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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…)