Ode to Joy

It occurs to me, in all my haste to slap a label on “grimdark,” that I forgot to tell you how the Tucson Festival of Books went.

In a word: good.

The crowds were very sizable, very receptive, very enthusiastic and very involved.  It doesn’t hurt that a lot of them decided to pick up my books, which certainly made the whole event a little more fun for me.  But I think chief among the events was the fact that I got to hang out with Patrick Rothfuss for the first time.

I mean, we’d known each other for a while, but we never really got to enjoy each other’s company.  It was quite pleasant.  Pleasant enough that it gave me the sincerely flattering honor of having said something that affected him.  It’s always gratifying when that happens, since it shows that you actually aren’t just spewing rot that makes no sense to anyone but you.  Also, it makes it much easier to come out and say so when another author says something that happened to affect you in a meaningful way.

It was on the panel “Epic Storytelling,” upon which I was speaking with Diana Gabaldon and Patrick, when he happened to say something that’s been weighing on my mind for the past few weeks…

Heaven forbid something not be totally necessary to the plot.

And that statement there about summarized the conclusion of my many literary angsts that I’ve been sharing with you these recent months.

The Aeons’ Gate, as a trilogy, is completed.  In the space between its publication and my next project, I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about the nature of storytelling.  More specifically, the nature of my storytelling.

Is there too much violence?  Does life mean so little in this world?  Is there too much dialogue?  Is there too little plot development?  Is the worldbuilding too scant?  Is the existential angst of the companions too much?  Is Kataria not as badass because one of the main thrusts of her story about romance?  Is Lenk’s dual personality a bit too reminiscent?  Is the dialogue overwrought?  Is Gariath trying too hard?

Whether I spend a lot of thought or a little on these questions, I find myself boiling them down to just two.

Is this what I want to write?

Does it make me happy?

While perusing Something Awful a while back, I came across a criticism of a book whose title and author escapes me.  Rather, it was the nature of the complaint that stuck with me: an eye-roll induced by the idea of a character having his thoughts expressed in italics.

Naturally, being quite fond of this myself, I was a little perturbed to realize that someone’s thoughts being conveyed in italic text was something cringe-worthy. I guess the argument revolves around the idea that, if you’re a skilled writer, you can convey someone’s thought process without telegraphing it like this, oh god that makes me so worried.

But to me, that’s a lost opportunity to get as into the character’s head as you possibly can.  That’s a moment when you no longer ask the audience to witness this thought process and see what happens, but when you force them to be involved with the character’s personal narrative, to be a part of every angry thought, nonsensical desire and contradictory self-criticism.  Peep Show (the UK television series) used this to great effect, forcing you to be a part of the character’s inner monologue and investing you in their mental struggles.

Suffice to say, I’m a big fan of thoughts in italic texts.

I’m also a big fan of verbal sparring in high-stakes fight scenes.  I also like impractical costumes.  I like magic words.  I like cool special effects.  I like mushy love stories.  I like hearts skipping half a beat at the sight of someone.  I like exploding similes.  I like tortured heroes.  I like tortured villains.  I like messy relationships and freaky-as-shit monsters and screaming in all caps.

I like a number of things that a lot of fantasy fans say make them “embarrassed” to be a fan of the genre.

It’s cringe-inducing to read a complex romantic relationship.  It’s eye-rolling to read thoughts in italics.  It’s groan-worthy to see ostentatious costumery.  It’s embarrassing to see magic that does crazy shit and similes that are occasionally overwrought and sex scenes that are a little weird.  Why?  Because they’re gratuitous, because they’re excessive, because they aren’t totally necessary to the story.

Heaven forbid.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m aware that these things can quickly go overboard.  Indulgence quickly turns to gratuitousness.

And yet, I can’t help but feel that we, as readers, so often err on the side of conservative thinking when it comes to these situations.  We’ve seen them done poorly, so we can never see them done again.  We want Spartan storytelling: nothing there that isn’t 100% important to the plot, nothing there that doesn’t serve to hurry the story along, nothing there that might be fun.

And if an author wants to write that kind of story?  Fine.  It’s done to amazingly good effect by many.

But it does beg the question.

Is an expression of the author’s joy a valid form of art?

Is there value in something that isn’t 100% necessary to the plot?

Is a little excess to be excused?  Is it to be embraced?  How about a lot?

Robert Jackson Bennett did an awesome essay on this, and frankly, I find myself agreeing with the idea that an author going overboard is not only excusable, but necessary for a story to be a story.

Jackson talks about voice in his essay, how it’s frustratingly difficult to describe.  Truth be told, it isn’t.  Everything we’re talking about up here?  All this excess?  All this gratuitousness?  All this unnecessary stuff?

That’s voice.

That’s energy.

That’s how a story is told.

The story lies in the passion, in where the author’s attentions are and where they want them to be directed.  The story lies in the excess, in what the author chooses to gush about and what the author chooses to be sparing with.  The story lies in the big, hot mess of an author’s joy, an author geeking out, an author indulging themselves.

Robin Hobb’s The Assassin Trilogy is essentially the story of an excessively angsty young man.  What makes it great?

Brent Weeks’ The Night Angel Trilogy is essentially about badass assassins and super cool magic.  What makes it well-read?

Patrick Rothfuss’ The Wise Man’s Fear is about witty dialogue and faerie sex.  What makes it loved?

This is not intended to summarize inadequately or diminish my fellow authors’ achievements, but rather to prove a point.  What are these stories but tales of excess?  Of interest?  Stuff we’d write off as juvenile, indulgent or “embarrassing?”

Now, this isn’t to say that excess is beyond criticism.  Far from it.  There are valid concerns with the gratuitous and the excessive and even the embarrassing.  And we should definitely talk about them where they strike us.  Nor does it mean that every piece of excess means the work is quality.  By all means, a love of assassins or faerie sex or angsty heroes is not something we shouldn’t bother criticizing.

But it is something we don’t need to justify.

Voice is worthwhile.

Excess is sometimes appreciated.

Joy is a valid form of art.