When I was younger, I
loved the moment before I started writing a story. When I had the idea, but not
the words. In that never-never land of thought and possibility, I could be on
the verge of writing the greatest story in existence (or at least in my genre).
However, the second I put down a word, then a sentence, then a page, the
percentage would fall. 80% chance of writing a masterpiece...65%... 15%...and
on down to, “well, it’s a book one or two people might love.” Once I inevitably
got to the end of the story, or even the end of a long process of editing, what
I had was far from a masterpiece. I would even debate if I could comfortably
call it “good.” Somehow, it seemed to lack that quality that all great writing
had, even though I had kept those ideas in mind as I wrote. Yet what I ended up
with was merely okay, a flawed hodgepodge of good intentions. Not a great work
of art.
Over the years, I’ve often
challenged myself to define the difference between “good” and “great” works of
art, particularly in writing. I’ve read so many books over the course of three
degrees and forty-four years, and though I’ve enjoyed many of them, only a few
dozen would qualify as truly “great.” Because it’s not subjective (not
entirely), and it’s not just about enjoyment or pushing an individual’s
buttons. No, great writing is something quantifiable, something you can notice
and examine and emulate (even if it’s impossible to replicate). And of course,
you might strongly dislike a work even while knowing with every page this is
a great work of art. I’ve done it—disliked, even hated, a masterpiece.
Because “loving” can’t be the sole criteria of art, or even a viable one. There
has to be more to telling stories and crafting sentences than falling in love.
Here are a few criteria
I’ve compiled over the years to determine the worth of a truly great
book—though note that these are rough sketches, rather than definitive rules.
#1: A Great Book Loves
Language. By this I mean that the writer enjoys writing for the sake of
writing. Words mean something, and are not just empty vehicles to drive
a story. Even a writer who hoards his or her words and writes very succinctly
can do this. But as you read, note how the sentences unfold. Read them out
loud. At some point, the words should dazzle you, the sentences should drive
you wild. There have to be passages that make you think, “I know what he/she is
saying but I never thought about it like that!” In short, some of the prose
should occasionally read like poetry. And poetry isn’t just ornate like
Shakespeare or Milton; e.e. Cummings and Raymond Carver also wrote poetry. And
both of them loved language.
#2: A Great Book Initially
Seems Wrong. Ever picked up a book and thought, “what the hell is this writer
doing? You can’t start a book like that? You can’t switch narrators like that?
You can’t end a scene like that? You can’t use the tropes like this!” No one is
more opinionated or dogmatic than readers, particularly in genre fiction. We
like books to follow carefully prescribed rules and enforce these rules
zealously as self-appointed gatekeepers. Great writers, however, like to
experiment; they simply can’t help themselves. They like to subvert, to turn
upside-down, to tell a story backwards instead of forward. Sometimes, granted,
the experiments don’t work or seem pretentious. But when they do, it changes
the way we think about books. Great writers always challenge the way a
story is told and why we read them. Behind every great book is a ton of bad
reviews and skeptical readers. Until someone finally gets it and goes, “we
should have been doing this from the beginning!” And then we do.
#3: A Great Book Knows
Other Books and Traditions. This seems obvious, but it’s vitally important.
When you read a great book, you can see/hear the other books and stories behind
it. They not only make allusions to other works, but write variations on
familiar themes and characters, illustrating that great writing comes from
reading other great writing. Too many books pretend that they’re the
only book in existence, that they exist in a vacuum, and worse still, that
they’re not really writing a book. A book should read like a book (not a movie,
or TV show, or something else); the writer should tell us, “look, we’re reading
and writing a book together. So what usually happens in books? Let’s play with
that.” Epic fantasy should be aware of the titans of Homer, Tolkein, Lord
Dunsany, and scores of others in the rear view mirror. You don’t have to tells
us you’ve read them (that’s boring and pretentious), but show us by how
you tell your tale and the conversation you have with your characters. Good
readers will figure it out.
#4: A Great Book Teaches.
Take this one with a grain of salt. Yes, books can simply be entertaining and
“art for art’s sake.” But even so, a
great book teaches you something about yourself, or the world, or the genre in
question. The authors can’t help it. A great book is so involved in the
tradition of story telling and the interior lives of its characters that
education will inevitably result. It’s like a teacher who goes into a classroom
exhausted, burned out, but encounters a classroom of eager students who read
the book and wants to have a meaningful conversation about it. Within minutes
the teacher will be in love with life again. Ideas will spark up and the
teacher will see connections that previously eluded him/her—as well as the
students. When a writer is confronted by great ideas, more ideas result. Many
of these ideas will be new to us and will change how we see the world.
#5: A Great Book Scratches
an Itch. Simply put, a great book sees something that we’re all interested in,
or worried about, or wanting to talk about but were afraid to speak up. The
great book says all of these things and scratches that cultural itch.
You can see this happen in real time. When a book explodes, it’s because it’s
found one of our itches and goes to town scratching it. Harry Potter,
Twilight, The Hunger Games, The Martian—these are all books that figured
out what we worry and dream about and repackaged it for us in the most
engaging, readable form. You can pooh-pooh these books all you like, and even
question whether they’re that “great” at all (and this criteria alone wouldn’t
make a book great). However, there’s no arguing with society...we know what we
know, and when we embrace a book whole hog, there’s more than voyeurism behind
it.
Are there more criteria
than this? Certainly. Could there be a great book that defies all of these
criteria? Probably so. However, I encourage you to define great books without
recourse to phrases such as “because I loved it,” or “I thought it sucked.”
There are brilliant people in the world who you simply don’t like; they might
even be assholes in private. However, being smart isn’t subjective—it can be
proven, if not with degrees than with actions and results. The same is equally
true of books. A book might turn you off or alienate you, but that doesn’t make
it bad. In fact, the book that pisses you off the most might be the greatest
book you’ve ever read. Think about it...
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