and the wizard’s evil and has everyone brainwashed and obviously only a hero can save us so let’s beat the reader in the face with hamfisted metaphor to make the useless prince or the idiot blacksmith or the ragamuffin pickpocket or whomever into someone we can reluctantly rally around and who will save the day despite our trepidation. Sounds quite a bit like American politics during an election year, actually. And Pratchett would totally tell that story, but all along the way he’d be telling you how outlandish the situation is, or how it was all going to fall apart, or something to break the convention. Brilliant.

So, yeah. Go read Colour of Magic or Good Omens. And, in reference to my not-so-irrelevant-but-still-hacky opening paragraph: these books are pretty clean, so you could totally give them to a precocious tween or a perspicacious fantasy-inclined teenager. There’s very little objectionable language – nothing they wouldn’t hear on tv. And if I recall correctly there’s not a lot of (and certainly no graphic) sexy time. At least in the ones I’ve read. I like the idea of giving an epic series like Discworld to kids that age. Because if they love it, there are 30-something more books to keep them reading. And a great fun, funny series like that can be a gateway drug into other, more conventional or serious fantasy or scifi stuff. Which is basically giving them a lifetime of cheap, healthy, nerdy fun. The universe at their fingertips, right? What more could you ever want to give your kids (besides maybe some social skills to mitigate that budding geekiness)?

Ladies ladies ladies!

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I’ve been forcing myself to read reeeeeeally sloooooowly lately. Normally I’d be reading a book every couple of days, but since we’ve moved out into the Twilight Zone of NorCal and the bookstore’s forever away I’ve been forced to chew my food more carefully. It’s torture. Geographically-imposed torture. Anyway, a couple of books ago I read The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms by N.K. Jemisin. I heard about it in an interview with Patrick Rothfuss and then, serendipitously, the next time I was in civilization I found a copy so it jumped to the front of the to-read list.

This is the part where I would normally put a disclaimer about how I don’t usually get into books without robots or spaceships, but I’m thinking we’ve covered all that ground already (see post: Long-winded thoughts on nomenclature). Furthermore, in an effort to choose my words more carefully, I’m trying to consciously be less label-y. I’ve been told that this is not one of my strong points. Someone with no social skills also having no tact? Shocker, right? I will at least try to be more expansive in my habitual (obsessive, need-based, frequent, insensitive) categorization of, well, everything. All of which is a (very) roundabout way of saying that this is a fantasy novel which I thoroughly enjoyed, and I rarely read fantasy.

I really, really liked this book. Frankly, I’m hard-pressed to find something to compare it to. (Also, I hate that expression, “hard-pressed.” Feels very Spanish Inquisition.) A few things that I particularly enjoyed:
- It falls into the “weird shit happening to normal people” category. My favorite.
- It tackles the wackiness of organized religion without being didactic or heavy-handed.
- The language doesn’t feel forced like that in a lot of fantasy books does. When she does take the time to explain something to the reader, it blends well, doesn’t take you out of the story at all.
- Super strong female lead character.

The others are fairly self-explanatory so let me just tackle that last one because it’s a point that could bear some emphasis. Fantasy is largely written by men. Science fiction, as well (probably more so, actually). Which is not, in and of itself, remarkable. Most heavy metal is made by men, too. It is what it is. Doesn’t mean women don’t write good fantasy or rock out, they’re just the rarer beast. (On both of those points, since I’ve been living under a rock, if I’ve missed something awesome lately please please please leave me a comment because I like things that are awesome.) The obvious exception here is that weird hybrid stuff that’s flooded the market. It’s like really action-packed scifi/fantasy romance? Some of it’s more romance-novel-feeling than others, but it seems to be pretty much just freaky creatures getting it on with humans, couched in some sort of running-for-our-lives scenario. Those pieces of shit? Mostly written by women. (I really can’t say that. I haven’t read any of those pieces of shit. Why not? Because they’re probably horrible romance novel pieces of shit, and why take the chance?) Thanks for that, Twilight.

Put simply, dudes just write dudes better than they do ladies. And sticking with the laws of math and percentages and all your calculator whatnot, the number of female leads in scifi/fantasy is pretty small due to the proportionally small number of either female writers or male writes who can turn that difficult trick. And mad props to those who can. Follow my logic down this weird and twisty path to the point where I say that it’s a breath of fresh air to find a great female lead who is in no way a stereotype. N.K. Jemisin (have I made it clear that she’s a woman? Those initials-for-first-name people can throw off one’s perception – she’s also got fucking great hair, just FYI) has written a pretty fantastic leading lady here. Yeine. She’s completely out of her element, but not bumbling. She falls in love, but she’s not sappy about it. She kicks ass and takes names and gets to wield some impressively tricksy political power. A well-rounded woman in a book full of characters that could come off as cartoonish one-note jokes (but don’t). They just seem to all be very focused. Single-minded, maybe? Obsessive? I mean, the fucking throne of the family that rules the world and keeps gods chained up for toys is at stake here! (I’m trying to give you enough so you’ll be intrigued but not so much that you’ll feel like you don’t even need to read the book. Is it working?)

Besides having a feminist moment, I liked a lot about this book. The worldbuilding was great. There’s an awesome supernatural element that I quite liked (that whole gods in chains thing? Cool, right?). Also, there’s some royal family relations, political scheming kind of stuff going on, which makes the tone seem rather like a ticking time bomb caper. Love that. Hard to do without being cheesy. So yeah. I enjoyed the shit out of this book. I’m stoked to read the second one. It’s part of a trilogy (The Inheritance Trilogy – no relation), so I guess I should say I’m stoked to read them all. And she’s got another book coming out in May, so keep an eye out. Good stuff.

The Beardy One

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Oh, Patrick Rothfuss, where do I even begin? Perhaps at the beginning.

Once upon a time, I was in a writer’s group with some kickass scifi/fantasy nerds. One day, one of these excellent people, my buddy Jonathan (who will eventually bring us a fantastic graphic novel about the anthropomorphic exploits of the Seven Deadly Sins – I’ll keep you guys posted), handed me a book and said, “There are no words.” I had a total Matrix moment and was all “But books are just words, man.” Then I caught up and understood and went about my day. Then I started reading this book and the world fell apart for a minute.

It was that good. There are, in fact, no words. But I’ve got to try because that’s my gig here. Urm, so, here goes: Take everything you love about Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and Game of Thrones and cut out all the bullshit. Take the good stuff that’s left and distill it down through a little bit dark, Joss Whedonesque, Quentin Tarantinoish, violent but beautiful and funny kind of filter. Then add obsessive lute playing, homeless starving orphans, drug addicts, mythical bad guys, some crazy demon spider monster things, unrequited love, and a dragon-lizard.

This will leave you reeling from an unreasonable amount of awesomeness.

So I read the book (The Name of the Wind, by the way, for titular clarity) in, like, a day. It’s a pretty hefty book. I may have laid out of work to finish it. Which I did more than once. (You can’t call out with “I hate my thankless, soulsucking job.” So fuck it. Call out sick and stay home and do what you love.) I immediately wrote an email to Mr. Rothfuss, telling him how mind-blowingly good his book was and that he had kind of fucked up the curve for the rest of the class and I felt like I didn’t have the chops to keep writing anymore, what with my face being melted by his greatness and all. And he wrote me back! A real live email, not a famous-guy form letter. He told me that no one’s going to write my stories if I don’t do it. And that we all need good books to remind us of that. Such a nice guy. Beardy guys are usually nice. Weird how that happens.

That all happened in early 2009. Book two in the series was supposed to come out that Christmas, according to the rumor mill at the Giant Evil Bookstore. So we waited and waited and Christmas came and went and we waited and reread book one and now it’s the end of 2010 and what the hell is going on?!? My nerds and I got agro. Meanwhile we’d been sustaining ourselves on Rothfuss’s blog and the fucking phenomenal graphic novel/picture book he put out (The Princess and Mr. Whiffle).

Long story short (or not) the second book (The Wise Man’s Fear) came out in March of 2011 and shot straight to the top of the NYT bestseller list. Hells yeah! I called out sick again to stay home and read it. And I forfeited my massive Giant Evil Bookstore employee discount to buy a signed edition from our local independent bookstore. Totally worth it, and I love that Rothfuss prefers to do signings and readings at small indie stores. Mad respect for that, sir; it’s important and means a lot. I tell you friends, in all honestly, and I don’t get to say this often: the second one was everything I wanted it to be. Just as good as the first. Not better, not worse. Just a seamless continuation. Which, judging by the few people who have been able to pull it off, must be hard as balls to do. I was so impressed. Usually I come out of a sequel wishing it was as good as the first one, or wishing it hadn’t been so good as to make the first one seem bad. But with Rothfuss’s books, it was like I had just turned a page. Brilliant.

And now I’m deep in the throes of waiting for the third book. Oh, the agony. The torture. But whatever. There are a lot of assholes out there who are giving the man guff about how long he takes between books. These are really long books, guys (according to Rothfuss, Name of the Wind is as long as Harry Potters 1-3, and Wise Man’s Fear is almost as long as the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy), and they have to be written, edited, rewritten, reedited, typeset, printed, distributed, etc, etc. You can’t just yell at an author to sit down in front of a computer and expect him to turn fucking tricks for you. Just, you know, for the record. Also, Rothfuss is a busy dude. Raising a kid, trying to have a somewhat normal (on a bestselling author, famous guy kind of scale) life, and running a pretty great charity. Cut him some slack. Chill out. Read his blog. Cultivate some patience. It will be worth the wait.

But I guess the real reason I wrote this blog, besides trying to spread the tao of Rothfuss, is that little note he wrote me. He’s totally right. We need some books to be better than others. To shake us up, remind us why we love them. I’ve read so many books. So. Many. And I don’t know if it’s just that my brain can only store so much, or that they’re really all the same, but I tend to forget most of them as soon as I’m done. I read The Name of the Wind at that perfect time: I’d been bored for a while, even reading the classics. The important ones that everyone should have read, but everything that’s been written since then is based on them, so when you read them you feel like you’ve read them before? Sad but true. Like Tolkien. I love Tolkien, but there are so many books that have been written by rabid Tolkien fans that when you read his stuff it can seem old hat, and it’s really unfortunate, for Tolkien and for us. But the ones that are great, the ones you want to read over and over, the ones that you remember everything about – those are the books that matter. When you’re struck down by good writing, rendered entirely useless because you’ve been sucked into another world and don’t want to leave, when you get it stuck in your head like a bad song. Man, that’s a great feeling, isn’t it? And, at least for me, it happens so rarely that it’s stunning. So, yeah, go read the first two so we can all do a delirious happy dance together when the third one comes out. Info on Rothfuss’s books, charity, and his awesome blog are all at patrickrothfuss.com.