
Therein, however, lies the problem. The concept behind the
book is fascinating, a deep world which demands to be plumbed, and the glimpses
of it we find were enough to get me to finish the book (and get it a couple
respectable awards, to boot), but exposition seemed to be the entire point of
the book. The author was so in love with her concept that she forgot to
actually write a story taking place in it, instead tying together a string of
expositional points with a half-hearted story arch.
There are those who would distinguish between stories ‘of
ideas’ and other kinds of stories, and the former category tends to suffer much
the same issue, from another perspective. By creating a novel ‘of ideas’ one
must necessarily take a larger point, usually philosophical, and weave it into
a narrative. The narrative often suffers from this, as in the case of The Fountainhead or Lockpick Pornography, to pick a couple I’ve touched on in the
past. A story which leans too heavily on its concept and its universe is in
danger of the same thing.
The problem with complaining about this is that it’s
necessarily a problem that will be experienced by the reader rather than the
writer. The writer’s bliss very likely comes in the explication of their
vision, their world, and the plot is a secondary sensation for them. Can we
really say that the author owes us anything beyond what their own artistic
vision surmises?
I would say not. If you want a book your way, do it your-fucking-self.
Nonetheless, the universe seems to be crying out for a
larger story, and it’s my sincere hope that it will get it.
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