Sometimes the Magic Works (10 page)

Could those who decided I was the right person to adapt
The Phantom Menace
into book form not have been aware of this?

In 1977,
Star Wars
and
The Sword of Shannara
were released within months of each other. Both books were shepherded through the publishing process at Ballantine Books by the sure hand of Judy-Lynn del Rey. She talked to me at the time about how important the
Star Wars
project would turn out to be. She told George Lucas the same thing about
The Sword of Shannara
. I could not bring myself to ask him if this had anything to do with bringing me into the
Star Wars
world twenty years later, but I cannot help but think that it did.

What the experience illustrates is that the people and events that will help our careers and prove important in our lives are not always recognizable at the time we first encounter them.

So I say to you in closing, May the Force be with you. It certainly was with me.

 

“No,” I told him at once, closing the gate anew.
“The cats will eat the antelope and zebra.
You can't put them in the same pen.” Hunter
looked at me. “But, Papa, they're nice,” he said.

 

T
HE
W
ORLD
A
CCORDING
TO
H
UNTER
, P
ART
O
NE

IN SEPTEMBER of 2000, my grandson, Hunter, taught me an important lesson. He was not yet five at the time, my first and only grandchild. He liked making things up, acting out stories, and playing with figures, especially pirates and dinosaurs. In short, he liked to do exactly the same things I liked to do, which probably says more about me than it does about him. I am quite sure I was not acting my age when we played together, but I excused myself by declaring I was doing it only to entertain him.

Hunter was always playing at being someone or something other than who or what he was. Earlier that summer, while we were attending the Maui Writers Conference and walking along the beach to dinner, he announced that he wanted us to be pirates. He would be the captain; I would be the mate. This was pretty much the way the pecking order always shook down.
Say something,
he ordered.
Arrrgghhh,
I growled. He grinned.
Let's go in search of treasure, Matey! Arrrgghhh!
We swaggered down the walkway, trading pirate talk as we went. I get into this role-playing stuff pretty quickly, and before long I was firing cannon and boarding hapless treasure ships. Down the walkway we went, Judine and son Alex (who, at seventeen, wanted nothing to do with any of this) hanging back. People approaching moved way over to one side to let us pass, giving Judine sympathetic looks. I growled at them.
Arrrgghhh!
What did they know?

On the day Hunter taught me my lesson, he and I were playing pirates in his room with Playmobil figures. We each had a pirate ship on which to sail the bounding main. Hunter's was bigger and newer. Mine was smaller and had holes in the sails. Hunter got the good guys, the ones with sashes and tricornered hats; I got the bad guys, the ones with ragged clothing and peg legs. I was allowed two of the four treasure chests, but no real treasure. I was allowed only one parrot. I got two of the four cannons, but no cannon balls. I gritted my teeth and reminded myself that he was not yet five.

We played the usual pirate games. Hunter had books and books on pirates and he liked to watch pirate movies, so he pretty much knew what pirates do. They sailed in search of treasure, often stopping by desert islands to dig up chests of gold. They engaged in sea battles in which all casualties were immediately revived following the fight. Prisoners were transported now and then to Pirate Island, another Playmobil contraption, where they were chained in a cave, or they were set adrift on rafts and menaced by sharks, some of which came from Lego sets.

But in Hunter's world, pirates had a more colorful and diverse life than those we are familiar with from the history books. Hunter's pirates went on picnics, complete with tables and folding chairs, grills and cooking implements, and a family dog. They had a country home, which they visited regularly. At the country home, they had a dolphin pen and a spa. They also had a four-wheel-drive vehicle, which they took for rides, frequently encountering Godzilla. Sometimes they had sleepovers with medical personnel from the nearby hospital, who brought along an ambulance in case of emergencies.

Today the pirates were going to the zoo, which Hunter and I had constructed from building blocks. The zoo consisted of a series of pens containing the various species of animals. There was a pen for the big cats, one for the grass eaters, one for the primates, another for birds, and one more for the alligators and hippos. The pirates walked along the top of the blocks and looked down at the animals. They had a group of children along, which they had agreed to shepherd on a school outing. There was an entry gate and a ticket booth. The four-wheel-drive vehicle that transported them was left in the parking lot with the dog.

Hey, this is Hunter's scenario, not mine.

Halfway through the zoo visit, Hunter decided to open the gate between the big cats and the grass eaters and let them visit. I was quick to tell him he couldn't do that; the big cats would eat the grass eaters. I shut the gate firmly. He looked at me for a moment without comment, then went back to playing.

A little while later, he opened the gate again.

“No,” I told him at once, closing it anew. “The cats will eat the antelope and zebra. You can't put them in the same pen.”

Hunter looked at me. “But, Papa, they're nice,” he said, referring to the big cats.

I then launched into a ridiculous attempt to explain animal behavior, which failed miserably. Hunter had no idea what I was talking about, nor should he have. Nevertheless, the gate stayed shut.

Until, only moments later, Hunter opened it yet again and began to move the big cats through. I was befuddled and irritated. “Hunter, you can't do that!” I exclaimed in frustration. “Haven't you been listening to me?”

Hunter, equally frustrated, put his hands on his hips, squared himself around, and shouted, “Papa! We're pretending!”

Oh.

Sorry, I forgot.

I thought about this later, chagrined that I needed my grandson to remind me what it is that we do when we play. How could I lose sight of such an obvious truth—I, who make a living at pretending and is supposed to know better? Without a second thought, I had disrupted the smooth flow of our playtime by shutting down possibilities simply because they don't exist in the real world. I was telling Hunter that he shouldn't do things if they weren't already accepted as feasible. I was closing off the faucet of his imagination so that he would conform to what everybody else believes.

I was reminded of something that I heard a few years back at a lecture on writers and books. The speakers were John Edgar Wideman and Terry McMillan. They talked about their approach to their writing and their view of publishing. I had forgotten most of it, but not one essential part of what Wideman said. He argued that our book culture is systematically devaluing the importance of imagination. He remembered when the
New York Times Book Review
, the premiere newspaper publication in the country, devoted approximately two-thirds of its space to fiction and one-third to nonfiction. That was now reversed, with increasingly less space being devoted to fiction all the time. It was representative of what was happening everywhere. There was a pervasive feeling among readers and reviewers that fiction was less important than nonfiction. We had arrived at a point where books bearing the words
Based on a true story
somehow had greater value than those that didn't. We were obsessed with “reality entertainment.” If it wasn't true in the world at large, how could it have importance to us as readers?

On remembering, I was struck anew by the immensity of this pronouncement and its far-reaching implications. I know enough about the world to appreciate that the one constant in life is change. But change does not happen without imagination. Progress occurs not because we remain satisfied with what is, but because we hunger for what might be. We are always looking to take that next step. But the next step begins with looking beyond the possible to the impossible—because what seems impossible to us today becomes commonplace tomorrow. It is one of the primary lessons of the world, and it has its roots firmly embedded in the fertile loam of our recognition and celebration of the importance of the imagination.

Hunter doesn't know this. But I do. If I am to set a good example for him, then I must give him a chance to discover this truth on his own. I must encourage, not discourage, his use of imagination. I must remember that not only must I not close off the possibilities he chooses to explore—whether I believe them realistic or not—but I must encourage him to find a way to open the locked doors that bar his way.

But it is not only Hunter's imagination that needs care and nurturing. It is my own, as well. It would seem obvious that a writer of fantasy would not need to be reminded of this. But as the pirate incident so clearly demonstrated, I am as likely as the next person to fall under the sway of the world's overarching desire to remove the larger part of life's nagging doubts by embracing the norm. As much as the next person, I seek reassurance that some things are dependably constant. I want a modicum of stability in my life. I want a sense of security and control. Using the imagination can stir up trouble. Challenging the status quo of things sometimes evokes unnecessary concerns about what we've always accepted as true.

It is so much easier just to let things be. Big cats can't be put in the same pen as grass eaters. Everyone knows that. Everyone knows what will happen if you try.

Except children, of course. They think anything is possible.

 

I read so many books of fiction in which the author fails to give any real time and effort to coming up with a good beginning or ending that I grow discouraged.

 

B
EGINNINGS
AND
E
NDINGS

I GAVE CONSIDERABLE thought to whether or not to write this chapter, worrying that the subject matter was too esoteric and my opinion too subjective. I finally decided I should—had to, in fact. I read so many works of fiction in which the author fails to give any real time and effort to coming up with a good beginning or ending that I grow discouraged. It should be self-evident that both are exceedingly important, that the function of each is so crucial to the success of a book that a failure at either front or back is likely to sink the whole project.

You think I exaggerate? Protest too much? Then here is my defense. You decide if it's a good one.

We have lots of choices for how we spend our free time. Books are only one option and not necessarily the most exciting one. You can argue until you are blue in the face (and I have) that books are the best and most satisfying choice, but they are not the one most people think of first. Otherwise, more people would be reading than going to movies or attending sports events or playing video and computer games or watching television, and they aren't. Reading a book is the least visual form of entertainment (aside from listening to music), yet requires the most work from the participant. Think about it. If you watch television or go to a movie or attend a sporting event or a concert, all you have to do is sit there and let it happen. If you play a video or computer game, you have to exercise your thumb and a few fingers and in some extreme cases your brain, but you still have a screen to tell you what is happening. When you read a book, everything takes place in your mind. Not only do you have to imagine the landscape and the characters and the action, you have to remember it all for at least a couple of days or maybe weeks, depending on how fast you read.

We must also accept that we live in a time when speed is the central component of most forms of entertainment. Television takes place in ever-shortened segments broken up by rapid scene shifts and endless commercials. Movies and sporting events last no more than a couple of hours and rely heavily on visual movement for their allure. Video and computer games—well, you don't need me to tell you about speed there. That leaves books as the single form of entertainment that really doesn't happen quickly, even when the story is a fast-paced one, simply because it takes time to read and digest all those words and imagine all those pictures.

What all this means is that to a large extent other forms of entertainment drive the way readers approach books. Like it or not, or even realize it or not, they are influenced by all this fastness, this rapidity. I would submit that if a book doesn't hook most readers in the first couple of pages, they grow less and less likely as they proceed with the reading of it to want to continue. If they even get that far, I might add, because they might not get past the jacket copy when they first pick it up in the bookstore. It takes a lot to persuade a reader to take a chance on any particular book. (With my aging eyesight, I even like to check out the typeface.) In any case, once the choice is made, readers don't want to invest an undue amount of time finding out whether or not the story is going anywhere. They don't want their faith in the writer tested.

Writers can do so much to help themselves here, and they so often don't. The solution is simple. Get into the story. Jump in with both feet. Start with something compelling enough that the reader won't be able to put the book down right away. It doesn't have to be an action scene—a murder, a cataclysmic event, or a battle—to get the job done. It just needs to be something memorable enough to avoid the letdown of a too-slow, too-meandering start.

I began
The Sword of Shannara
, way back in 1977, with a long descriptive passage that set the scene and gave the reader a leisurely first look at one of the protagonists. Really, I meandered about for almost the first hundred pages. I got away with it then, but I wouldn't think of doing that in today's entertainment climate. A good opening needs to be immediately compelling. A good first sentence gives it an even better chance. Readers who are familiar with and have read my books will stick with me for at least a couple of chapters or maybe even all the way through, no matter what sort of opening I use. But readers who are new to my work are going to need a little more persuasion. A reading of the jacket copy will suggest if the subject matter is of interest, but if I get that far, I need a vivid, compelling opening to make sure that reader's commitment to the book doesn't waver.

The single biggest problem with openings is that writers have a tendency to want to begin at the beginning. They want to start where it all happens first so they don't leave anything out. But the truth is nothing starts at the beginning, at least not since the time of Adam and Eve. Everything starts in the middle of something else, and that's where it ends, as well. So you might as well jump in somewhere interesting as somewhere boring, and bring the pieces of the story and its characters together as you go along. Choosing the important components of your story ahead of time—and discarding the unimportant ones—will help you do that.

Endings suffer from a different kind of problem. Remember several chapters back when I was talking about outlining (don't cringe!)? Remember when I mentioned all those books by all those writers that were great for three hundred or even four hundred pages and then just tanked, all because the writer hadn't taken the time to outline the book in advance of writing it? Well, one conclusion we might draw is that bad endings suffer from poor beginnings. Another is that bad endings result from poor planning. The result is the same. What began as inspired writing some months back has suddenly lost its impetus. That memorable journey begun with such high expectations has meandered off into the wilderness. If the writer hasn't thought the story through before, now the pressure is really on. A good ending is desperately coveted, but not always immediately recognizable. Thus bad things start to happen. An ending that might not hold up so well under careful scrutiny suddenly looks like a million dollars. Or worse, the first ending that comes to mind seems good enough.

Sometimes, the problem is unsolvable. I discovered this the hard way with my late, lamented second effort, as chronicled in chapter six. I wrote that second book without thinking it through, and by the time I was four hundred pages in, it was too late to come up with a workable ending, because the rest of the book was junk. But even if I had written a good first four hundred pages, I would still need an ending that satisfied my readers and justified the time and effort they spent getting to it.

Think about it. The ending of a book provides readers with their final look at a writer's storytelling ability and writing prowess. It is the last impression they have of that writer. If the impression isn't a good one, it colors all the successes the writer has enjoyed up to that point. It mutes the reader's overall satisfaction with the story. It makes it that much easier, the next time around, to give that disappointing writer a pass.

It is hard enough to find a sufficient number of readers in the first place. Ask any writer working in the field of fiction today, and I'll bet they will tell you they could stand to have a few more readers. So why toss away a perfectly good opportunity to keep one you already have? Yet that is what happens all too often, with endings that don't live up to expectations.

It has been said that in the perfect scenario for a successful book, the ending should not be apparent at the beginning, but should be clearly inevitable and perfectly logical once you arrive at it. This symbiotic relationship between beginning and ending is what makes a book feel structured and well conceived. There should be a tightness to the storytelling that leaves the reader hungry for more because what was offered was so satisfying.

If I were given the chance to whisper like the proverbial muse in the ears of those writing or planning to write fiction, I would say one last thing. Don't settle for a beginning that doesn't feel strong and compelling or an ending that doesn't completely satisfy. Make your story arc the rainbow it deserves to be.