Action: Prince Caspian

            This week I look at another duel, this one between High King Peter and the usurping King Miraz in C.S. Lewis’ Prince Caspian. Whereas last week I focused on the structural elements of the environment that Rowling created for her fight, this week I want to focus on perspective.

Spoilers ahead!

            The duel comes at the request of Narnia in the hopes to end the war without excessive bloodshed; a nerve-wracking, single-combat battle to determine the victor. Crowding around an arena, both armies form cheering sections, and Lewis drops his readers right into the stands with the other spectators.  We and the other Narnians don’t know the intricacies of how to fight, we can only watch as the battle unfolds. “‘Well done, Peter, oh, well done!’ shouted Edmund as he saw Miraz reel back a whole pace and a half. ‘Follow it up, quick!’…“‘Miraz! Miraz! The King! The King!’ came the roar of the Telmarines. Caspian and Edmund grew white with sickening anxiety.”

            Edmund acts as our guide for the fight explaining it to young Caspian. "Both falling apart," said Edmund. "A bit blown, I expect. Watch. Ah, now they're beginning again, more scientifically this time. Circling round and round, feeling each other's defences." Lewis places us next to Edmund, on the edge of our seats, waiting for him to reveal what happens. “Watch.” He says, and we do. He and Lewis paint the scene, an arena, the roaring crowd, and circling combatants. Whereas before they fell together with energy, now they must take stock of each other in a technical dance..

            We are gripped by the spectacle as Caspian reports each blow. "The High King has pricked him in the arm-pit," said Caspian, still clapping. "Just where the arm-hole of the hauberk let the point through. First blood." We grow excited as Narnia takes the lead, and Peter presses his advantage. Lewis lets our imagination picture the fight, guiding us through the important parts and coaxing us to connect the dots. But in our excitement, we failed to notice, "Peter's not using his shield properly. He must be hurt in the left arm." Edmund brings us back down, and we have to ask, "You've seen more battles than I," said Caspian. "Is there any chance now?" "Precious little," said Edmund. "I suppose he might just do it. With luck."

            After a short respite, in which Peter has his wrist taped and the readers catch their breath, the tide again favors Narnia. Caspian worries the Telmarine cheering may affect Peter, but Edmund assures him, "Not he," said Edmund. "You don't know him—Oh!"—for Miraz had got in a blow at last, on Peter's helmet. Peter staggered, slipped sideways and fell on one knee. The roar of the Telmarines rose like the noise of the sea. ‘Now, Miraz,’ they yelled.” Even Edmund, who until now guided Caspian and the readers, was caught off-guard. Lewis makes us recoil from Miraz’s blow and fear for Peter and the Narnians.

            But all is not lost. Peter slips the next blow, turning the table. In the next exchange, Peter takes ground, and “Miraz [goes] down—not struck by Peter, but face downwards, having tripped on a tussock. Peter stepped back, waiting for him to rise…As soon as they saw their King down they leaped into the lists crying, "Treachery! Treachery! The Narnian traitor has stabbed him in the back while he lay helpless. To arms! To arms, Telmar!" Lewis pulls a classic good vs. evil exchange. When Miraz first took Peter to the ground, he went for the killing blow, but when Peter swaps positions, he chooses to let his foe reset, proving himself the better man. However, Lewis throws in another twist.  Seeing their man down, the Telmarines realize the fight is lost, and they take advantage to null the duel. War commences.

            What interests me about this duel, as I mentioned, is the perspective from which Lewis chooses to describe it. Up until now, the action sequences I’ve examined were seen through the eyes of the actor. Were Peter to narrate the exchange, Lewis would have needed to approach his description quite differently. Instead, he created an environment of suspense for an audience, morphing Caspian and the reader into a single, inexperienced spectator. In this way, we are drawn into the novel, experiencing the same stresses and excitements that Caspian feels, as he watches the duel unfold ringside.  

Action: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

This week I continue the theme – Action – with a fan favorite. I’m looking at the climactic dual at the end of Order of the Phoenix when Dumbledore and Voldemort battle it out.

Spoilers ahead!

            Let me reiterate that great action depends on setup and scene. The fight between Dumbledore and Voldemort is the culmination of six years and five books used by J.K. Rowling to develop each character’s legend and tout their extraordinary abilities. At one end you have Voldemort, the most evil and destructive sorcerer the world has ever seen. At the other you have Dumbledore, the hero of the first wizarding war, champion of all things good. They represent the epitome of good and evil and, at the same time, the most powerful members of each camp.  A potential fight between them tantalizes Harry Potter readers as a ‘what if’ in the same way that ‘what if Ali could fight Mike Tyson’ does boxing fans. That’s the emotional ferment generated by Rowling in the five books leading up to the Voldemort-Dumbledore confrontation. The physical setup is developed by Rowling solely in The Order of the Phoenix.

            Rowling structures her Harry Potter as a series of individual mystery novels. She uses Harry’s naiveté and undaunted curiosity about the wizarding world, and Dumbledore’s  Machiavellian (but positive) schemes, to develop mystery at the outset of each book, and then she applies a dénouement-style ending, when Dumbledore explains whodunit (even in the last book after he died, she managed to do this). The Order of the Phoenix is no exception. Rowling artfully drops breadcrumbs for Harry and the reader to follow. For this book the endgame takes us to the Ministry of Magic, where we experience the battle for the prophecy and, climactically, the wizard dual between Dumbledore and Voldemort.

            Rowling uses Harry’s trial at the ministry near the beginning of the book to introduce all the elements and places she intends to use at the end of the story. In particular she presents every important spatial feature used in the dual. “Halfway down the hall was a fountain. A group of golden statues, larger than life-size, stood in the middle of a circular pool. Tallest of them all was a noble-looking wizard with his wand pointing straight up in the air. Grouped around him were a beautiful witch, a centaur, and a goblin, and a house-elf.” (127) Harry, having arrived at the ministry for the first time, marvels at the atrium and, in particular, the fountain around which Dumbledore and Voldemort will fight. With this introduction, Rowling establishes physical parameters of the fight.

            Here I want to introduce what I call the Jackie Chan principle, because Rowling makes great use of it during her scene. The principle implies that the hero must fight at a disadvantage. Though usually a superior fighter, Jackie somehow always finds himself a peg below his adversary. If the enemy has a gun, he doesn’t. If the enemy has a sword, Jackie has a broom or ladder or some other such silly weapon. And more often than not, Jackie finds himself outnumbered. That’s why his films are so memorable, because Jackie always uses his environment spectacularly to turn a disadvantage to his favor.

            In Rowling’s fight sequence, Dumbledore’s disadvantage is Harry. The fight starts with Voldemort unleashing a death blast at an unprepared Harry. “But the headless golden statue of the wizard in the fountain had sprung alive, leaping from its plinth, and landed on the floor with a crash between Harry and Voldemort. The spell merely glanced off its chest as the statue flung out its arms, protecting Harry.” (813) Dumbledore makes his arrival in style, bringing to life all of the fountain statues that Rowling so carefully identified earlier. Dumbledore appears in the nick of time to save Harry, then immediately teleports behind Voldemort, turning the fight away from the youngster. Even in the midst of battle, fighting this incredibly powerful sorcerer, Dumbledore splits his attention to protect Harry.

            The fight reveals that Dumbledore is on another level, far outpacing even Voldemort. Intercepting every attack with ease, while controlling a statue to protect Harry, Dumbledore demonstrates his dominance, pushing back the dark wizard. “Dumbledore brandished his wand in one, long, fluid movement… the water in the pool rose up and covered Voldemort like a cocoon of molten glass...Then he was gone, and the water fell with a crash back into its pool…” (815). Dumbledore seems to have gained the upper hand, forcing Voldemort to flee, and so Harry leaves the safety of his statue-guard. But Voldemort takes advantage of Harry’s imprudent move to possess the boy, as would a demon, and use him as a human shield. “If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy. . . . Let the pain stop, thought Harry.  Let him kill us. . . .” (816) Harry blacks out from pain and the fight ends there. The next thing we know, Harry awakens to a concerned Dumbledore, with Voldemort nowhere in sight.

            Throughout the entire altercation, Dumbledore holds the high ground. The duel is almost comically one sided, but the scale tips to even because of Harry. Dumbledore cannot administer the finishing blow to his nemesis because he must protect Harry throughout the dual and, once Voldemort possesses Harry, Dumbledore is unwilling to kill the boy in order to destroy Voldemort. (Of course later we learn that Dumbledore has always been more than willing to sacrifice Harry, it simply wasn’t the right time, but that’s another story). Ultimately, Voldemort must flee before reinforcements arrive, and the chance to end the series at book five is lost.

            Rowling demonstrates with this fight the importance of environment and duality. We were carefully introduced to the fountain and statues early in the book, and Rowling used every element of that intelligence to craft her battle scene. The stark difference in the morality between Dumbledore and Voldemort also illuminated the action. Dumbledore refuses to kill, uses golden statues, a phoenix, and a “cocoon of molten glass”, pressing ever forward, he exposes himself to protect Harry. Voldemort uses death spells, a snake, cowardly possession, and hides behind a silver shield. Often in action scenes the descriptions becomes blurred, and you cannot distinguish between sides. Here Rowling takes no chances by clarifying the scene and creating drastic disparity between combatants, and it pays off. Readers who followed every word of the build-up over 5 books knew this altercation would come, and Rowling did not disappoint.

Action: Ender's Game

            This week I continue the topic Action by deviating slightly from the norm, by examining a science fiction instead of fantasy novel. Last week in Tolkien’s scene, we saw great attention to setup for the fight with Shelob, but not a lot of blow by blow. I wanted to pick a book that did a great job with its blow by blow and with blocking its sequences. With that in mind I picked the battle room from Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card.

            I don’t think there are many fans of Ender’s Game who didn’t immediately fall in love with the battle room game. Played essentially in a box with floating obstacles called stars, the game is a mock battle between two teams, played out in zero-g with a goal on opposite ends. Throughout the story, numerous games are played in this room with these variables essentially unchanging, but Card manages to masterfully engage his audience by making each battle unique, challenging Ender in new and interesting ways. The battle I want to talk about in particular is Ender’s first as Dragon Army commander.

            Blocking is key to the poignancy of this and other battles. Indeed, it might be the most crucial structural element in all of Ender’s Game. Because all the action sequences occur in zero-g, Card must take extra pains to describe the physics of the situation. If you were to explain a football game for instance, you wouldn’t need to say that the players run on flat ground or that they don’t float away when they jump. The audience inherently knows how physics work on Earth. That is not the case for an audience trying to grasp the physics of a bunch of kids floating in a box with guns. No one has ever experienced such a thing before, and Card describes the phenomenon when Ender steps into battle for the first time. “Abruptly he felt himself reorient, as he had in the shuttle. What had been down was now up, and now sideways. In nullo, there was no reason to stay oriented the way he had been in the corridor…The enemy’s gate [is] down.” (89) This line becomes a mantra for Ender’s army. Movement, direction, and orientation are critical for success in the battle room, and they are areas of expertise in which Ender quickly becomes unmatched.

            Dragon Army first faces Rabbit Army in battle. When it begins, Ender stands at the gate to plan his attack. “…he and all his men were only thinking of ways to slip around past the formation, control the stars and the corners of the room, and then break the enemy formation into meaningless chunks that didn’t know what they were doing.” (178) Card blocks out Ender’s first battle beautifully. At no time do we not know each of the five toons’ location, and what actions they take:

“C toon slipped along the wall, coasting with their bent knees facing the enemy…Rabbit Army was able to drive back C toon’s attack, but not until Crazy Tom and his boys had carved them up…” (178) At the same time D toon’s leader suggests an idea to bounce off the north wall. “’Do it,’ Ender said. ‘I’ll take B south to get behind them.’ Then he shouted, ‘A and E slow on the walls!’” (178) The attack is set. C revealed the locations, weakening the numbers, and Dragon Army commences a four-point attack along each wall. “[Ender] slid footward along the star, hooked his feet on the lip, and flipped himself up to the top wall, then rebounded down to E toon’s star. In a moment he was leading them down against the south wall. They rebounded in near perfect unison and came up behind the two stars that Carn Carby’s soldiers were defending. It was like cutting butter with a hot knife.” (179)

            Quick and efficient, the battle takes less than two pages. We grasp Ender’s precision in attack yet flexibility, exhibited by granting autonomy to each toon to act within his predetermined battle plan. The beautiful thing about this battle and Ender’s others in the zero-g room is that they mirror the real battles he faces at the end of the book. In this way, Card blocks out not only each battle, but also the entire book. In his first battle game as a commander, Ender wins in a flash of brilliance. As the story progresses at battle school, the games get longer and longer, more and more complex; the teachers throw increasingly numerous and difficult obstacles in Ender’s way to make him fail. But he succeeds every time, devising strategies on the fly. At the end of the book, Ender finds himself commanding real battles, which in turn progressively grow in complexity and length. I said last week that good action comes from setup and execution. By increasing the complexity and changing the rules, Card uses each battle as a setup for the next, slowly introducing new ideas to the audience. Card’s execution of the battle room endears his audience to the game, and it is the reason so many people remember Ender’s Game so fondly.

Action: Shelob

            This week I’m kicking off a new series topic – Action! This is an area in my own writing that needs a lot of work, so I thought what better way to improve than to cross-examine some of the more famous action scenes in fantasy. My goal in this endeavor is to identify what an author does to make a fight scene or action sequence compel the reader to keep turning page.

            The book I examined this week is The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien, and the scene is Sam and Frodo’s fight with Shelob.

            Good action sequences come from two-part execution: setup and scene. During the setup, the author takes the reader through the terrain. We see which tools both sides have access to, what hindrances apply to each, and what complications could be encountered during the altercation.

            The setup for the Shelob fight takes place over six pages, wherein Sam and Frodo lose their way through the pitch-black lair. In this sequence, Gollum leads Sam and Frodo into Shelob’s lair as a trap. They stumble through the darkness, unaware of the impending danger, and then the fight unfolds at one of the exits to the cave. Tolkien uses Frodo and Sam’s time in the cave to draw our attention to three motifs crucial to the ensuing fight: darkness, eyes, and light.

            Tolkien introduces Shelob through trepidation and sensory overload. “They walked as it were in a black vapour wrought of veritable darkness itself that, as it was breathed, brought blindness not only to the eyes but to the mind, so that even the memory of colours and of forms and of any light faded out of thought…out of it came a reek so foul, and a sense of lurking malice so intense, that Frodo reeled.” (386-387). Tolkien shrouds Shelob in the darkness of her cave, obfuscating the halflings through sensory attacks. The sheer force of darkness oppresses the hobbits. Darkness is the weapon of Shelob, weakening the heroes, and Tolkien repeatedly draws our attention to this idea to express just how dire a situation the hobbits have gotten themselves into.

            The next motif manifests in the form of eyes. Before the fight begins, Shelob reveals herself to the hobbits, but only her eyes. He teases us with the scale of the great spider, while simultaneously drawing our attention where he needs it for the fight: “Not far down the tunnel, between them and the opening where they had reeled and stumbled, he was aware of eyes growing visible, two great clusters of many-windowed eyes—the coming menace was unmasked at last.” (389) Beyond creating an impressive visual and giving life to the eerie feeling of being watched that the Hobbits experience, revealing Shelob’s eyes cues the reader to the part of Shelob that Sam will attack later.

            This small taste Tolkien gives us with Shelob’s eyes also provides an opportunity to showcase the hobbits’ weapons, the setup’s final motif - light. Just as darkness weakens the Hobbits and strengthens Shelob, light yield the opposite effect. Finally, the phial Galadriel gave to Frodo comes into play – ‘Chekhov’s star-glass’ so to speak. “Holding the star aloft and the bright sword advanced, Frodo, hobbit of the shire, walked steadily down to meet the eyes…doubt came into them as the light approached. One by one they dimmed, and slowly they drew back. No brightness so deadly had ever afflicted them before.” (390) Before the fight even starts Tolkien provides everything we need to know: the hobbits will use light to combat Shelob’s darkness, and exploit her weak point: her eyes.

            With the setup settled, the fight commences over a short, action-packed, three pages. Because the actual fight starts and finishes in such a short time, Tolkien eliminates the need to painstakingly block his scenes. Generally, blocking becomes incredibly important for these fights, so that the audience can keep track of each of the parties no matter where they may fly around. But in this case, since the fight doesn’t cover much ground, Tolkien focuses on the payoff to his setup: the important motifs he established inside the cave.

            Looming over an incapacitated Frodo, Shelob is about to drag him away when Sam strikes.  “…the shining sword bit upon her foot and shore away the claw. Sam sprang in, inside the arches of her legs, and with a quick upthrust of his other hand stabbed at the clustered eyes upon her lowered head. One great eye went dark.” (398) Upon seeing the great spider, Sam flies in, immediately going for her eyes, the point of interest upon which Tolkien had earlier labored. And then to finish off the beast, Sam relies on the light of the star-glass. “As if his indomitable spirit had set its potency in motion, the glass blazed suddenly like a white torch in his hand….No such terror out of heaven had ever burned in Shelob’s face before.” (400) Unable to bear the luminescence, Shelob slinks back into her lair to the safety of darkness.

            The fight with Shelob is one of the most famous in fantasy. What makes it special is Tolkien’s attention to setup. Inside the cave, the audience feels the trepidation and overwhelming suffocation that Sam and Frodo feel. Even though the actual fight is quite short – over in essentially three blows - Tolkien’s makes it last much longer in our memory. 

How Can I Improve My Writing?

            Hello readers! Next week I’m leaving the Beginnings behind, and diving into a new series on the topic of Action! I’ll be parsing through some of the best action sequences fantasy has to offer, trying to figure out what makes them so darned compelling. But, that’s next week. This week I’m tackling a question I ask myself whenever I edit my work, and one that I see asked online all the time: How can I improve my writing?

Let’s dive in!

            Whenever I finish a section of work, or switch into editing mode, I criticize myself brutally. I presume most artists, including comedians, actors, painters, and poets cringe when looking critically at their own work. My knee-jerk reaction is to say everything about my writing could be improved. My characters are weak, the plots thin, and the sentence structure unimaginative and repetitive.  These are the enemies I battle each day. However, the question of improvement deserves broader consideration than simply winning the fight with nitty-gritty.

            Ask any writer and they will tell you that their first attempt at book writing was rough. They didn’t know what they were doing and, looking back, they easily recognize many poorly considered choices. Over the years, though, persistent writers get better, and the simple explanation for this improvement is…Practice. Writing is difficult, even painful at times.  The products can be humbling, even humiliating.  But they can also be electrifying, empowering, and joyous. 

            Certainly, the more you do something, the better you get at it. But this observation is not particularly deep. Everyone knows practice makes perfect. So let’s think about something beyond ‘write a lot’ as a way to self-improvement.

            Write about stuff you know.  Writers draw on their experiences to create stories that resonate with audiences. Jane Austen for instance, lived practically her whole life on her family estates, never venturing far from home. As a result, that’s what all her stories are about. But to turn an outwardly boring setting into a gripping, humorous, and romantic tale is much easier if you are intimately familiar with your subjects.  For Jane, admittedly very gifted, it was a simple matter of exposing the foibles of human nature in an outwardly dull and stayed society. For you and me it could mean extracting stories from an embarrassing job interview or struggling with Tinder.

            It’s trite, but read.  And not just in your genre. Experiences are important, but it takes time and opportunity to create experience. Reading is the next best path to cultural and worldly insight. Whenever I pick up a book, I learn something new. Not solely about plot and practical issues in writing and storytelling, but also about life. Art begets art, an old but true sentiment. I wish I had more free time to read.

            Some might argue that you erode originality by exposing yourself to the ideas of others. But those ideas are crucial to creativity. Before adding your tale to the pantheon of literature, immerse yourself in that pantheon. Absorb as much information as you can and, in the process, learn and be inspired to put pen to page.

Beginnings: Lies of Locke Lamora

            This week in Beginnings, I take a look at Scott Lynch’s Lies of Locke Lamora. As with previous blog entries, I examined the introduction of the novel to look for techniques Lynch uses to endear us, the reader, to his protagonist, Locke Lamora.

Spoilers ahead!

            Usually I have to sort out where the introduction of these novels end, but Lynch helps me out on this one, setting the whole thing in his prologue. The prologue takes us through Locke’s childhood, 37 pages fleshing out much of his character before the story even begins. We see him plucked from the street and shuffled from one gang of thieves to another, and Lynch provides ample sustenance for readers to eat up his protagonist. He paints Locke as a charismatic force that anyone could relate to; a rebel that everyone would want to be.

            The prologue plays out very much like a movie, coming to the reader in a flash of scenes dancing between viewpoints, teasing us with samplings of what Locke has done to piss off his first mentor, Thiefmaker. “’His problem’ said the Thiefmaker, ‘is that if I can’t sell him to you, I’m going to have to slit his throat and throw him into the bay.’” (3) With each scene, Lynch offers a little more information about Locke’s time with the Thiefmaker, and a little more of what Locke has done. As readers we want to know the answer, and we keep turning the page until we do. Father Chains even voices our thoughts on the matter. “’The boy’s done something you can’t even mention in front of the others?’… ‘Shit. This sounds like something I might actually be interested in hearing.’” (7) Already, Locke’s personality takes shape; even amongst these thieves of ill repute, he becomes a point of interest.

            Often I find authors employ characters’ passion for something to eke out empathy for those characters. Locke excels at what he does, and he loves doing it. Thiefmaker makes his living buying displaced children and turning them into thieves. And Lynch makes a point to briefly illustrate the Thiefmaker’s experience and rise to prominence in order to add poignancy when he tells Father Chains, “…nobody—and I mean nobody—has ever been hungry for it like this boy. If he had a bloody gash across his throat and a physiker was trying to sew it up, Lamora would steal the needle and thread and die laughing.’” (16) Here Lynch endears us to Locke. Yes Locke does nefarious things, but he loves doing them, and learning to do them.

            At the same time we already know Locke is a troublemaker. “He broke the Secret Peace the first night I had him, the cheeky little bastard.’” (14) At every turn, Locke both impresses and defies the Thiefmaker, a man with a tried and tested system of thieves. “’You lifted these from the fucking city watch? From the yellowjackets?’ Locke nodded, more enthusiastically…” (14) Oh yes, our hero isa rebel who revels in his success, and he audaciously escalates his activities while he perfects his craft. What is his craft? It’s called The Lies of Locke Lamora for a reason.

            Thiefmaker sets up Locke as a teaser – the one who distracts the person or crowd while the actual theft happens. “He was sullen and friendless inside the hill, but teasing brought him to life.” (19) And tease he does. But soon Locke’s teases, his lies, become bigger and bigger, presenting problems to Thiefmaker. As Thiefmaker puts it, he prefers a degree of circumspection in his workers. “’The other teasers are going out day after day to watch you, not to do their bloody jobs…get my crew of happy little jack-offs back to their own teasing, and quit being such a celebrity with your own.” (21) Just like Locke’s fellow thief children, we readers grow more and more fascinated by Locke’s antics. The final straw with Thiefmaker happens after Locke sets fire to a tavern during a tease, causing panic and a plague scare. Thiefmaker puts it very succinctly: “The problem with you, Locke fucking Lamora, is that you are not circumspect.” (23). When he discovers Locke has two hits put out on his other children, Thiefmaker gives up and dumps off his problem to Father Chains. 

            Locke suddenly finds himself in capable hands. Whereas Thiefmaker worked a system that Locke didn’t fit into, and as a result couldn’t handle him, Father Chains proves equal to the task. Posing as a man of religion, Father Chains spread his fame by publicly blinding and chaining himself to his house of worship. Of course these turn out to be theatrics, and he really runs a ring of thieves. The lies Father Chains perpetuates seem to align themselves with Locke’s personality. “’Don’t call me ‘master’. Makes my balls shrivel and my teeth crack. Just call me Father Chains… ‘There are only three people you can never fool—pawnbrokers, whores, and your mother. Since your mother’s dead, I’ve taken her place.’” (35-36) I always look for family when reading an introduction, and here Father Chains proclaims himself Locke’s mother. With Locke’s family, mentor, and personality set, Lynch jumps the timeframe forward, and the story begins.

 

Beginnings: Inkheart

Beginnings: Inkheart

            In this week’s Beginnings, I look at Cornelia Funke’s Inkheart. As previously, I put the book’s introduction under the microscope to try and find the techniques Funke uses to make us fall in love with Meggie, her main character.

Spoilers ahead!

            In this story, Funke presents a tried and true ‘hero’s journey’, returning the blog to a more standard tale after a couple of weeks’ of dealing with atypical protagonists. Meggie is a twelve-year-old girl whose father has kept her, unknowingly, on the run from an evil force. Inevitably, the bad guys find them and kidnap Meggie’s father, catapulting both Meggie and her mentor, Dustfinger, into their quest. The inciting incident happens on page 71, when Capricorn’s men arrive to take Meggie’s father, Mo, away, and Meggie must take up arms to rescue him.

            Funke builds empathy for Meggie from two angles, passion and family, and in many ways the two go hand in hand throughout the story.

            A staple in starting ‘hero’s journey’ stories is a place of comfort, usually a family home or strong friendship, which is then ripped out from underneath the protagonist. Funke does just this in Inkheart, but for Meggie the “comfort” of family is doubly strong: “…[her father] went away quite often, whenever an antique dealer, a book collector, or a library needed a bookbinder…. And the book doctor never called on his patients without taking his daughter, too.” (13) More than just a father, Mo is her best friend; thus Meggie’s comfort derives from a combination of comfort of family and friendship.  They have been on the move all of Meggie’s life, just the two of them. Her life is her father - that’s all she knows. So when Capricorn takes him away, the weight of the loss is twice as powerful.

            Meggie adopts Mo’s passion for books, and this shared passion endears readers. Funke beats us over the head with the passion. Meggie loves books. “Meggie had inherited her love of books from her father.” (3) “They were her home when she was somewhere strange. They were familiar voices, friends that never quarreled with her, clever, powerful friends – daring and knowledgeable, tried and tested adventurers who had traveled far and wide.” (15) In the introduction alone, Funke uses the word ‘book’ 208 times. Think about it. In 71 pages that’s a ridiculous number! But it gets the point across. There’s something inspiring about a person who can commit herself so wholeheartedly to something.  Moreover, we all have been taught that reading is best path to knowledge (and implied power).  How could it but draw us in? 

             Early in the story, Mo keeps Meggie in the dark about the real reason they move so often. And Meggie isn’t an idiot. She is acutely aware of it from the get go. “For a moment she thought he was going to tell her everything – whatever there was to tell. But then he shook his head.“ (14) Initially Meggie is content to let sleeping dogs lie, but as the story progresses we see Meggie question Mo more and more, and by the end of the introduction, the stakes have been raised enough that she needs to know the truth. She won’t take no for an answer, and we see her join forces with Dustfinger to uncover Mo’s secret.

            Funke helps create audience empathy by emphasizing Meggie’s sense of injustice.  Funke knows that children can relate to Meggie’s plight. Adults keep kids in the dark all the time, ‘for their own good’. So, when Mo fails to answer Meggie’s questions, readers share her sense of injustice, one of the strongest motivators in literature. At the same time, Funke showcases Meggie’s curiosity and stubbornness. All her life, Meggie has learned secrets and experienced the world through books. Her natural inquisitiveness makes Meggie special, and drives her forward. She always wants to know the where the story leads. In Elinor’s house, this leads her to spy on her father, bursting into his private meeting. “’Pigheaded, isn’t she?’ Remarked Elinor. ‘It almost makes me like her!’” (47) In this moment, Elinor represents the reader, echoing their feelings. Funke has lined up the tools for Meggie to succeed on her ‘hero’s journey.’  Meggie has all the right questions, and she won’t quit until she discovers the truth. 

Beginnings: Artemis Fowl

            We continue our theme, Beginnings, this week with Eoin Colfer’s Artemis Fowl - the story of the twelve-year-old criminal mastermind! As with my previous entries, I will look at the story’s protagonist, Artemis, and how Colfer uses the novel’s introduction to coerce the audience to empathize with Artemis.

            In my previous posts, I considered two fantasy novels whose introductions concluded the moment the protagonists decided to leave home and begin their quests. But Colfer drops us smack dab in the middle of his hero’s quest, and we’re not entirely sure what’s happening. As such, I’m placing the introduction’s end at page 30; at the moment we discover just what Artemis’ quest is. During these first thirty pages, Colfer generates empathy for Artemis by demonstrating his motivation, his intellectual prowess, and the extent of his anti-heroic capability.

Spoilers ahead!

            Artemis Fowl isn’t your standard ‘hero’s journey’ fantasy. Conventional wisdom in fantasies places the protagonist at home or other place of comfort, to be displaced by unforeseen forces. Killing or “disappearing” a family member resonates with readers because they can imagine it happening to themselves. Artemis Fowl, contrarily, begins in the middle of the quest, no setup. Colfer deftly chooses this construction to fit his main character’s personality. Artemis runs the show, and the reader has to play catch up. Whereas in other stories external events force the reluctant hero to take up arms, Artemis controls this story and his world by executing his criminal scheme.

            Family still plays a role in this story; it’s just a strange role. In Artemis Fowl, Artemis' family affects him mostly in a negative and restrictive manner. “It was Artemis the First, our subject’s father, who had thrown the family fortune into jeopardy…Artemis the Second vowed to remedy this. He would restore the family fortune.” (28-29) Here we see that familial pride drives Artemis to strike out on his quest to find fortune, but we also perceive his missing father is not a sympathetic fellow. Artemis’ bedridden mother, whom he loves, also appears in negative light. Artemis remarks, “…should she miraculously recover…it would signal the end of Artemis’ own extraordinary freedom.” (20) And indeed in future books the return of both Artemis’ father and mother bring unwanted restrictions upon the young criminal. However, in this introductory novel, Artemis is free to establish himself as a true anti-hero.

             When dealing with an anti-hero, it becomes vital to clarify motivations. Anti-heroes thrive in a gray area – you never know what they will do next because their morality differs from the reader’s. An author must decide how thinly to thread the needle between the action and intention of their protagonist. Because the moral spectrum of an anti-hero is so wide, the author must choose where he or she wants their protagonist to fall. On a scale from Batman to Patrick Bateman, how evil do you want your character to be? If the audience can sympathize with the anti-hero’s motivation, they will almost always be willing to overlook nefarious behavior. And Colfer chooses carefully where to place his man.

            When Colfer highlights Artemis’ capabilities, he displays both the good and the bad to demonstrate “Just how far Artemis Fowl [is] prepared to go in order to achieve his goal.” (18) Artemis is a criminal mastermind, not afraid of psychological and physical torture – he douses the fairy’s wine with holy water, and is prepared to leave her for dead if she does not reveal her secrets. But at the same time, he offers her a cure for her lost magic, and allows her to live. When his manservant Butler questions him, asking, “Why didn’t we simply keep the book and leave her to die?” Artemis replies, “A corpse is evidence, Butler. My way, the people will have no reason to be suspicious.” (16) Pragmatic, cold, calculating; we get the sense that Artemis has killed before, but we know he isn’t a mindless murderer.  We also have direct evidence of Artemis’ criminality and ruthlessness to achieve his goals. So why would we like him?

             Artemis embodies the essence of a fantasy. We want to be him. He exemplifies power by having all the answers—a sort of mental superman. Artemis is always one step ahead of everyone else. The first time we see him he shows off his Holmesian intelligence: “You are wearing handmade loafers, a silk shirt, and three gold signet rings. Your English has a tinge of Oxford about it, and your nails have the soft sheen of the recently manicured.” (4) Except in this story he is both Holmes and Moriarty combined. Artemis uses his talents “…to do what he [does] best – plot dastardly acts,” (30) and the audience delights in watching him outwit his foes.

            As the book and the series progress, we will see Artemis make moral choices that move him towards "good", but at his core he remains what we see when we first met him: isolated, criminal, and above all brilliant. He makes decisions we couldn't make, goes places we don't dare. That's what makes him exciting, and that's what makes readers come back to him every time. 


Beginnings: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children

           This week--in honor of the new film that just came out--I’m taking a look at the first book in a fantasy series from Ransom Riggs called Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children. If you didn’t see my last post, I’m sticking to the theme of “beginnings”: techniques authors use in their introductory chapters to make their main character relatable and, thus, entice readers. Essentially, I ask the question, what makes us empathize with these characters? To do this I’m analyzing the introductions of a variety of fantasy novels, from the time we meet the protagonist to the time his or her quest begins. For Peregrine, that takes us through page 66 when Jacob leaves his home in search of the island.

Spoilers ahead!

            In Eragon, Paolini wanted his protagonist to be moral and likable. We saw Paolini set up a series of tests forcing Eragon to make the good choices. That way the audience instantly recognized Eragon as a classic moral hero, soon to be fighting injustice. In Peregrine, Riggs approaches the audience from a different angle. He appeals to a different emotion in his audience. Riggs isolates Jacob, painting him as the outcast, the misfit; he’s peculiar.

“…Everything in the world had already been discovered. I’d been born in the wrong century, and I felt cheated.” (13) This is the first time we meet Jacob—through a past memory--and this one statement tells us everything we need to know about both his character and the story to come. Jacob yearns for adventure, but he just doesn’t belong. All readers can relate; at one point or other in life everyone feels like they don’t fit in, either from social isolation or unfulfilled dreams. It is this feeling and those memories that Riggs targets, so every time Jacob experiences hardship or isolation, our minds immediately jump to those memories.

            Jacob doesn’t come from humble beginnings like many protagonists in fantasy stories. He comes from a wealthy family, which owns a grocery store chain - Smart Aid. But that doesn’t mean everything is peachy. His family has forced Jacob to take a floor-level job to provide him with a full working experience before he inherits a significant portion of the company, and he’s far from happy about it. “I’d been trying to get fired from Smart Aid all summer, and it had proved next to impossible.” (23) Rebelliousness and dissatisfaction. From this moment on, Riggs steers his introduction towards a disconnect between Jacob and his parents. This conflict not only motivates Jacob to begin his journey, but it makes it easier for him to leave his family at the end of the novel.

            The primary source of contention between Jacob and his parents is his grandfather, Abe. Jacob remains close to Abe, whose mysterious past becomes a driving force for the plot. In contrast, Jacob’s parents seem not to care about Abe.  They are tired of his apparent delusions and frequent rants. After a particularly bad spell, we see them argue with Jacob. “Don’t worry Jake, we’ll take care of all this Grandpa stuff//All this Grandpa stuff. ‘You mean put him in a home,” I said. “Make him someone else’s problem.” (28) What frustrates Jacob the most is that his parents simply don’t care. They don’t care about grandpa Abe, and they don’t care that Jacob cares. And after grandpa Abe dies, we only see their disinterest increase.

            Jacob’s grandpa’s suspicious death is the plot’s inciting incident. Afterwards Jacob withdraws even further. He saw a monster at the scene of the murder, but no one will believe him. “Even my best and only friend Ricky didn’t believe me, and he’d been there…it was months before I’d see him again. So much for having friends.” (42-43) Everyone thinks Jacob is having some kind of post-traumatic induced delusion. His parents decide to send him to a psychiatrist, and they tiptoe around him to the point where he actually starts to feel crazy. And at the center of it all, Jacob blames himself. “If only I’d believed him was my endless refrain. But I hadn’t believed him, and neither had anyone else, and now I knew how he must’ve felt because no one believed me, either” (38)

            Riggs shrinks Jacob’s world, making him feel alone on all fronts. His best friend gone, his parents uncaring, and his mentor dead, Jacob lashes out at those closest to him: To his parents, “I yelled…that they were glad Grandpa Portman was dead. That I was the only one who really loved him.” (40); To Ricky, “What are you my mom?’//Do I look like a truck stop hooker?’…I yelled at him to get out, but he was already going.” (43); To his psychiatrist, “That’s such psychobabble bullshit.’ I spat… I wanted him to get mad, to argue-to insist I was wrong.” (55). Piece by piece, Riggs uses Jacob to remove all the players from Jacob’s life, so that when, for his birthday, Jacob receives one last clue from his grandpa, he is free to start his quest.

            By page 66, Jacob has decided to pursue the truth about his grandpa’s death. He leaves everything behind, and although he doesn’t know it, he won’t return. Riggs designed his whole introduction to justify this rebellion. He needed Jacob disconnected from his family and friends so that when, at the end of the novel, Jacob chooses to travel through time leaving all behind, the audience can handle that Jake’s parents will never see their son again (at least not in this book). The future his parents want for Jake isn’t the one that he wants. And because Riggs does a wonderful job bringing us to Jacob’s side, we sympathize with his plan. By contrasting Jacob to everyone around him, Riggs forces us to see that he is a passionate, caring individual, with a drive for adventure. He’s just happens to be a little peculiar.

Beginnings: Eragon

            Hello readers! This week will be the first in a series of writings following the theme Beginnings. The way it’s going to work is: I pick a popular fantasy series, read or re-read one of its books each week, and then write about it. For Beginnings, I am narrowing the scope of my writing to focus on the protagonist during each story’s introduction. What makes us root for a character? My goal is to inspire a dialog with other fantasy lovers while bettering my understanding of structure. In my own work I find this facet particularly challenging, so what better way to improve myself than to examine how successful writers do it?

First up, Christopher Paolini’s Eragon from the Inheritance Cycle! Needless to say, spoilers ahead.  

            To see how an author induces us to empathize with a protagonist, I look at how the protagonist is introduced. It doesn’t matter how interesting a plot is, or how cool a magic system is, if the audience isn’t on the protagonist’s side. That’s how we become interested in a story, by becoming invested in the characters. When I read a book, I want to envision myself as the hero. I don’t want to watch someone I don’t care about save the day.

            Eragon is a typical 'hero’s journey' fantasy.  You’re not going to see anything outside of the box here. Eragon is an orphan, his foster family dies, the old mentor appears, and Eragon must leave the world he knows to save the day. Yes it’s all familiar, but Paolini manages to separate his story from the sea of generic fantasies by making his characters and his world inviting. We are drawn to Eragon, plain and simple. He’s brave, he’s stupid, and he’s special.

Paolini geared the entire introduction of Eragon to make us arrive at this conclusion. He understood that liking Eragon is so crucial to his story’s success that he dedicated a fifth of his book to making it happen. By the time Eragon leaves Carvahall and his home on page 146, Paolini has subtly and not so subtly hardwired our brains to like Eragon. He does so by forcing Eragon to make moral choices that appeal to our sense of justice. That way when Eragon inevitably makes mistakes in the heat of the moment, the audience knows that his heart is in the right place.

There are a ton of moments to choose from in Paolini's introduction, and I'd like to try to keep these posts from dragging on, so I’m going to cherry pick a few of the more important highlights, and put them into two categories: what I liked and what I didn’t like. I’ll start with what I didn’t like. 

            Paolini makes liberal use of thought text. For a lot of the book we’re inside  Eragon and Saphira’s heads. Telepathy plays a big role in the story, which is all well and good, but in the beginning before Saphira shows up, Paolini uses it for exposition rather than dialogue, and it doesn’t work.

            For instance, right at the beginning, Eragon finds the dragon egg in the spine. His immediate thought is “Was it sent here by accident, or was I meant to have it?” (11) Paolini may as well have stopped the story and written a note to the reader saying, ‘Eragon is special, and this special stone is for him.’  Later on, Eragon reflects on his own origin, wondering why his mother left him as a baby, “I’m sure there was a good reason for what she did; I only wish I knew what it was.” (28) Again, Paolini beats the reader over the head with foreshadowing, practically telling us, yes there is a good reason and you’ll find out later. These are lazy ways of telling your reader that your character is special. Let us come to that conclusion on our own.

            I grumble because in an introduction where Paolini otherwise does a great job injecting personality and importance into Eragon’s character, these quotes stick out like a sore thumb. In other instances, Paolini achieves his goal of foreshadowing much more subtly and effectively.  For example, he has Brom recount an epic story about dragon riders and the past, right after which Eragon’s egg hatches. Immediately my mind jumped to ‘oh he could be a dragon rider!’ If he had tried to convey this same thing in a thought bubble it would have been so much less effective.

And as I said, once Saphira comes into the picture, these unrealistically insightful thoughts go away, but I would be remiss if I let them slide – anyway, now for what I liked.

            When you examine Paolini’s word choices, it becomes very clear how he wants to shape Eragon’s morality. The first time we meet Eragon, he’s tracking game in the forest. “Eragon did not fear the Spine—he was the only hunter near Carvahall who dared track game deep into its craggy recesses…his family needed meat for the rapidly approaching winter and could not afford to buy it in Carvahall.” (9) These first words used to describe Eragon tell us much. Practically speaking, they describe his skill set, that he’s a hunter with tracking and survival skills. But more importantly, they tell us that he’s brave, that his family is poor, and Eragon takes responsibility in pulling his weight to feed them.

Family becomes the focal point of Eragon’s purpose, and it is the primary device used to gain our trust in the character. After all, what is more important than family. Garrow, Roran and the farm are the only things Eragon has ever known. They are what ground him at the beginning of the story. Paolini needs to build them up before crashing them down. When Saphira hatches, she becomes family too. In the wake of Garrow’s death, protecting her becomes Eragon’s priority.

Roran is more than Eragon’s brother; he’s his best friend. “They could not have been closer even if they had been real brothers.” (29) Paolini solidifies this sentiment when Eragon mopes about Roran leaving town. When Eragon meets the miller Dempton, Roran’s new mentor, he “sourly wish[es] that the miller had never come to Carvahall.” (94). You never like to see your main character mope, but in this case we can sympathize. His brother and best friend is leaving. Who hasn’t had to part ways with a close friend? But ultimately Eragon appreciates that Roran is entering the next phase of his life. He wants to marry and make something of his own, so Eragon resigns himself to be happy for Roran. 

Garrow, the Star Wars ‘Uncle Owen’ of the story, serves as Eragon’s moral compass. When Eragon returns from town with purchased meat, Garrow is upset, echoing the reluctance that Eragon himself showed before. “You let him pay for it? I told you before, I won’t beg for our food.” (24) This sentiment echoes what Eragon says earlier when Horst purchases the meat for him in the first place. And Eragon isn’t happy until Horst offers him a job to pay off the debt. Paolini shows us Eragon and Garrow’s responses separately, so that we subliminally put the two together. Eragon respects Garrow enough to model his behavior after his. Both are proud and want to stand on their own, but Eragon puts the farm and family before all else, which is why he accepts Horst’s help. It’s unfortunate, but Garrow has to die for Eragon to leave. If Garrow didn’t die, Eragon’s familial ties would keep him in Carvahall, and the ‘hero’s journey’ would become a much more localized event. 

The moment Saphira branded Eragon, she became part of his family. The first night he kept her outside, he couldn’t sleep. “That night he brooded on all the bad things that could happen to a small and unprotected animal.” Eragon has a sense of responsibility. He cares for Saphira from the moment she comes into his life. Although he starts out as a kind of parent to Saphira, she quickly becomes his equal, and often giving sage advice in many situations. As she says, “I may be younger than you in years, but I am ancient in my thoughts.” (629) With Garrow and Roran out of the picture, she becomes his priority. Eragon leaves Carvahall in an effort to keep her safe.

Eragon also interacts with several of the townspeople during the introduction. To some degree, particularly with Sloan, those interactions played a role in shaping Eragon, but they are more used as a way for Paolini to build his world. Even Brom, who is a vital character throughout the remainder of the series, only really becomes crucial to Eragon after the introduction. They certainly don't impact Eragon the way his family does, so I’ll leave them out of this post. 

I'll say that Paolini did an outstanding job using supplementary characters to bring us to Eragon’s side, especially considering Paolini was such a young writer when this story was published.  Even before we start Eragon’s journey we know that Eragon is brave, proud, caring, loyal, and makes an effort to do what is right. Physically and magically, Eragon is untested, but the reader leaves Carvahall confident that Alagaesia is in good hands.