Wed Reading Meme...well sort of

1. Fear not, this post will not discuss American or British politics in any way. Sigh. Social media is all about politics these days...hence the reason I've been staying off of it. Snuck on to my FB and LJ friends list pages today and could not run away fast enough. Been avoiding the news and broadcast television for the most part as well. Did notice that a huge crane fell across the Tappen Zee Bridge, closing off four lanes of traffic and shutting down the bridge for the foreseeable future. But that's only because it came up at work.

Had an epiphany recently while talking to Lando at work.

ME: You seem to be a frustrated teacher. Have you ever considered becoming a professor as a second career?
Lando: One problem with that.
Me: What?
Lando: I hate school. Have a niece who was considering becoming a teacher. I asked her if she liked going to school? She said no. It's a drag. I told her she might want to reconsider her career options.
ME: Ah. That's why I never became a teacher or professor. I hated school too. Loved learning, hated school - which weirdly, I found to be counterproductive to the whole learning bit. You think it would be the opposite.

So there you have it. Not meant to be an academic or teacher. Don't have enough patience for all the BS.

2. The other day, I was thinking about doing a post on writing styles. Actually not just the other day, for quite a while now. Why? It's occurred to me that what turns me on and off in a book may well be something as simple as the writer's narrative style. For example? I've read Stephen King, not because I like horror (because really not a fan of the genre) but I enjoy how he writes. He focuses on character-driven stories, with snappy dialogue, and quirky characters. It's the graphic ghoulies that I could do without. Eighteenth Century writers - I find painful to read, mainly because I can't abide the writing style. I feel as if I have to wade through layers of crusty words to get to the meat of the story.

I think that the writing styles I prefer are similar to how I think. Or the narrative fits my own internal narrative style. When it goes against my own internal narrative style -- I struggle more?
I don't know. There could be a whole host of reasons. Also, I'm not necessarily consistent about this sort of thing. I've been known to fall in love with a writing style that I formerly hated and vice versa. How are we supposed to understand how other people think if we can't figure out ourselves?

Anyhow, I'm re-reading the Illona Andrews' Magic Series, because I like love the writer's narrative style, sense of humor, world-building, characters, dialogue, romantic relationships, and metaphors. It works for me. I tried the S. McGuire October Daye series, and it did not work for me. I can't seem to get past the first fifty-some pages in the second book, A Local Habitation. The author's style of writing is irritating me for some reason. It's too...I want to say flowery, but not sure that's quite it. Stiff? Formal?

I should provide examples. Below are examples of writing styles in about three to four books that I've been reading "for pleasure" at the same time. After which, I'll let you know which I prefer and which are making me crazy.

A. "I'm looking for Countess Torquill. Is she here?"
"Sorry, no," said the brunette, eyes still on her clipboard. "Can we help you?"
I bit back a sigh, saying. "I really need to talk to January. Will she be back soon?" Innwardly, I was fuming. It wasn't her fault Sylvester hadn't told her we were coming, but I'd still expected her to be there when we arrived. No one ever accused me of being logical.
She glanced up, smiling. "Probably not."
"Damn." The multilingual cursing was still going on. I looked toward it. "What is that?"
"That would be Gordan, " said Colin.
"Why is she screaming like that?" asked Quentin.
"Because she found a flaw, an error, nay, a veritible bug in her code," said the blond, with obvious relish. "I think her poor obsessive heart may break."

-A Local Habitation, October Daye Series, by McGuire.

Reaction? I can't stay awake. It kept putting me to sleep. Or my mind kept wandering, and I was having troubles keeping track of all of the characters, let alone distinguishing or caring about them.

B. Now she led them forward and whispered encouragement and direction and caustic complaint. "The ruts are deep because wagons turn to go into the back gate of the chateau." "The wall on the rightis abundant with sharp stones. Avoid it." "Ah. That is a low branch. You will come to it in a moment." He could see her walking into hell saying, "On the right, take note of the chained demon. Take care to walk around him." His respect for her, and his wariness, grew with every step. He'd take every care capturing her.

She said, "It's not far, the gate to the orphanage."

On the other side of the River Seine, a line of pinprick lights marked the city of Paris. A few streets away, a single bright window hung in the night. Other than that, it was black as the belly of a cow. "How the devil can you tell?"

She laughed in the darkness. She was another one glad to be out of that cellar.

- Spymaster's Lady by Johanna Osborn.

Reaction? Also putting me to sleep. Rec'd by my mother. My attention kept wandering for some reason.

C. Slayer lay in its sheath across a night table, next to a man reading an ancient paperback. On the cover of the book a man in a brown suit and fedora held an unconscious blond in a white dress. I tried to focus on the title but the white letters blurred.

The man reading the book wore blue scrubs. He had cut the pantlegs midway down his thighs, and faded blue jeans showed below the blue fabric. I crooked my neck so I could see his feet. Big heavy work boots caught the jeans.

I leaned back onto the pillow. My father had been right: there was Heaven and it was in the South.

The man lowered the book and glanced at me. Of average height and stocky, he had dark skin, glossy with an ebony sheen, and graying black hair, cut military style. The eyes peering at me through the thin-framed glasses were at once intelligent and brimming with humor as if someone had just told him an off-color joke and he was trying his best not to laugh.

"Lovely morning, isn't it, " he said, the unmistakable harmonies of coastal Georgia vibrating in his voice.

"Shouldn't it be 'ain't it?" I said. My voice sounded weak.

"Only if you are an uneducated fool," the man said. "Or if you wish to appear country. And I'm too old to appear anything that I'm not."

- Magic Bites by Illona Andrews.

Loving this. I keep re-reading the dialogue and sentences. So crunchy. Keeps me awake and I forget I'm on a subway surrounded by people most of the time. Can't wait to read it on the subway.

D. Even in rapidly Anglophile New York, the political atmosphere by late spring was 'as full of uproar as if it was besieged by a foreign force,' said one observer. These were stirring days for Hamilton., who must have been constantly distracted from his studies by rallies, petitions, broadsides, and handbills. In choosing New York's delegates for the first Continental Congress, a feud arose between hard line protesters, who favored a boycott of British goods, and moderate burghers who criticized such measures as overly provocative and self-defeating. To beat the drum for a boycott, the militant Sons of Liberty, members of a secret society first convened to flout the Stamp Act, gathered a mass meeting on the afternoon of July 6, 1774. It took place at the grassy Common near King's College, sometimes called The Fields, in the shadow of the towering liberty pole.

Alexander McDougall chaired the meeting and introduced resolutions condemning British sanctions against Massachusetts. The rich folklore surrounding the pivotal event in Hamilton's life suggests that his speech came about spontaneously, possibly prompted by somebody in the crowd. After mounting the platform, the slight, boyish speaker starte out haltingly, then caught fire in a burst of oratory. If true to his later style, Hamilton gained energy as he spoke. He endorsed the Boston Tea Party, deplored the closure of Boston's port endorsed colonial unity against unfair txation, and came down foursquare for a boycott of British goods. In his triumphant peroration, he said such actions "will prove the salvation of North America and her liberties": otherwise "fraud, power, and the most odious oppression will rise triumphant over right, justice, social happiness and freedom."

- Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow.

Reaction? Puts me to sleep. Difficult to focus on. Have to re-read. But strangely gripping and compelling. So read in snatches before bed.

So there you have it. Although, I'm guessing most people won't see much difference between the styles? Also it should be noted that this personal taste. And all of the above books are best-sellers and have done very well.

Writing style A is reminiscent of a lot of fanfic. And contains some of the descriptive techniques and style flourishes that used to drive me up the wall in regards to fanfic. You can sort of tell the writer has had no formal training because a creative writing professor would skewer her to the wall for using hair color as a personal pronoun. I feel distanced from the story. And am working too hard to get to the story. It's as if I'm standing over here and watching these characters fumble about.

Writing style B is attempting to sound like it takes place in the 17-1800s. With a slight French accent. But doesn't quite cut it. It has a sense of humor, but there's something distancing about the style and almost monotonous. Again, I feel distanced from the story, and while I care about the characters and am somewhat amused, I am distracted.

Writing style C is witty, tongue in cheek, and tells me who the characters are through the description and dialogue. I can see them in my head, hear, and taste them. It's the most vivid of the styles and the least passive. It feels like it is happening now. That I'm inside the character's head, feeling and thinking her thoughts.

Writing style D is academic, yet accessible for the most part. It does, however, distance the reader. I feel like I'm being held at arm's length at times and lectured to. Which to be fair is true of most books of this sort. This one is a bit more accessible than most, in part because of the style is not antiquated, or too scholarly, and there aren't footnotes.

Your mileage most likely varies. I'm more interested to see if anyone shares mine. Because I expect most people don't.