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I just finished a new book by a new author Patrick Rothfuss a few months ago; the book is called The Name of the Wind.

I’ve been planning a long winded gushing review for weeks now, but circumstances prevented me from doing so. Prepare for the gush.

First off, and because I suffer from the delusion that you actually care, I feel the need to describe my reading of the last few months. It can be summed up like this: I’ve been avoiding epic fantasy like a solider avoids syphilis while on leave, and with a good deal more success I’d imagine as epic fantasy is easier to spot. It’s not because I dislike epic fantasy, but because of late I’ve found it unsatisfying. Lots of foreplay, little pay off. Not that I don’t like big men with big swords, I enjoy a phallic symbol as much as the next girl. But I’d like my men with swords to have some depth, my damsels to be smart enough to do their own rescuing from time to time, and my wise wizards to be able to do more then just spout off stuff that sounds like it came from some New Age book. What can I say, I am a chick, I like characters. Occasionally I get lucky, I won’t deny that. I run across a great piece of epic fantasy that sticks in my head for weeks on end, that I have to finish as soon as I pick it up. A book that makes me think, inspires me to pick up my own pen, and just generally gives me chills. The Name of the Wind does all that and more.

I rarely say this but this is the best epic fantasy book I’ve ever read. I knew from the jacket blurb I was going to like it, but after the prologue I was hooked. Here’s a sample.

It was night again. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one excepts from a drinking house during the dark hours of the night. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.

The prologue is only one page, and involves that three kinds of silence, but the language is so lovely, so visual, and so spot on it drew me in immediately. And I was more surprised when I found that the first chunk of the story to about page 53 is written in third person, and involves the “current” story line. Eventually the main character, Kvothe, begins to tell the story that brought him to that moment to a scribe. He tells of his youth in an acting troupe, of his time living as an urchin in the city streets, and subsequently his acceptance into a university that teaches…well magic of course.

To anyone reading this and thinking they have it all pegged, or that this story reminds of them of hundreds of others, and there’s nothing new here. You’re wrong. I know, I thought the same thing.

Like I’ve said, I’ve rotted my brain with more epic fantasy then any one person should lay claim to. And at those moments when I thought I knew where he was going, I was proven wrong. Sure, there is that level of predictability. Rothfuss is dealing with archetypes here. But rather then showing you the same archetypes, we’re taken on a little journey in what it takes to make a myth. On the man behind that myth, and on all his flaws, and weakness, and loves and hates. Kvothe spends most of this book getting beaten down just as much as lifted into story. He’s just a child after all, one still learning about the world, and women, and politics.

And it’s not just the epic personality of Kvothe, it’s the mundane details, those little things that make a story so real, that really brings it to life. From money worries to actually having to relieve one’s self (will wonder’s never cease) he doesn’t forget those little things that make the story so much more vivid.

I found it fascinating the way he layered the first person and third person narrative. Part of the problem with writing in first person is that a level of suspense is taken from the story because you know that your main character isn’t going to die (at least not if the author’s following certain writing rules and let’s face it we all feel cheated when those rules are broken). But by playing that third person story line up to its full potential we get that drama back ten fold. A good portion of the theme in that part of the book is given over to the fact that Kvothe has told himself he’s just a humble tavern keeper, and since the stories we tell ourselves dictate who we are, that is what Kvothe is becoming. He’s losing those parts of himself that had been more, much more.

It’s not just emotional death we need to worry about. There is also the threat of some kind of demon spider, called a scraeling. Somehow these scraelings have something to do with Kvothe’s past, or he’s run across them before, but I feel there is a connection between him and them, perhaps one that will come out in later books.

Kvothe is himself one of the strongest characters I’ve seen since Jacqueline Carey’s Phedre in the Kushiel’s series. And it’s not just the strength of the character, but the excellent characterization that I’m impressed with. From the moment I read the book jacket I could hear Kvothe whispering in my ear, and every time I put the book down he called me back. He is a compelling character to say the least.

Basically, this is a near perfect epic fantasy book. One I would proudly give to a friend to showcase all the positives that the genre has to offer. It was moving, funny, gut wrenching, and awe inspiring. And I think we should all be keeping an eye on Patrick Rothfuss in the future, he has a long and rewarding future in front of him.

Oh, and on a side note, Patrick’s blog is entertaining, and humorous. Couple that with the picture of him in his Joss Wheadon is My Master Now tee, and well…kindred spirits are truly a beautiful thing. Getting all chocked up just thinking about it.

Every morning I try to drag my carcass out of bed at around 5:30am so I can have a solid hour of writing before it’s time for the kids to get up for school. Try is, of course, the operative word here. The last few weeks I can’t say I’ve been all that successful at either getting up or getting any writing done.

I’ve come to a few conclusions about what I need to be productive during writing time, just a few small demands it wouldn’t kill the universe to grant me.

First off I need to be left utterly and completaly alone with no distractions by either my beautiful children or my wonderful husband, or for that matter no TV, no phones, no Internet, no e-mail, no Jehovia’s Witnesses trying to save me from utter damnation (too late), no music, no background ambient noise…basically I need to write in a vacuum. Well a vacuum with plenty of oxygen and a comfortable chair. (Read more…)

I’m a fantasy writer for the most part, though I do occasionally venture off into more mainstream stuff, in recent years I’ve stuck pretty much to writing fantasy, or THINKING about writing fantasy anyway. I’ve learned lately though there are certain dangers to being a writer in general, and to speculative writing in particular.

I have a tendency to think up or think about my story ideas when driving. This is worse then talking on a cell phone and driving. My mind is completely absorbed by imaginary dialogues, creating descriptions, and just generally wondering willy-nilly. This means I often cut people off, run yellow lights (okay truthfully red lights, or at lest that’s what the cop who pulled me over said) and generally tend to piss off my fellow drivers. I’ve crunched garbage cans while trying to figure out my protagonists motivation, side swiped a parked car while going over the finer points of the climax of a novel, and once drove the wrong way down a one way street and ended up stuck on the median when I got this great idea for a story. Needless to say when I’m driving in “writer” mode, I’m a hazard to everyone.

I also am constantly running the risk of social ostracism. Not that I’m that much of a social person to begin with, but it would be nice to go to the local block party without people whispering behind their hands, and giving me the same kind of looks a platypus gets in a zoo. That “man god really does have a sense of humor” kind of look. See, the problem is I live in an area where people’s idea of creativity is getting out of a public intoxication rap, or seeing what kind of pretty tread marks they can leave in the local bar’s parking lot. So, while I won’t say being a writer itself makes them look at me funny, they inevitably ask what kind of writer I am, hoping to hear that I write for Hustler or something exciting. But no, I have to tell them that I generally write fantasy. This starts a conversation that goes something like this.

“Fantasy, like that Lord of Rings movie or Harry Potter?

Yeah, kind of like that, but Tolkin wrote epic, sword and sorcery fantasy, I write other stuff.”

“So you write about those pointy eared things…elves and junk.”

“No, not really.”

“Hmmm.” There’s usually an uncomfortable pause here, filled with side ways glances and that look of panic that only small talk at a party can produce.

“So…uhhh, I like romances, ever wrote one of those?” (This usually from women, most of the men around here don’t read anything unless a half dressed woman is sprawled all over the cover. Preferably sprawled on the hood of a classic car.)

“Nope,” I say, when what I’m thinking is, “Dear god no, I hate bodice rippers, and I’ve never used the words ‘throbbing member’ or ‘heaving breasts’. I’d never sully the sanctity of by brain with such drivel.”

Yes, I am a book snob, and that’s coming from an avid science fiction and fantasy reader, so I really don’t have much snobbish ground to stand on.

“So,” my forced companion will eventually ask, “You’re like a geek then, right? A Trekkie or something? Ever dressed up like a Star Wars character? You’d look hot in that outfit Princesses Leia was wearing in that last movie, you know that loin cloth thing.” That last sentence is usually (though not always) said by men, and is usually followed by the oh so subtle wink and elbow nudge into some other guy’s ribcage.

Just for reference, I would look hot in Leia’s slave outfit.

If I was to give an award for the most annoying fantasy creature elves would win hands down. I know, you’re aghast, but I have my reasons. Firstly, The Lord of The Rings. Maybe it was just Orlando Bloom as Legolas, but that was when I first noticed my estimation of elves had dropped considerably from when I was a child.

For some reason the sight of Orlando Bloom sliding down the trunk of that giant elephant (a mumakil if I recall correctly, and god how pathetic is it that I know that) shooting arrows the whole way just made me roll my eyes. It’s never a good sign when I roll my eyes. Of course this wasn’t the only moment in the trilogy that I’d rolled my eyes at the way elves are presented, and this isn’t the only movie or book that brought on such feelings toward the pointy eared little know-it-alls.

I mean what’s not to dislike. They’re smarter, stronger, faster, live longer, and are more beautiful then mere humans. They can move through a forest undetected and drop down from trees surprising any other life form that has dared enter their domain. They’re wise, that in and of itself isn’t bad I like wise, but they’re smug about it and I hate smug. And my biggest beef of all; they think they stand on some kind of moral high ground that we mere mortals could not possibly hope to obtain. I despise the moral high ground, unless of course I am firmly planted on it. Then I lord the moral high ground over everyone. In all honesty though, this happens very rarely. To quote Trent Reznor; “My moral standing is lying down”. And yes, I’ve been waiting since the early nineties to get that quote in somewhere.

I know many writers have taken the elves outside of cliché, or sometimes they’ve feed into that cliché with interesting results. Such as Jacqueline Carey’s Banewrecker and Godslayer books, which is a retelling of Tolkien’s famous series but told from the perspective of the “bad guys”. She plays quite well off the old elf clichés weaving them into her world building, which–despite what some people have said–I found an interesting take on Tolkien’s world.

I guess part of me just wants to see that illusion of perfection broken. You know, I want to see an acne prone teenage elf, or an ugly elf, or an elf that has a terrible sense of direction and has no idea where to find sacred objects or lost knowledge. A clueless elf, that’d be a refreshing change.

I have recently become a Gaiman convert, taken the vows, said the hail Neils, and swore to remain true to the god of speculative fiction.

Okay, maybe “god” is going a bit far, but demi-god surely. I first picked up a Neil Gaiman book years ago when Neverwhere was first published. I liked it, but I was in the midst of my epic fantasy phase and soon forgot all about it in favor of sweeping medieval-esque worlds inhabited by elves and large men with larger swords. Basically, I was young and wanted my stories all raw and exposed, with no subtext or subtlety to weigh me down. Pure escapism was my goal. I’m kind of sorry I missed my opportunity all those years ago to become a follower of one of the best writers on the market today. (Read more…)

So, the other day I was bored. Anyone who knows me knows this is a bad state for me to be in, ’cause usually my mind starts wandering and bizarre images pop into my head. Impulses I can’t explain and won’t go into here make my fingers twitch. I generally try to avoid boredom as much as possible. Idle hands are the devil’s playground, as they say.

To keep myself occupied, though not occupied in any pursuit that would better humankind, I started surfing the net to find out what was going on in the world. By the “world” I mean that small corner of it that interests me, like all good Americans that would be 1) America 2) pop culture 3) celebrity gossip. Though not necessarily in that order. In my running willy-nilly across the web, just looking for something to fill the silence, I stumbled across this article from Slate Magazine written by Adam Rogers.

After first reading the article I was a little miffed. After all, the guy uses the word “geek” something like three times, and not in friendly terms mind you. He wields the word like a sword, “I dub thee GEEK”. His opening paragraph alone was enough to annoy me, never mind the rest of the article. Okay, I will admit it’s not a bad article per se. The subject matter itself is interesting. I just don’t appreciate the tone he uses to talk about sci-fi fans, or the genre in general.

“Ronald D. Moore, the executive producer of Battlestar Galactica, has created a great show with a goofy title. The title isn’t his fault, of course—he’s remaking a crappy 1970s sci-fi relic—and, in any case, it lured in an audience of geeks who will watch anything with the word star in the title. A few months ago, Moore told me (and, more recently, Entertainment Weekly’s Jeff Jensen) that the geeky title means a swath of Battlestar’s potential audience doesn’t tune in.” (Read more…)