The Dark Mirror

A few weeks ago I wrote a post called Second Helpings in which I expressed my disappointment that some of my favorite authors are turning out "new" books that failed to say anything new. So I picked up The Dark Mirror by Juliet Marillier with a certain amount of trepidation. Marillier writes romantic fantasy series based on Celtic history and mythology. There are certain hallmarks I expect from a Marillier novel: I expect her protagonist to have a deep respect for nature, I expect druids and supernatural abilities, I expect Celtic folklore and mythology, I expect a conflict between nations, I expect a conflict between the native religion of the land and Christianity, I expect the protagonist to be socially exiled, and that some kind of romantic relationship will sustain her in the final struggle to achieve her goal.

In The Dark Mirror Marillier delivered all these trademarks, and at the same time managed to do something new. How did she make the familiar exciting and new? By developing minor themes from her previous work and making them the major themes of her new book.

For instance, toward the end of Marillier's first book, Daughter of the Forest, readers are introduced to the idea that a community may reject and be afraid of a nubile young outsider, tying this fear to stories of mermaids or other mythological creatures who lure young men from their communities, or simply drive them mad with their beauty. This theme, which did not appear until the final chapters of Daughter of the Forest, was central to The Dark Mirror. War and political intrigue, which played the role of setting in Daughter of the Forest, were crucial to the plot of The Dark Mirror. And, appropriate to the role of battle and political plotting, the primarily female perspective of Daughter of the Forest was replaced by evenly split scenes from the point of view of the hero and the heroine. The Dark Mirror did not have the fairytale quality that made me fall in love with Daughter of the Forest- it felt more like a history, rooted in court life with professional bodyguards, tasters, and men and women angling for power. Marillier changed the tone and character of her followup without losing her voice- and she remained consistent to her world, and made all the changes resonate with elements of her previous work.

The result was a novel that I was just as enthusiastic about at the end of the read as I was when I bought it.

On Amazon the paperback edition of The Dark Mirror ranks #51,413 in Books, and the Kindle edition ranks #9,328 in the Kindle Store.

Blossoming is a pain

Why does pain always have to blossom? Why do gun shot wounds blossom red on white shirts? I've read this "blossoming" description so many times in spec fiction books that it's starting to annoy me, and has officially made my list of expressions I want to avoid in my own writing.

Isn't blossoming a gentle, slow-motion process, anyway? I wonder what attracts writers to this description for being on the receiving end of sudden acts of violence . Perhaps it is the juxtaposition between the beauty of a blooming flower and the horror of intense pain.

Second Helpings

I just finished two novels that I was really looking forward to reading because of how much I enjoyed the author's previous work. Earlier this week I finished The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown, and yesterday I turned the last page on The Angel's Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón. In both cases I found myself a little disappointed by how much the new book reminded me of the previous work I'd already read. My first thought was, what's wrong with these authors? My second thought was, what's wrong with me?

Historically I can't get enough of books by my current favorite authors. I ate up Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew mysteries the summer after third grade. In junior high I read the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe. As an adult I've been in love with many fantasy series. Zafón's The Angel's Game can be read as a prequel to The Shadow of the Wind (a book which I read with rapt attention), so I should expect to find many similarities in character, tone, and setting between the two novels. Yet it was this very similarity that disappointed me. So what was I expecting?

In The Angel's Game, Zafón delivers a new story rife with all the trademarks that made me love The Shadow of the Wind: bringing the magic of books to life; the dark and beautifully twisted backdrop of Barcelona; the youthful frustration of fighting against poverty and a chance at love; a fiery, demonic antagonist. But the similarities were so close that they irritated me, made me feel as though I was reading the same book a second time. I found myself almost viscerally disappointed as I entered the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, nonplussed to meet this book's devil-antagonist, completely unenchanted by the growing parallels between the protagonist and his ill-fated forbearer. With The Angel's Game, Zafón offered me second helpings of everything I loved about The Shadow of the Wind. But taken together as a series, I didn't feel that The Angel's Game went anywhere, or took me anyplace new. I gained some insight on events that led to The Shadow of the Wind, which was neat, but was not enough a journey to satisfy me as a reader. I wanted The Angel's Game to add a new dimension to a great author, and it did not.

My experience with Dan Brown's The Lost Symbol was similar. I enjoyed the read, the puzzles, and appreciated Brown's enthusiasm for mythology and symbology. But I was very frustrated by the tight parallels between the plot patterns of The DaVinci Code and The Lost Symbol. Yes, of course, they featured the same protagonist, that's fine. Did Robert Langdon have to team up with a pretty woman with whom he would run from the police? Did Langdon have to run from the police, at all? Was it necessary for both his antagonists to have self-mutilating tendencies? Did we have to wonder whether the cops were part of the evil conspiracy? And did Langdon really have to go for asylum to a wise old man with a disability?

Maybe the answer is, yes. Maybe an author with a fan base needs to continually push the same pleasure buttons on his audience so he's not ripping his fans off, not depriving them of the second helping they were craving. For me, the best part of The Lost Symbol took place when its plot pattern diverged from that of The DaVinci Code. I was craving a story with a similar blend of suspense and mythology, a similar voice, but a different plot structure.

What if, as is the case for me, the tastes of audiences are changing? When I was in the third grade, my choice of mystery books was contained on three, two-yard-long shelves on the children's floor of the public library. Now if I want to read a mystery story, say of the type that would appeal to a girl who likes Nancy Drew, I'm a few keystrokes away from thousands of titles, thousands of choices. Modern readers have the option of selecting from a smorgasbord of authors and voices. Do they have room for seconds of the same author they enjoyed before? Right now the answer is, yes. A big yes. The number of choices becomes so overwhelming, that the majority of readers prefer a known quantity. But as readers have more and more choices available to them, and more sophisticated tools to filter the choices that would appeal to them, I don't think it's a bad idea for writers to consider what they can offer to their readers that is new, that takes them not just through the familiar journey of the last book, but takes them somewhere unexpected and interesting. I don't read books by the same author just for second helpings- I want to see how they've grown, how they've changed, I want to share in their evolution, and the evolution of their characters.

I say, if you have leftover mashed potatoes, don't just microwave and eat them again. Make twice baked potatoes. Make gnocchi. Try something new!