1 Nvl Rib Rvu
Mar. 22nd, 2013 08:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
captainsblogDon't know if Amazon has posted it yet, but when I came to the end of a friend's debut novel, I needed to get the word out:
It's not easy being a writer. Especially if you're treading trodden trails where the rich and famous have gone before you. Want to do time travel? You've got to work around everything from Wells to the Doctor and everything in between. Spy novels set dozens of boundaries as inpenetrable as the Berlin Wall, thanks to the likes of Deighton, le Carré, and of course Ian Fleming (who has just become a major character in the NEXT book I'm reading).
You want magic? Sorry, been there's and done that's litter the landscape. Elvish references are too preciouses to work; wizards have seven phone books and eight films to distract your readers; and don't get me started on the sparkly if you're inclined to go vampy or wolfy.
It is into this minefield of tropes that Lindsay Ribar sets out in her just-released debut novel-
The Art of Wishing
-taking on the genre of the genie, needing to overcome a buttload of backstory to make it work.
There's so much of it TO overcome: from the original Arabian Nights tales which laid out Teh Basic Rulzz of the djinn, to the Bugs Bunny riff on it I still hear in my head, through the sidetrack of the Bartimaeus Trilogy-and-then-some, but ultimately including the Disneyfication of the whole thing that I watched on VHS at least 300 times when my daughter was a toddler. Ribar can't and doesn't ignore all that, but neither does she embrace it with terrible tightness. Instead, The Art of Wishing succeeds at making its own magical way beyond the obstacles. She does it, roughly, in thirds: respecting Teh Rulzz, rewriting them, and subtly making fun of them.
There's no bottle here, but there are masters, and bindings, and wishes in triplicate. They all come to Margo, her protagonist, through a combination of accident and intent, and that brings Oliver, the genie of the piece, into her life. Before long, both of their lives are threatened by a villain who isn't Jafar, or Satan, or whoever it was that Michael Ansara played opposite his then-wife Barbara Eden's navel. No, Xavier is as unique and complex a creation as anyone under this magical roof- and his conflicts, with the others and within himself, become the ones that the reader winds up caring about as much as anything.
Yes, there's also romance between master and genie, but it's kept both PG and under control. There is not a trace of Bella Sparkly under this cover: look at it. No extended pensive stares, no love at first sight, thank gods no offspring anywhere in contemplation. On the hardcover, at least, you get bare feet, upside-down hairdos, and a guitar. The focus is on love, not lovers, and that's where it belongs as far as this old fart reviewer's concerned, whether it's a designated YA work of fiction or not.
Then there's the voice of the piece. There's the general, and the specific. Lindsay is now just my side of 30, but that means she's lived close to half her life since the high school time she depicts her narrator as. Her characters' dialog still comes across as genuine to the age she's channeling, far more than this Class of '77 hanger-on ever could pull off. I also hear a lot of her own voice, both speaking and blogging, from the limited points of references I've had to each, so when Oliver says these words to her narrator-
"You sing like you talk-- like it's natural for you, even when you're playing someone else. You're just so full of joy when you're up there, like you're losing yourself in the performance...."
-they sound real. This author is real, compared to the words she writes.
The pace is even, there are few if any artifices to detract from the main point of the piece, and Margo is surrounded by a number of supporting characters who shine in a non-magical way as much as the magical ones do. One is Naomi, her best friend, and another is the awesomely named George The Music Ninja.
It's not perfect. If Ribar gave me three wishes to make it more so, here's where I'd go:
- First, I'd beef up the second-level characters. Beyond the primary heroes and villain (who might or not really be one), the "peas and carrots" characters onstage could use a little more meat and fewer side vegetables. In particular, one character in the final climactic scene stands out as a bit thin compared to the majesty of everyone else who is (literally) on stage at that moment. Also, the narrator's parents try to become the basis for a B-story for the piece, but it never really reaches resolution beyond inspiring one of Margo's songs....
- Which would be my second wish: I don't need to hear Margo's songs recorded and played back, but I'd love to hear more about them. About their words, about her feelings in bringing them to life. More than the one verse and one extra line Margo gives us. I know how important lyrics are to the author, and it'd make a stronger narrative if those words (which I'm guessing do exist off the printed page to at least some extent) were more central to what really happened.
- Finally, I'd wish for more wishes, which isn't, strictly, ruled out. But if Robin Williams complained, I'd ask simply that the narrator use "snuck" instead of "sneaked" when almost every 18 year old (and certainly this 53 year old) hears that as being "right."
But that's about all I got. TAOW is a fast read, an inspired read,.... dare I say on this site?, a good read.
It's not easy being a writer. Especially if you're treading trodden trails where the rich and famous have gone before you. Want to do time travel? You've got to work around everything from Wells to the Doctor and everything in between. Spy novels set dozens of boundaries as inpenetrable as the Berlin Wall, thanks to the likes of Deighton, le Carré, and of course Ian Fleming (who has just become a major character in the NEXT book I'm reading).
You want magic? Sorry, been there's and done that's litter the landscape. Elvish references are too preciouses to work; wizards have seven phone books and eight films to distract your readers; and don't get me started on the sparkly if you're inclined to go vampy or wolfy.
It is into this minefield of tropes that Lindsay Ribar sets out in her just-released debut novel-
The Art of Wishing
-taking on the genre of the genie, needing to overcome a buttload of backstory to make it work.
There's so much of it TO overcome: from the original Arabian Nights tales which laid out Teh Basic Rulzz of the djinn, to the Bugs Bunny riff on it I still hear in my head, through the sidetrack of the Bartimaeus Trilogy-and-then-some, but ultimately including the Disneyfication of the whole thing that I watched on VHS at least 300 times when my daughter was a toddler. Ribar can't and doesn't ignore all that, but neither does she embrace it with terrible tightness. Instead, The Art of Wishing succeeds at making its own magical way beyond the obstacles. She does it, roughly, in thirds: respecting Teh Rulzz, rewriting them, and subtly making fun of them.
There's no bottle here, but there are masters, and bindings, and wishes in triplicate. They all come to Margo, her protagonist, through a combination of accident and intent, and that brings Oliver, the genie of the piece, into her life. Before long, both of their lives are threatened by a villain who isn't Jafar, or Satan, or whoever it was that Michael Ansara played opposite his then-wife Barbara Eden's navel. No, Xavier is as unique and complex a creation as anyone under this magical roof- and his conflicts, with the others and within himself, become the ones that the reader winds up caring about as much as anything.
Yes, there's also romance between master and genie, but it's kept both PG and under control. There is not a trace of Bella Sparkly under this cover: look at it. No extended pensive stares, no love at first sight, thank gods no offspring anywhere in contemplation. On the hardcover, at least, you get bare feet, upside-down hairdos, and a guitar. The focus is on love, not lovers, and that's where it belongs as far as this old fart reviewer's concerned, whether it's a designated YA work of fiction or not.
Then there's the voice of the piece. There's the general, and the specific. Lindsay is now just my side of 30, but that means she's lived close to half her life since the high school time she depicts her narrator as. Her characters' dialog still comes across as genuine to the age she's channeling, far more than this Class of '77 hanger-on ever could pull off. I also hear a lot of her own voice, both speaking and blogging, from the limited points of references I've had to each, so when Oliver says these words to her narrator-
"You sing like you talk-- like it's natural for you, even when you're playing someone else. You're just so full of joy when you're up there, like you're losing yourself in the performance...."
-they sound real. This author is real, compared to the words she writes.
The pace is even, there are few if any artifices to detract from the main point of the piece, and Margo is surrounded by a number of supporting characters who shine in a non-magical way as much as the magical ones do. One is Naomi, her best friend, and another is the awesomely named George The Music Ninja.
It's not perfect. If Ribar gave me three wishes to make it more so, here's where I'd go:
- First, I'd beef up the second-level characters. Beyond the primary heroes and villain (who might or not really be one), the "peas and carrots" characters onstage could use a little more meat and fewer side vegetables. In particular, one character in the final climactic scene stands out as a bit thin compared to the majesty of everyone else who is (literally) on stage at that moment. Also, the narrator's parents try to become the basis for a B-story for the piece, but it never really reaches resolution beyond inspiring one of Margo's songs....
- Which would be my second wish: I don't need to hear Margo's songs recorded and played back, but I'd love to hear more about them. About their words, about her feelings in bringing them to life. More than the one verse and one extra line Margo gives us. I know how important lyrics are to the author, and it'd make a stronger narrative if those words (which I'm guessing do exist off the printed page to at least some extent) were more central to what really happened.
- Finally, I'd wish for more wishes, which isn't, strictly, ruled out. But if Robin Williams complained, I'd ask simply that the narrator use "snuck" instead of "sneaked" when almost every 18 year old (and certainly this 53 year old) hears that as being "right."
But that's about all I got. TAOW is a fast read, an inspired read,.... dare I say on this site?, a good read.