What makes a good writer? Is good writing subjective, or is there a standard? Is a good writer necessarily a good storyteller?
I thought I was finished with such questions when I stopped writing books, but I don’t remember if I ever thought of these questions from a reader’s point of view. As a reader, either I found a book readable, or I didn’t. Either the story engaged me, or it didn’t. If I was okay with the book, I read it. If not, I read the ending, and if the ending seemed to be fitting (or a fitting reward for slogging through the book), I’d go back and finish the book. If not, that was the end of it.
For the past couple of years, I found myself not finishing most newer books, so I reread a lot of older books, many of which weren’t really worth reading again. Now, I figure if I’m going to reread books, I might as well continue my studies of The Wheel of Time saga, which brings me back to the questions I put forth above.
I’ve come across a lot of reviews and discussions where people say Robert Jordan is a terrible writer, which amuses me to think I’m immersed in the words of someone who is becoming so excoriated. (The substitute writer who finished the series is held up to be the epitome of a good writer, but no. Just no. I struggled through the books he wrote to finish The Wheel of Time, and I’ve not been able to read a single one of his own books. His writing is plebian at best and his stories boring.)
Years ago, I read in a book called The Practical Stylist by Sheridan Baker: “Clarity is the first aim; economy the second; grace the third; dignity the fourth. Our writing should be a little strange, a little out of the ordinary, a little beautiful with words and phrases not met every day, but seeming as right and natural as grass.”
That quote seemed to me to be the definition of a good writer, and I tried to write like that. Robert Jordan does. Some of his writing is truly classic and beautiful. The substitute author does not fulfill any of those requirements, but he does write in the preferred style of today, which is lots of dialogue, short sentences, short paragraphs, quick changes of point of view, with little that is elegant or dignified or graceful, and nothing out of the ordinary.
Like all authors, Jordan has tics (overworked words and phrases), and he does at times let his world building get in the way of the story, but that doesn’t make him a bad writer, just an unedited one. (That’s what an editor is for — to scrub unwanted words and meanderings from the text. Or at least point them out. But he married his editor, and though she continued to be his editor, he wouldn’t let her change a single word. Apparently, she and his publisher let him run with his books the way he wanted because he made them a fortune. Also, come to think of it, any rewrites would put him way past deadline.)
It is interesting to me that he wrote books that appealed to preteen boys as well as old women (well, one old woman). It also amuses me how often those boys say they outgrew the books when they tried to read the books years later. And yet, here I am, still growing into the books.
I do admit, though, that my interest in the books has less to do with entertainment and more to do with deconstructing his world, finding the puzzles and clues and references to our world, seeing how he wrote what he did, and to better understand his subtleties.
My latest find changes the books for me, or changes at least one character.
In the saga, the power of the universe can only be used by women because the men’s half is tainted, which makes them go insane if they use it. Despite this, the hero uses the men’s power out of necessity. Over time he begins to hear a voice in his head — the voice of the man he’d been thousands of years before. The way Jordan wrote this voice, it seemed to be an entirely different person. The voice knew things that the hero didn’t, and the voice seemed insane and totally at odds with the hero.
I don’t know how many rereads it took for me to realize that the voice was the hero. Because of the taint, memories were slipping beyond the barrier of forgetfulness that kept people from remembering previous lives. The voice created out of madness seemed to the hero to be the source of the memories. And the reason the voice was totally at odds with the hero is that the voice carried all the emotions that the hero couldn’t allow himself to feel. For example, he had to be hard to do all that he had to do. (The poor guy was barely twenty years old, prophesied to save the entire world from the Dark One, guaranteed to go insane, fated to die during the last battle, and everyone in the world wanted to use him or torture him or imprison him.) So while he’s being hard, trying to be what he thinks he needs to be to prepare for the last battle, the voice in his head is gibbering in fear, weeping, trying to run away, and sometimes laughing madly — feeling all the emotions he can’t afford to feel. And the conflicts he so often has with the voice are a reflection of his own internal struggles, having to be what he so does not want to be.
My knowing that the voice is in fact the hero, not a separate entity, makes him even more of a tragic figure, a human dealing with almost insurmountable pressures from both within and without.
Does this sort of duality and layering make Jordan a good writer? And a good story teller? I tend to think that it does. I’d really like to think that good writing is not subjective, that there are standards to meet. Storytelling, however, is subjective. Even constant readers have genres and authors they stay away from, regardless of how good or bad the writing is.
Still, I guess, it doesn’t matter. I’ll continue to read what I read, and to eschew what does not interest me.
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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.
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