Relevancy

Well, so much for my “Pat Bertram books” solving my reading crisis. I’m down to only one left to read. I might actually have to start writing again! The only problem is that it takes me a year to write a book, several years to let it sit so I forget it, and less than a day to read it. Still, if ever a new story invaded my mind, I’d consider writing the book. Unfortunately, there’s been no story invasion for many years.

I just finished reading A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and of all the books, that’s the one I most remembered. Which isn’t saying a whole lot. I knew it was about a quarantine, knew it was about a biological weapon that had been released, even knew a few specifics, such as this excerpt where a reporter, Greg, and his boss, Olaf, are discussing research papers. Olaf says:

“Convoluted writing and obscure terms are a way of intimidating the uninitiated, keeping the profession closed to non-scientists, and adding to the scientific mystique. Just think, if diseases had names like Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice, doctors wouldn’t make anywhere near the amount of money they do now.”

Greg laughed. “That’s an idea. They do it for hurricanes, why not everything else?” He mimed seizing the phone and dialing. “Mr. Olaf? I can’t come in today. I’ve got the Bob.” He hung up his imaginary receiver and looked inquiringly at his boss.

Olaf nodded. “Works for me.”

That’s about all I remembered (and mostly because I called Covid “Bob” so as not to give credence to that whole mess), so most of the story was new, and I read the book as avidly as I did my other books. After the “Bob,” I had wondered if A Spark of Heavenly would feel dated, but it didn’t seem like it to me, especially since a theme of the book is biological warfare. Although a lot of people do believe the twenty-first century pandemic was biological warfare on two fronts, first the virus and second the vaccines, there’s no real consensus on the matter. And anyway, I prefer using historical references rather than current ones. It keeps the book from being controversial and it also keeps it timeless since too many current references date a book. That’s important for me because being an overnight success is a race that was lost almost two decades ago, so my only hope (if I even have a hope) is for continued relevance.

And the story is relevant, as are all character-driven stories. The prism of death and survival in A Spark of Heavenly reflects what each of the main characters values most. Kate values love. Dee values purpose. Greg values truth. Jeremy values freedom. Pippi, who values nothing, learns to value herself. All eternally relevant values.

As with all my books, the writing was good (though several words that were unhyphenated in the manuscript mysteriously became hyphenated in the published work). The story moved at a rapid pace since each important part was told by the person with the most at stake. And the ending came as a complete and satisfying surprise.

It does make me wonder, though, since this showcase of my abilities is such a surprise to me, if I’d ever be able to recapture that ability. And if I did, would the book still be a “Pat Bertram book”?

All I know is that this Pat Bertram book, A Spark of Heavenly, was thoroughly enjoyable.

Click here to read the first chapter of: A Spark of Heavenly Fire

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

Reading the Books I Wrote

I’m continuing to read my books. Not the books in my personal library (which consists of a single bookcase) but the books I wrote.

It’s funny to think that this is most I have enjoyed reading in years. Even though I read and wrote about the Wheel of Time book series, I’m not sure I actually enjoyed reading the books. It was more of a puzzle for me, a game, a thing to study and to learn from, a way to pass the time.

But my novels? Pure enjoyment! Admittedly, since I was the one who wrote the books, they probably find an echo in my psyche even though what I remember barely qualifies as an elevator pitch (a one or two sentence synopsis). But I don’t know if that matters. It feels as if I am coming to them fresh, not as if I wrote them, not as if I’d read them years ago, but as if I’d vaguely heard of them once upon a time.

I’m working backwards. I started with the most recently published novel, Bob, The Right Hand of God, and am now reading Daughter Am I. There are only two more books for me to read — the first two I wrote — and I’m already feeling the loss. I was used to having nothing to read that I truly enjoyed — I just read for no other reason than to read — but already I have become addicted to the surprises inherent in my books.

The biggest surprise, of course, is how thoroughly I have forgotten these books. Odd, but true. The next biggest surprise is that I really do know how to write and know how to tell a story. I have no idea why I’d begun devaluing my writing ability over the years, unless it’s because of that non-selling thing. Still, other obscure writers manage to hold onto the idea of their own worth, so it’s good to at least get that feeling back. I do understand to an extent why the books languish. There’s nothing shocking, such as with the Shades of Grey franchise, to catapult them into fame. There’s no horde of people looking to read anything new in their preferred genre, such as with the Wheel of Time readers, because my books have no distinctive genre. And none of my characters are ever despicable enough to command bestselling attention. They are kind folk who are nice to each other. The stories are never about their interpersonal conflicts, but their joint conflict with an outside antagonist, who generally isn’t all that despicable, either.

Whether other people will ever come to like my books, it’s enough that I do. The stories are fun with plenty of twists and turns. Just when I think I know where the stories are going, they head in a different direction. And the endings have all come as a total surprise to me. Not just the ending, but the twist that comes after I thought it was all over.

Now that the shock of how much I enjoy reading my novels has passed, I find myself second guessing what I am reading. In Daughter Am I, is there too much story telling going on? The old gangsters that the hero Mary has managed to gather around her love talking about the old days, and one long-winded fellow named Teach lives up to his name and has tendencies to lecture. But is that a drawback or a necessary part of Mary learning who she is and where she came from? I don’t know. Luckily, the book is finished. Published. And all that’s left for me to do is what I did with the others — simply sit back and enjoy the ride.

And what a ride! At its most basic, Daughter Am I is a modern version of the Hero’s journey. The hero, Mary, goes on a dangerous journey to learn about her recently murdered grandparents. Instead of wizards and other magical folk, her mentors and allies are six old rogues (gangsters and con men in their eighties) and one used-to-be nightclub dancer. By journey’s end, all their lives have been transformed. For a more detailed description of the quest, click here: Daughter Am I and The Hero’s Journey | Bertram’s Blog.

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

A Very Readable Hoot

Before I moved back to Colorado, I was living in California and taking dance classes. When one classmate discovered I was a writer, she suggested I write a murder mystery about our class, and she volunteered to be the victim. I wasn’t sure I wanted to kill off someone I knew — words have power, and I didn’t want to unleash that power on even a suspecting victim. Despite my misgivings, I started to follow through, going so far as to take a photo of our lovely victim for the cover of the book. I’d expected to have to take several shots to get the pose I wanted, but she sank to the wooden floor as gracefully as she did everything else, and lay in the ideal pose. Right then I knew I could kill her. She was just too damn perfect.

After a lot of procrastination, I did end up writing the book, though funnily enough, after it was published, she asked “Why did I have to be the victim?”

Another member of the class belonged to a book club, and when it was her turn to choose the book, she chose the book I’d written, Madame ZeeZee’s Nightmare, and invited me to join them for the discussion. I agreed because I thought it might be fun, but when I arrived, I found out that the discussion was to be cut short because of a baby shower as well as a birthday party. They weren’t all that interested in discussing the book, anyway. Nor were they interested in anything I had to say. The only person who actually addressed me asked accusingly if I’d been my own editor. I mentioned that I had several copy editors, and she just made a rude noise and said we’d all done a lousy job because there were more typos than she could count. I did ask her to point them out, but she ignored me. So I thanked them graciously and left.

I’d had a lot of problems with my publisher during the publication process — he insisted on editing the book but ended up making many mistakes. After several heated discussions, he finally agreed to submit the manuscript as I had formatted it, but I had no idea if he had followed through, though when I got the final proof, it seemed okay.

As I’ve mentioned in the previous couple of posts, I’ve been reading my books, though always with a bit of apprehension. This one most of all since I didn’t want to face the “more typos that she could count.”

I also worried that since it was more or less a novelty book, it would seem silly or lacking any depth. But I shouldn’t have worried. After all, it is a “Pat Bertram book.”

As with the other of my books that I recently read, I was astonished by how good the writing was and by how much I liked the book. Except for the brief synopsis, I had completely forgotten the story. I hadn’t even remembered who did the deed, and wow! The ending really blew me away.

I was especially delighted by the sly mention of mystery genre tropes. For example:

The first thing you learn when you set out to write a novel is that you need a strong protagonist. No ditherers. No brooders. And I am both.

And:

I climbed into my ancient VW bug (no, I am not plagiarizing a well-known fictional detective, I really do own such a car—bought it new when I was young and never got another auto) and drove to the gas station.

And:

Like a fool in a bad drama, I stared at my phone. Huh? She expects me to drop everything and drive over there so she can tell me something she could just as easily have told me over the phone? With a shudder, I realized what had just happened. The worst cliché of all. So often in mysteries, someone makes such a call, and when the recipient arrives at the rendezvous, they find the person dead.

And:

In every mystery story, it seems, there comes a time when the author wants a way to present insights, needs to show state of mind, or simply gets bored with a straightforward narrative and plays at being creative, so the storyteller recounts a dream. Since I hate dreams, my own included, I usually skip those parts of a book, so I won’t bore you with the details of my dream.

There isn’t a lot of action in the book, it’s more of a psychological mystery, but it’s a fun story within a story — a writer writes a story about a fictional writer writing a story showing how life follows fiction.

As reviewer Malcolm Campbell wrote, Madame ZeeZee’s Nightmare is “a very readable hoot. In this dandy mystery, everyone has a secret, a reason for covering it up, and a possible motive. The characters are well developed, the introspective protagonist wonders if she inadvertently set the stage for a murder by agreeing to write a murder mystery based on the dance class, and the cops tell her that in real life, most amateur sleuths end up dead or worse. Readers who love mysteries will enjoy this book. Writers who write mysteries will consider being more careful when pretending to kill off their friends in a novel. And those who’ve been thinking of taking a dance class will see the story as a cautionary tale.”

And oh, yeah — there were typos. Three of them. One absent hyphen, one missing “not,” and one extraneous “a.” It’s possible there were translation errors in the ebook, which she had read, but that’s a mystery for another time.

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Click here to read the first chapter of: Madame ZeeZee’s Nightmare.

New Favorite Author

I have found a new favorite author. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of her. It’s someone by the name of Pat Bertram.

I was going to continue on that vein, talking about that new author in the third person, but it seemed a bit too . . . cutesy . . . for lack of a better word.

I’ve been reading the books I wrote, and to be honest, I am stunned by what a good writer I was. Admittedly, the books had been written by me (and by extension, for me) so that could account for why I like them so much. They’re also (obviously) the type of books I like, the type that aren’t written any more, such as books that take place in familiar circumstances but that have an otherworldly strangeness about them. Bob: The Right Hand of God is a good example of this kind of book, and Light Bringer is another. They’re a sort of fantasy. A sort of a what-if type of story. A sort of speculative fiction. But not really any of those. They are just (as someone once called them) “Pat Bertram novels.” As if I were my own genre.

Light Bringer blew me away. Truly. It’s been fifteen years since I looked at it and, except for a general idea of what the book was about, the story came as a complete — and delightful — surprise. So did the more-than-competent writing. I truly had no idea I had used color and sound as a backdrop to the story. I had no idea the depth and beauty. I had no idea the research that had gone into the making of the story — all that talk about harmonics and graviton drives and mind/matter interfaces and laghima was new to me as I read the book. Amazing.

It’s funny, but I used to think that perhaps I deserved the resounding silence my books generated from the reading public, that perhaps my writing was amateurish, but Light Bringer showed otherwise. One problem is that I never found an effective way to promote. Another problem, one that touches on the first, is that I didn’t know how to categorize the books. As I mentioned, there is no genre to most of my books, and if there were, each would be listed as a separate genre, which is frowned on in today’s (and yesterday’s) publishing world. People want to know what they are reading before they even start reading, whether a mystery, a thriller, a romance. None of my books are any of those things. Or maybe they are all those things.

In that, I was an oddity, both as a reader and as a writer. Some of my favorite books were those written by authors with various types of stories to tell. An adventure story, then a science fiction novel, and then maybe a mystery. But those writers are gone. Well, except for me, and I’m all but gone since I don’t write anything but blogs anymore. (Though reading my books does give me an itch to maybe . . .  someday . . .)

One thing I do remember about my books is how much I had to fight my first publisher to keep him from changing my books. Or rather, I had to fight him to change them back to the way I wrote them. I never knew of a copy editor who added typos to a book, but mine did. Each of my first several books degenerated into a such a miserable experience that it made me lose interest in writing. But seeing how good my books are, I now know they were worth fighting for.

Even though I would have liked to become more of a selling author (my first publisher went bankrupt, so no royalties would be forthcoming even if I did become a bestselling author), it’s enough, for today, that I read and loved Light Bringer.

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

 

When Books Were Just Books

Once upon a time, books were just books. At least, once upon my time they were. I always knew books were written by people, of course, but the authors were separate from their works. Like literary midwives or hedge doctors, they brought stories out of the everywhere into the here. It didn’t matter who they were. Only the books mattered.

I miss those years of innocence, the years when the back covers had tantalizing blurbs, not a close-up of an author’s face, when the snippets of reviews were from reviewers, not other authors peddling their own books. I miss the mysteriousness of authors, when all that was known was the brief biography hidden in the end matter.

Now, of course, with the onset of the internet, there is no such thing as simply a book. Too much about authors is known. Too much is discussed. Too much is . . . too much.

I’ve stopped reading works by a couple of authors because of their politics. In some cases, I simply cannot abide those they choose to align themselves with, and it completely changed the tone of their books for me. I’ve stopped reading other authors because of remarks they’ve made online. I’ve stopped reading still others when I found out that opinions in the books are their own, not just their characters’ thoughts. In yesterday’s blog, I mentioned that we read ourselves into books, but it’s hard to read yourself into a book when you find the person who wrote it is too much in the book. And even harder when you find them less than admirable.

Perhaps it’s naïve of me to think it was ever possible to separate an author from the books they’ve written, but for most of my life I did. An author was simply a brand. (And often a dead one at that.) If I liked a Frank Slaughter book or a Graham Greene, I’d look for more. Back then, there were no dust jackets on library books, just some sort of generic fabric-covered binder’s board, with only a name and title on the spine, so that’s all I had to go by.

It no longer matters, really, that authors have destroyed their mystique for me because most books published nowadays are not worth my time, but I do wish I still thought that books — and authors — were something special. Something . . . magical, even mystical.

I’m sure it sounds hypocritical of me to think this way since my books came to be published because of the internet, at least in a roundabout way, and those I’ve sold I’ve sold because of the internet. But in a way, it proves my point. I’m too visible (and yet, oddly invisible because so few people find me). There’s nothing magical about how I wrote my books, no sitting in an ivory tower birthing stories, just one word dredged out of my mind at a time. There’s certainly no mystique to my being an author. There’s just . . . me.

I suppose I should be glad there are still human writers, even unadmirable ones, because all too soon, there will be mostly non-human writers wringing stories out of the nowhere.

Makes me wonder: will there still be human readers? Or will there be hundreds of little artificial readers sitting around reading those artificial books?

It’s funny though. Here I am being nostalgic about a time in my life when authors didn’t matter, only their work did, and yet the future when perhaps there will be no authors doesn’t seem all that much more palatable.

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

Reading Ourselves Into Books

I read a couple of novels by an author a friend mentioned loving. I didn’t quite know how to tell that friend that I found the books depressing and pointless, so I never revealed that I’d read them. Books we love are such a personal thing. It’s as if any book we read and like is a book about us because we read ourselves into books. Repudiating a book a friend likes is like repudiating that friend. Or maybe like repudiating that friend’s sense of themselves.

In my case, I don’t particularly like or dislike most books I read and very few that I like manage to touch me, so they don’t say anything to me about me. In fact, I barely remember reading most of what I’ve read. But I am sensitive to other people’s love of certain books, and hesitate to hurt their feelings with my cynical comments, so I keep my thoughts to myself.

I’m not sure other people feel this way. Since it doesn’t bother me if people don’t like the same books I like (unless, of course, they’re the books I’ve written, and then all bets are off), maybe the friend wouldn’t care what I thought about the books.

Actually, that’s not true about it not bothering me. I once lent a whole series of books I liked to a long-ago friend who mentioned having a lot of empty time. It did hurt my feelings that they were returned to me unread, but I felt even worse because my poor red-faced friend seemed to be as uneasy about the situation as I was. I’m not sure why I felt hurt. Nor am I sure why I remembered that incident all these years later except that I’m writing about people not liking books that others loved.

As far as I know, I’ve only recommended a couple of books since then — Tanamera by Noel Barber, a novel that took place in Singapore and the Cameron Highlands where one of my current friends is from, and I only mentioned it because of her connection to the place. I think another book I once recommended was Empire by Orson Scott Card because I thought it did a good job of explaining what is going on today and why. (Or maybe not. I don’t remember the book. It’s possible I recommended something else entirely.)

But there were no hurt feelings whether or not the books were read or liked because, since that first lending fiasco, I’ve come to learn how personal books are. As we grow, sometimes books grow with us; just as often we outgrow them. Which also goes to show my premise that we read ourselves into books. What we once were, we many not still be. What once spoke to us about us, sometimes only whispers now, or even remains silent. For example, I stopped liking the series of books I lent that long-ago friend and got rid of them during one of my moves.

All this just to say I read a few novels I didn’t like and didn’t see the point to the stories, but I won’t write about them lest I hurt that friend’s feelings. And I don’t like hurting people’s feelings even if the hurt is simply something I might have erroneously read into the situation.

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

An Alternative to The Alternative Ending to The Wheel of Time

In yesterday’s blog, I postulated an alternative ending to The Wheel of Time that I thought more fitting than the published one, but in my own “wheel” universe, I only reread the first eleven books, so there is no ending, which leaves two possibilities for an alternative to that alternative ending.

The first possibility is foreshadowed in The Great Hunt where the main hero gets trapped in a time loop by one of the bad guys. He keeps living the same few minutes over and over again. He’d been determined never to use the power of the universe since the male half is tainted and ends up making men go mad. He doesn’t know how to use the power, anyway, since the power users who could teach him are three thousand years dead. Still, frantic, needing a way out of the time loop, he finally manages to reach the power and save himself.

So, one ending is that evil doers, who are told by some of their evil masters that they can’t kill the hero and told by others that they must kill him, end up trapping him in a time loop because they don’t know what else to do. Hence, the hero keeps repeating the same eleven books without ever finding a way out. He doesn’t even know he’s caught in a trap since it’s a loop of a couple of years duration rather than a couple of minutes, so he has no memory of what has gone before. But it’s a wheel, right? So what goes around comes around. Maybe forever. Or at least until I finish playing my own private Wheel of Time game.

The second possibility is foreshadowed in Lord of Chaos, where the Dark One asks one of his minions if he’d use balefire in his service. He also tells him to let the lords of chaos rule. In The Wheel of Time, balefire is an immensely powerful magic weapon that destroys targets by burning them backward in time, so the target, anything they’d done, and anything resulting from their actions is erased. In a previous age, both sides used so much balefire that it practically unraveled existence, so the use has been banned except, apparently, in service to the Dark One.

So, the second ending is that the minion, who was mostly offscreen where we never really saw what he did, follows the Dark One’s dictates and creates chaos using balefire, but he uses so much and for so long, that he erases everything that happened back to the moment where the first book began. Hence, as in the scenario above, the wheel keeps turning, replaying those eleven books over and over again. Sort of a takeoff on Dorothy’s dream where she ends up back in the same place she started but without the hero knowing it was a dream and without having learned anything.

It’s funny that I forget so much of what I read as soon as a book is closed, but I can’t forget those last three cringeworthy books by the substitute author. Perhaps someday, as the wheel turns, I will, but for now I purposely try to put any memory out of mind as it arises. And anyway, this current preoccupation with the books will eventually pass so none of it will matter. Except that I do own those last three books. I keep wanting to get rid of them, but I don’t. I don’t know why.

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

Fool’s Game

I spent a lot of time researching the final books of the Wheel of Time saga, trying to figure out what parts Robert Jordan wrote and what parts the substitute wrote. Since there was no one place for the information, I had to comb through hundreds of sites and interviews until I came as close as possible to knowing who wrote what.

It was all suspect, of course, because even the parts that Jordan himself wrote were added to by the substitute. Occasionally, the substitute added just a few words, but those few words sometimes changed the thrust of the scene or at least diluted it. And even when the substitute hadn’t changed parts that were written by Jordan, they would have been subject to change if Jordan been able to write the entire ending himself.

Jordan was both a pantster (one who writes by the seat of his pants, who creates and discovers the story as he is writing) and a plotter (one who outlines, who knows the story before he writes). He knew the major points he wanted to hit as well as the end to aim for, but the journey to get there wasn’t plotted out. Which means that even if he had written a significant scene ahead of time to give himself something to aim for, by the time he got to that scene in the writing, things might have changed. In the books he finished, that was often the case, so it would probably have been the same with the finale.

He had supposedly written the final scene while writing the first book, which is why the end seems somewhat sketchy (both in the meaning of not being fully drawn and of not being totally true). The woman who helped the hero at the end was never named, had never appeared previously in the story, and was someone the hero didn’t know because I think at the time he wrote that, Jordan himself didn’t know. And yet, through several of the last books Jordan did write, he was developing a character who was foretold as someone who would help, so I have a hunch by the time he reached the end, this woman would have replaced the unnamed one. And if not, it would have been a grievously misplaced use of Chekhov’s gun. (Chekhov’s gun is a principle where every element in a story should be necessary. As Chekhov pointed out, “One must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it.”)

Jordan did seem to delight in turning assumptions on end, and even though he said that not every prophecy needed to have a major resolution, still, to have a character who was fated to help the hero and who was central to other characters’ actions (they thought she would kill him), to end up simply having her place a pile of clothes and money aside for him to use if he happened to survive the last battle is not a big enough payoff for all the drama instigated by that prophecy, especially since the hero could have done that himself.

The point I’m trying to make, at least to myself, is that even the parts Jordan wrote are not canonical.

So, basically, for me, the entirety of the final three books are not worth the paper they’re written on.

I am beginning to see, however, why people revere the substitute so much. Not only do they prefer his style of writing (though why people would slog through millions of words of a saga if they didn’t like Jordan’s style, I don’t know), but otherwise they’d be left with the utter sadness of Jordan never being able to finish his epic. Sad for him, of course, and sad for us. I have a hunch his ending would have been visionary if not spectacular — all the issues readers had with his getting sidetracked had pretty much been resolved, and he was again focused on getting the characters to the last battle. Most readers, I’m sure, are just as glad not to have to contemplate what could have been and are willing to settle for what they were given.

Most. Not all. Not me. I keep thinking I should be able to figure out what the ending would have been because of all the clues Jordan had laced into the saga with foreshadowing and prophecies. The “hero’s journey” concept could be a clue, too, since that was a big part of the origin of the books, but in the end, it’s a fool’s game since there’s no way of knowing what would have come out of Jordan’s subconscious and what he would have discovered as he wrote.

Still, as a person who gets caught up in literary mysteries, I’m sure I’ll continue to do what I can to puzzle out the end, fool’s game or not.

 

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

Using My Time

The more I reread The Wheel of Time books, and the more I can retain those millions of words, the more the irony and the subtle humor become apparent.

In one scene, one of the heroes, who is being kept as something of a sex slave for a queen, entered a room where a bunch of women newly come to the palace were milling around. He had a bad feeling about the situation, and he stood there waiting for “one of the Forsaken [what the disciples of the Dark One were called] to leap out of the flames in the marble fireplace, or the earth to swallow the Palace beneath him.” That isn’t amusing, of course, but what is amusing is that although he didn’t know it (nor could anyone who hadn’t previously read the books in their entirety), one of the women in the room really was one of the Forsaken.

In another case, a woman who was sort of a slave caretaker (Robert Jordan created some appalling civilizations), thought that one slave’s new-found acceptance of her situation meant she was going to try to escape, and so doubled up on her conditioning. What I found amusing is that the slave keeper herself ended up being blackmailed into helping the slave escape.

Because of small things like this, which cannot be seen until a reread or two, I’m finding this read through to be more amusing and more touching than I expected. It helps, I think, that I skip the torture scenes. (Those Forsaken do love their torture. Oddly, most of them undergo just as much pain as they give. I suppose that’s what happens when you dedicate yourself to the Dark One. Since he’s also called “The Father of Lies,” you’d think that would be a clue to his nature, right?)

It also helps that I know so much mythology and history, long ago customs and costumes, and all the other bits that make up Jordan’s world, because the knowledge makes the books richer, though I miss a lot. In a passage I just finished reading, someone mentioned the seals on the Dark One’s prison, saying three were hidden away, three were broken, and no one knew where to find the seventh seal. Seeing “the seventh seal” written out like that was a hitting-palm-on-forehead moment for me. I don’t know why I never associated these seals with Revelations and Armageddon, though I should have. I knew the last battle was Armageddon, though in the books it’s called Tarmon Gai’don. I just never got the connection with the seals. Now I’ll have to go through the books and see if I can identify what seals were broken and how they affected the Wheel of Time world. Like the fisher in The Fisher King legend, the Wheel of Time hero is “one with the land,” which is becoming obvious as the hero’s tempestuous moments are reflected by stormy weather. So too must the broken seals have some sort of correlation with what’s happening in that world. As if there’s not already a headful of correlations to find!

I know there’s a lot of correlations between historical battles and those of Jordan’s, such as the off-screen skirmish called “Altaran Noon,” which was based on the “Sicilian Vespers.” Since I don’t know much about battles, I’m sure I miss a lot of what he intended. Or maybe I’m not missing what he intended — it’s possible he didn’t really intend for anyone to see what he was doing; it’s possible he recreated those battles for his own amusement since he was a self-avowed military historian. (Before becoming a full-time writer, he was a nuclear engineer, and before that, he’d served two tours in Vietnam as a helicopter gunner, which contributed to his interest in military history. It’s also what inspired him to give his male characters their unique perspective about not killing women.)

I seem to be writing a lot about these books lately, but there’s a great deal to process, though sometimes I wonder why I want to. Still, I need to be doing something, and studying these books and this world is a good a use of my time as any. And who knows — if I can come to understand his world, maybe I can understand ours.

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

A Tale of Two Authors

The Fool, one of the major arcana cards in the tarot, symbolizes wanderings, unawareness, naivete, spontaneity, transition, vitality, the beginning of an adventure, the ability to embrace new opportunities. At times, it can also mean recklessness in the face of danger.

The Fool is often depicted as a young man with a stick, a dog at his heels. (In some tarots, this dog is replaced by a fox, which fits because the fool is often “crazy like a fox.”) He is walking blithely toward a precipice, apparently caring nothing for the possible dangers that lie in his path. He’s almost childish in his approach, believing that there are many opportunities in the world just waiting for him to explore and develop.

In Italian versions of the tarot, the fool card goes by “Il Matto.” In French versions, the card goes by the name of “Le Mat” or simply “Mat.” These versions give the name the connotation of “madman,” though in Arabic it means “a dead person.”

In The Wheel of Time, one of the major characters is named “Mat.” Everyone who meets him thinks he is a fool, and in fact, all through the books, that is the word most used to describe him. I thought he was simply an archetype, but when I studied the tarot, I realized he is definitely based on the Fool card. (And if not, it’s too much of a coincidence to ignore. Since the major characters in The Wheel of Time have tarot equivalents, either Jordan succeeded in writing the “all stories” epic he intended — a reimagining all our myths, legends, cultures — or the tarot itself is representative of “all stories.”) Not only is his name “Mat,” not only is his character based on all that the card symbolizes, not only does his character arc follow that which is outlined above, but he represents the Arabic definition of his name. As he once said, “I’m usually pretty good at staying alive. I only failed one time that I remember.”

The Fool supposedly goes in stages from a naïve country boy to a mentally ill outcast (and because of a cursed dagger, Mat truly did become insane for a while), to becoming one who has greatness riding on his shoulder, which Mat does. And through it all, even while Mat is helping save existence from evil cosmic forces, the other characters continue to see him as a fool.

And perhaps he is a fool. He’s the sort of person who will rush into a burning building to save people, cursing himself the whole time, while others just stand and watch. Most often, he rescues women, but as he has come to learn, “even if a woman needed help, if she did not want it, she made you pay for giving it.”

He’s also a character who has no sense of what he really is. Even as he’s breaking into a dungeon to rescue women who can’t rescue themselves, he insists he’s no kind of hero. He thinks he is selfish, though he is not. He’s a bit of a womanizer, but he only goes after women who want him. Though many women are charmed by him, he sometimes overestimates his charm. In one case, a woman was affronted at a slight given by one of Mat’s companions. “Mat offered her a smile. He knew he could smile most women into feeling soothed.” The woman sniffed at him and turned away, not soothed at all. “Most women, he thought sourly.”

Mat is a special character in the Wheel of Time. He only wants to drink, gamble, and cuddle with women, but instead almost always does what is right even if it lands him in more trouble. That trouble, in certain cases, means becoming a battle commander who garners immense loyalty from his men. He almost never loses a fight though he hates killing; he hates even more getting his men killed.

The humor of this character is subtly created by the disparity between who he thinks he is and what he actually does. This is utterly engaging, making Mat one of the few characters who’s fun to read.

Until . . .

Yep, until the substitute author. That writer has no idea what subtlety is. Has no idea what Mat’s appeal is. Has no idea where the character was headed. By the end of the last book Jordan wrote, poor Mat has grown up, accepts the responsibility he has fought against through all the first eleven volumes, and is truly poised to be the hero he was always meant to be. In fact, we begin to see beneath the “fool” to the tragic figure he is hiding behind that lighthearted mask. As he mused: “Taking responsibility drained all the joy out of life and dried a man to dust. What he wanted right then was a great deal of mulled wine in a snug common room full of music, and a plump, pretty serving maid on his knee, somewhere far from Ebou Dar. Very far. What he had were obligations he could not walk away from and a future he did not fancy.”

But the substitute erased Mat’s entire character arc, turned him back into that naïve fool, dressed him like a county bumpkin rather than the sophisticate he had become. Even worse, the author turned him into a clown without the underlying sadness that made him more than one dimensional. Apparently, the author knew Mat was supposed to be a bit of comic relief but had no idea why. And so poor Mat was set up in situations where he tried to be witty but made puerile jokes, got involved in clownish behavior where he played for laughs, was flippant for the sake of flippancy rather than to hide his true feelings, and often acted boorishly silly. 

The interesting thing is, Mat himself as Jordan wrote him was never funny, not even at the beginning when he was known as the town prankster. He took himself seriously, took life seriously, took his responsibilities seriously (even if he complained all the while), but never cracked a single joke, at least none that appeared on the page. Yet, for all that, he brought some lightheartedness to a series of books that could otherwise be rather dismal.

This is one of the reasons I keep up with my studies of the books even though (as you might have guessed) there is a lot I don’t like and cannot bring myself to reread. Not only is this series a masterclass in creating characters and archetypes with a few bold slashes of words, it’s also a study of the contrast between two authors. Though they are developing the same universe, they have two different writing styles, two different ways of presenting material (one is subtle in the storytelling, one hits you over the head with explanations), two different ways of looking at that world, two different senses of what humor is, two different real-world views that color their writing. (One was a soldier who understood the traumas of war and how soldiers dealt with the horror. The other was simply a writer.)

But the main difference? One, at his best, is brilliant. The other . . . never. Though oddly, (oddly to me, that is), most readers seem to prefer the substitute author.

P.S. Influences Jordan admitted he used to create Mat’s character are the Norse war deity Odin; the trickster gods — Loki, Coyote, and the Monkey king; Math fab Mathonwy, a Welsh figure of good fortune; Rommel, the desert fox; Francis Marion, the swamp fox. These last two reflect the “fox” part of the tarot card.

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.