There are so few contemporary writers who are truly excellent. And by using the words ‘truly excellent’ in this context, I mean writers who have developed their craft to the point where their work is capable of inducing a sense of breathless excitement, as the reader marvels at the clinical precision of the carefully honed narration.
Do you know the kind of writer I mean?
The kind of writer whose work can be consumed effortlessly, voraciously.
This can only mean that the author has agonised over every single syllable, had repeated sleepless nights over the placing of each punctuation mark.
The American television series ‘Flashforward’ has been dumped by the programme maker.
We have never seen ‘Flashforward’, but a while ago I said that perhaps we should keep an eye out for the repeats; the concept looked interesting.
As a result of that conversation, Sophie bought me the book ‘Flashforward’, by Robert J Sawyer.
The bio section of the book tell us that Robert J Sawyer ‘is the author of 10 previous novels…’ which, to my eyes, is a faintly ridiculous, oxymoronic turn of phrase. Previous? We’re not counting future ones now?
*Sigh*
Unfortunately, the craftsmanship of the author’s bio sets the unbelievably low standards for the rest of the book.
The novel opens at CERN and begins with a tediously childish description of the environment, that includes the phrase:
‘The actual control room…’
Actual?
I mean, the *actual* control room?
Good grief.
But the literary badness just keeps on coming with:
‘Lloyd Simcoe, a Canadian-born researcher, sat at the injector console. He was forty-five, tall and clean-shaven. His eyes were blue and his crewcut hair so dark brown that one could get away with calling it black – except at the temples, whereas about half it had turned gray.’
Sigh.
This prose has already left the low standards with which the book started out, and is, even now, plummeting towards the literary equivalent of a crack in the earth’s crust.
But wait, is this a gleam of gold on the horizon?
Erm, no.
‘Ten years Lloyd’s junior at thirty-five, Michiko had a small, upturned nose and lustrous black hair that she had styled in the currently popular page-boy cut.’
What?
Does the author feel that he is duty-bound to express an age difference and then throw in the sum of the age differential, because he thinks his readers will lack the ability deduct 10 from 45 and arrive at the correct number?
And how sorry do we feel for poor, thirty-five year-old Michiko, whose only facial feature is, apparently, a small upturned nose?
The golden rule of any descriptive narrative is to be wholly consistent. This narrator appears to be intent on forging a new set of golden rules where inconsistency lives and has regular parties at the root.
I feel devastated for Michiko and her facial disfigurement, her lack of eyes, eyebrows, mouth… it’s all so… sad.
I am also devastated for anyone else who has tried to read this rubbish.
I could go on and litter this piece with example upon example of bad writing, but what’s the point in hitting someone when they are, quite obviously, down?
And out.
‘Flashforward’ is a novel constructed out of immaturity; the author’s narrative stems from a level of delinquency that is, frankly, embarrassing.
Some years ago, when I lived in Spain, I was in talks with the editor of an Italian magazine editor about hosting and running a writing course.
The talks came to nothing, but had they borne fruit, I would have used Robert J Sawyer’s writing as the perfect ‘How not to’ example.
Although I have not seen the show, based on the literary effort on which the show is founded, I’m not in the least bit amazed that ‘Flashforward’ has been cancelled.
I am, however, completely stunned that this piece of writing was ever commissioned.
