Prologues revisited:This is what will happen

I’m in the throes of revision of a manuscript that will be the third, and final, book in the sequence set in and around the Later Lands. The story is pretty well worked out and now I’m now thinking about structure and patterns. As I’ve said previously, I like prologues and, to fit in with its predecessors, I’d like this book to have a prologue. Thing is, as the prologues of After the Ruin and The Crooked Path were set in the past and present, respectively, this one needs to be set in the future (hence, This is what will happen).

That offers a problem: a prologue is set in the future will almost certainly give a glimpse into how my story unfolds, and people can be very sensitive about spoilers. I’m not myself, by the way. I’m not going to tell you who killed Roger Ackroyd but most of the time I reckon it’s not what happens that matters, but how and why it happens. If all the merit in a book is lost because one knows a twist or ending in advance I think it a pretty one-dimensional book. I’ve reread The Murder of Roger Ackroyd several times, not because I forget whodunit but because I enjoy its cleverness and sleight of hand. Likewise, I came to A Song of Ice and Fire late enough to be aware of most of the major plot turns, but the detail of how the story reached those points was interesting enough in its own right to keep me reading. But readers’ opinions on these matters differ, and sufficient people do care for me to be wary. The solution, I think, is to set this prologue far enough beyond the end of the story that it gives very little away as to the what, and nothing at all about the how and the why.

If you should happen to be someone who cares about spoilers, by the way, don’t worry. The text below is something I wrote to amuse myself as a distraction from revision. Whilst it’s a future, it’s almost certainly not the future, and though it’s a prologue, it’s almost certainly not the prologue. The fun of writing – and revising – is that these things are not set in stone until a very late point in the process. Between now and then, almost anything could happen.

Twilight in Ittachar, a day not long past midsummer. The cool blue of a summer’s evening thickens into dusk in the hollows of the hills, though the western sky above the sea is still wreathed with the fading glory of the sunset. Oystercatchers call, one to another, as they probe for mussels ’twixt rocks and weed. A dog seal hauls itself ashore and rests at the water’s edge, its scarred flanks lapped by the waves of the retreating tide. The birds, no doubt, mark its appearance but a seal is of no concern to them. They are more wary of the boy walking the shore. A little less than a man, this bright-haired boy, a little more than a child, gangling and awkward in his newfound length of limb but filled with the promise of strength to come. He stoops now and then to pick up little things that catch his fancy: a shell, a curl of driftwood, a pebble round and white as the full moon. A stranger, seeing his homespun shirt and leather trousers, his short cloak of unwashed wool, would mark him as a fisherman’s son. At the second sight, a stranger with a careful eye might pick out the ring on his right hand.

The seal stirs with a shiver and a shudder. An oystercatcher whistles a warning and all the birds lift as one, pied wings beating away across the halflit water, as a man rises to his feet at the tideline and shakes saltwater from his hair. He flings up an arm in answer to the boy’s wave, then strides up the shore with a grey seal’s skin draped across his arm and a crunch of shingle ’neath his bare feet.

At a hawthorn bush at the head of the beach, he cocks his head towards the land. ‘If you are there, show yourself.’

A shadow detaches itself from the gloaming and clots into a man. He is garbed as a fisherman, with a fisherman’s wooden charm hanging round his neck. His black hair is touched with silver and his black eyes are filled with laughter.

‘I was sure this time I’d catch you by surprise.’

‘You?’ An amused snort. ‘You walk so loud across the lea you might as well beat on a drum and shout aloud, I’m here!

The seal scrabbles beneath the thorn, turning stones aside to find a shirt and breeks and trousers, heavy socks and a pair of seaboots. He folds the sealskin in their place and piles the stones atop it. Dressed, he calls out, ‘Lad, your father’s back.’

The boy runs towards them, his pockets rattling with his treasures. ‘What did he say?’

‘What did who say?’ The fisherman lets his son’s impatience beat against him like a fluttering bird. ‘Can you mean the potter?’

‘Ach, don’t tease him,’ says the seal. ‘Of course he means the potter.’

‘Be easy, lad.’ A quick smile conjures another from the boy. ‘He’ll take you on as ’prentice. If you’re certain. You’re sure you wouldn’t rather wait a year and join the whalemen?’

The boy shakes his head, his answer shining in his eyes. The seal pulls him into a hug, ruffling his pale hair as if he were yet a child and not a great lad taller than himself. ‘That’s settled, then. It’s a good trade, if you’ve a knack for it.’

‘Neither a ship nor a sword,’ his father mutters, low enough for only a seal to hear, if that seal be standing very close, ‘but I kept my promise all the same.’

The seal glances at him, quick and hard, looking for regret, perhaps, or bitterness. Seeing neither, he lets the boy squirm free and says, ‘I watched the mercatship come in. What news from the west?’

‘No news at all, unless you count a song out of the queen’s hall in Lyikené. I had it from the fat mercatman as we sat together in the alehouse.’ The fisherman whistles a jaunty tune, breaks off his whistling to say, ‘Mostly it’s about the fall of the Black Rocks. Should be to your taste.’

‘Far more than that lament you had of him last year.’

‘Brought tears to my eyes, that one did, first time I heard it.’

‘Aye, so I recall. Could scarce keep a straight face myself.’

The boy looks from one to the other, reading the expression on their faces, their shared ease born of long familiarity. His face curves into a sly, sweet smile. His voice has broken in the twelvemonth since he learnt the song and its tune no longer soars into the tall sky, like a gull into high sunlight, but each note still chimes clear and true. Above the hills, the stars prick into life, by one, by two and three.

The seal grins and hums along to the boy’s lament for a young king, drowned in the flower of his youth through his nightwatch’s treachery. The fisherman sighs, a man sorely tried by the fools about him, though the glint in his black eyes threatens only laughter. After a half-dozen verses, he snaps his fingers in his son’s face. ‘Enough of that dirge. Sing something to warm the blood.’

The boy obliges, and the men take up the chorus. Then, together, they walk up the path towards the village, sad stories of the death of kings driven from their minds by a song of vengeance and of glory.

And far away, the other side of time, the quiet queen stands in the shadows of the apple tree. Her cloak is tattered and her feet are bare but there are stars tangled in her hair. About her and around her, the dancers of the borderlands whirl and swirl to the music of the stars and sea, singing the song of the wind upon the water. Longtimes she watches, knowing all things of all men, the living and the dead, until the three of them, the fisherman, the seal, the boy, reach the low, thatched cot and step inside out of the night, and close the door behind them.

Did this night happen? Not yet, perhaps not ever. There is as yet no fisherman, no half-grown boy to be apprenticed to a potter, no queen across the water. The future is a tale cannot be written, not even on the air or in running water. It lies forever out of reach, less tangible even than a dream. But, as stories link together, like beads upon a chain, like dancers joining hands to form the figures of a dance, the future is shaped by the present and the past, and so – if the world is kind and hearts are strong – this eventide in Ittachar is what will happen.

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Songs behind stories

This started out as a blog about folk songs. It’s evolved since then into a more general blog about books and writing, but the songs are still there in the background to my work. The inspiration they provide is nothing like as direct as in Diana Wynne Jones’ Fire and Hemlock, which is a fairly faithful version of Tam Lin in novel form, albeit a version with an admixture of Thomas the Rhymer. I’d no wish to rewrite or retell the stories from particular songs in either novel. Old songs, however, do set the mood for each book.

Like the Child Ballads, After the Ruin is full of revenge, love, betrayal and longing. Poetic grimdark, a good friend called it once, and that’s as good a summing up as any. Although each chapter of After the Ruin has its own epigraph, three particular songs underscore the book. These are The Unquiet Grave (Child Ballad no. 78, which is a dialogue between two lovers, one living, the other dead), The Bonnie House of Airlie (Child Ballad no. 199, an account of what happened when Lady Ogilvie defied the Campbells), and Tam Lin itself (Child Ballad no. 39; it’s hard to escape the pull of Tam Lin – it is perhaps the greatest of all the ballads).

The Crooked Path is rather different in mood from After the Ruin. It’s a lighter book, certainly for me as I was writing it and, I think, for a reader too; it’s less intense, a fairy tale rather than a high fantasy. This time there’s no particular set of songs to pick out as more influential than the rest, although again, when it was taking on something like its final form, I made the conscious decision to use verses as chapter epigraphs. Always, something of that song is reflected in the following text. Sometimes it’s an image, sometimes it’s a hint towards an aspect of the plot that hasn’t yet been made clear. This time the epigraphs tended to be taken from folk songs, such as Braw Sailin’ on the Sea or Cold, Hailey, Rainey Night.  Indeed, overall, the mood is of a folk song rather than a ballad; if there’s betrayal, it’s not followed, inevitably, by tragedy, and, if it’s poetic, it’s certainly not grimdark.

But for both novels, the epigraph verses offer a playlist and a possible approach to the story. I think of it as a form of intertextuality, and, if you’re minded to search out the songs from which they’re taken, you’ll get a fair idea of the mood I was aiming for as the story unfolds.

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The Crooked Path, winding its way into the world

The Crooked Path is published today!

Stories link together. What is done in one time and place spreads out across the world to shape the future: there is never a single beginning, never a simple end. But, since this tale must have a beginning, let it be when a potter carves a creature from dreams and driftwood. It carries him to a place where fair faces conceal foul intent, where two kings guard the firstborn tree by night and day, where only a living man’s love can undo a dead man’s hatred. And where, if he does not go carefully, the choices made in other times and places will cost him his life.

Amazon UK
Amazon US
Barnes & Noble

Posted in Allegory, fantasy novel, Hadley Rille Books, Harriet Goodchild author, novel, The Crooked Path | Tagged , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Five fantasy novels

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I’ve not been writing much lately. I have been reading. It passes the time and expands the mind. Making lists of best books is a fool’s game. Reading is such a subjective experience that any definition of best must depend on the reader, their mood and inclination, and likely enough the place and time of reading. I’m not claiming these are the best fantasy novels ever written but they are all books I’ve reread more than once. If they are part of a series or trilogy then I’ve read the others too but, for some reason, the one I’ve listed has something that causes it to stand out from its comrades in my memory. Oh, and I’m defining fantasy loosely. If the protagonist thinks there’s magic, that’s good enough for me.

The Tombs of Atuan, Ursula K. Le Guin
The second book of the original Earthsea trilogy is an interesting counterpart to the first. It’s darker and deeper than A Wizard of Earthsea. There’s a quest backdrop to the story but that’s not what’s important: what matters is finding one’s way, becoming oneself, choosing an identity. Its atmosphere is claustrophobic, its society stultifying and oppressive, its evil systematic and mundane. Although some underlying assumptions of the original trilogy have been revisited, and to some extent revised, in the later books of Earthsea, I still prefer those first three stories, and Atuan above the rest. The prose is simple and elegant, pared to the bone and beautiful because of this bareness. Read it for its images: the first sight of the Undertomb, the thudding of Arha’s bare feet as she dances before the empty throne.

The Steel Remains, Richard Morgan (or Richard K. Morgan, if you’re reading this in the USA)
This is a story set after people have come together, regardless of creed, race and orientation, to fight together against the monsters. The battle won, old interests reassert themselves and society reverts to comfortable complacency founded on filth. The fantasy tropes – the elves, the dwarfs, the magician, and the dark lord – are there, and all are twisted about into new forms. All novels reflect something of the time and place in which they’re written, and Morgan’s more than most. This book isn’t comfort reading; it’s cynical and angry, deploying violence to make its point – the complete opposite of gratuitous, in fact. Read it for its fury, and for the best named Significant Sword ever: I am Welcomed in the Home of Ravens and Other Scavengers in the Wake of Warriors, I am Friend to Carrion Crows and Wolves, I am Carry Me, and Kill with Me, and Die with Me where the Road Ends; I am not the Honeyed Promise of Length of Life in Years to Come, I am the Iron Promise of Never Being a Slave.

The Book of the New Sun, Gene Wolfe
Published as four volumes but, as with The Lord of the Rings, this is one story and I’m treating it as such. It’s complicated, non-linear, probably not fantasy at all, and has a completely unreliable, unsympathetic narrator who doesn’t know what’s going on and lies about things anyway. Read it for the language and symbolism, the challenge of puzzling out what’s happening and who people are, the rich tapestry woven by its words, not one of which is made up but many of which are not found in other fictions. Not many books have me reaching for a dictionary, but this, on occasion, did. I also spent ages going down the various rabbit holes of the Urth Net archives…

Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, Susanna Clarke
A whimsical novel, an alternative history of England chronicling the return of English magic. It’s a bit like Jane Austen, a bit like Tales of Robin Hood, a bit like The Madness of George III, and entirely like itself. This is one of those books where the story is not the most important thing: it’s a slow build, a delicious unwinding of characters and a drawing together of threads, and everything comes together beautifully at the end; a fine embroidery of a novel. Despite its length and early nineteenth century pastiche, it is a quick, very easy read. Read it for the footnotes and for the narrator’s amused, ironic tone.

The Tough Guide to Fantasy Land, Diana Wynne Jones
Not a novel at all but a deconstruction of a genre with a great deal of affection and a scalpel. It’s hilarious and very, very accurate. Read it for the entries on horses or stew or inns or… Well, open it at random and just read it. Whenever you start, you’ll find it’s spot on. Between readings, have a go at her Charmed Life, which would (should) have been on this list too, had I not limited it to five books.

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About me (not really)

Harriet Goodchild was born in Glasgow and lives in Edinburgh. That’s the complete about-me section from one of my novels. Short, sweet and to the point. There’s more to me than that, of course, but to my mind the book is the thing that matters. Does knowing that I’ve got odd-sized feet, two cats, went from Glasgow to Edinburgh the long way round via New England and middle England, and like Bittermints but not Aftereights enhance your experience of my fantasy? (If it does, hurrah!)

I don’t like talking about myself online. I don’t really like talking online. It took me ages to come up with the extra facts in the previous paragraph: they needed to be true but utterly innocuous. That’s why they’re so generic. Could be anyone. All the truly informative stuff, the details that are important to me, and probably of much greater interest to you than my taste in sweets, stays offline.

Some people enjoy social media, others don’t. This blog, and this blog post in particular, are as personal as my online exposure gets. I tried facebook but didn’t get on with it at all and visited less and less often until I realised one day I’d not logged in for months. It’s unlikely, I think, I’ll be going back. Family, work, day to day successes and failures, general elections, Brexit (or not), Independence (or not)… I prefer to engage with all such matters offline. I’ve had more success sticking with twitter but, even so, I tweet very rarely. Engaging with social media is like being at a shouty party all the time. It’s not the ideal milieu for an introvert. It’s my books that are out in the world, not me, and so most of the time I prefer to stay behind the curtain. That’s why this blog is filled with bits and pieces of my writing, and only the occasional, sidelong glimpse of me.

But I shall be at FantasyCon by the Sea next month so, if you want to find out what I’m like, that’s your chance. There will be a table selling a range of Hadley Rille’s fantasy novels, including The Crooked Path. My fellow HRB author Irene Soldatos will be with me. If you’re there, come and say hello. I do like talking face to face.

Posted in After the Ruin, Fantasy Con by the Sea, fantasy novel, Hadley Rille Books, Harriet Goodchild author, personal opinion, The Crooked Path | Leave a comment


I’ve not been able to write much this month. I won’t bore you with explanations; suffice it to say I’m a bit down and at such times things spiral. Anyway, here’s a poem about trying to write poems.

Poems and cats, alas, cannot be coaxed.
They come not at your will but at their own.
To attract either, you must find a way
To show you have dismissed them from your mind.

They come, not at your will but at their own.
The trick is to have other tasks on hand
To show you have dismissed them from your mind
Since they are curious and contrary.

The trick is to have other tasks on hand
(Paint the wall; bake a cake; dig the garden);
Since they are curious and contrary
They come when it is least convenient.

Paint the wall, bake a cake, dig the garden…
Poems and cats, alas, cannot be coaxed
They come when it is least convenient.
Would you wish either to be otherwise?

Poems and cats, alas, cannot be coaxed.
But when they come – such sinuous delight –
Would you wish either to be otherwise,
A lesser creature, summoned on demand?

Posted in pantoum, personal opinion, poetry, thoughts, verse | 7 Comments

Flat periwinkles (a pantoum)


Whenever I’m over in the west – as I am now – I walk the beach nearby the village and pick up shells. I am incapable of walking on any beach, anywhere, and not picking up shells. Being the west coast, the local shells are mostly winkles, limpets, whelks and the like. My particular favourite is the yellow morph of the flat periwinkle (the wee ones above, with a much larger common periwinkle, Littorina littorea); I have hundreds of these by now (certainly enough to fill three bittermint boxes). When I’m in the city, I keep them to hand, like worry-beads. They rattle around in a most satisfying manner, and remind me of better places.

Flat periwinkles
Butter-bright against the shingle
Littorina littoralis,
Shining in the salt-wet sunlight
Beneath a periwinkle sky.

Littorina littoralis:
A precise match, name to nature,
Beneath a periwinkle sky:
Liminal; literal; littoral.

A precise match, name to nature,
Marking the line of division –
Liminal, literal, littoral –
Between opposing elements.

These yellow shells, those perfect whorls,
Littorina littoralis
Between opposing elements,
Butter-bright against the shingle.

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If you’ve been following this blog you’ll know I’ve a new book coming out in September, The Crooked Path. The back cover calls it a prequel to After the Ruin, which is close enough. The more accurate wording is ‘A book set in the same world as After the Ruin but whose events occur between the two short stories told in An End and a Beginning, which features some of the characters from those books and a good many others’ but that would have been a tad unwieldy on the back.


The Crooked Path is independent of but interlinked with After the Ruin, being a fairy-tale, after a fashion, to After the Ruin‘s high fantasy. Its stakes, though no less important, are on a different scale: fairy-tales concern themselves with individuals, not worlds. One of the joys of writing is how created worlds become alive due to the network of connections between stories. The first line of The Crooked Path begins Stories link together, and that is pretty well my credo in writing. No story exists in a vacuum, any more than any man is an island. Regardless of whether you think there are seven basic plots or thirty-six, ideas and themes recur, there are repeated patterns and motifs, and that’s without considering an author’s conscious references, external influences or desire to meet/subvert genre expectations.

All my stories* link together. Oh, you can start anywhere – there is a chronology but everything is written to stand alone. Even so, if you read more piece than one you’ll see how they are intertwined. There’s a shared mythology and a common history, and objects such as Assiolo’s book running through the whole.


Ah – that book, old tales out of the west of love and longing**. Assiolo comes across it in Banish Misfortune (the second story in An End and a Beginning) and carries it with him to Felluria in After the Ruin. Turns out Banish Misfortune wasn’t the first time Assiolo had come across the book but, the first time he saw it, he didn’t understand its significance. You’ll find that scene in The Crooked Path. I wrote it to dovetail with the events in An End and a Beginning. Because of what happened in those stories there’s necessarily a missing person in The Crooked Path, but that character was as real as any of those on the stage and it was important, I felt, to acknowledge their existence, even if I could do so only sidelong. The different stories stand alone but they are connected and informed by that scene. As a result, reading either having read the other changes the experience of both. Deepens it, I hope.

* To date that’s two novels and six short stories.
** The Tales from the Later Lands, in fact.

tll-cover-for-kindle atr-cover-for-web

Posted in After the Ruin, fantasy novel, Hadley Rille Books, Harriet Goodchild author, novel, personal opinion, short story, The Crooked Path | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A(nother) triolet

From the beginning
To the end
Blind fate sits spinning.
From the beginning,
Silently grinning,
Foe and friend,
From the beginning
To the end.

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Book review, and some thoughts on story-telling: Plastic Smile by SL Huang

Plastic Smile cover

Cas Russell, antisocial mercenary, has decided to Fight Crime. With capital letters, like in one of her friend’s comic books.

After all, she has a real-life superpower: with her instantaneous mathematical ability, she can neuter bombs or out-shoot an army. And it’s Cas’s own fault violence has been spiking in the world’s cities lately — she’s the one who crushed the organization of telepaths that had been keeping the world’s worst offenders under control. Now every drive-by or gang shooting reminds Cas how she’s failed, and taking out these scumbags one at a time is never going to be enough.

She needs to find a way to stop all the violence. At once.

But Cas’s own power has a history, one she can’t remember — or control. A history that’s creeping into the cracks in her mind and fracturing her sanity . . . just when she’s gotten herself on the hit list of every crime lord on the West Coast.

Cas isn’t going to be able to save the world. She might not even be able to save herself.

A wee while ago I reviewed books for Heroines of Fantasy (a site now sadly mothballed). One of my most pleasing finds was SL Huang’s Zero Sum Game, a furiously paced, near-SF thriller featuring the mathematically superpowered Cas Russell. Now Huang is about to release the fourth book in the series, and I was able to read it ahead of publication (for which many, many thanks).

I enjoyed it, too. Very much.

Cas is falling apart. Flashes of a past she does not remember – outside her dreams – are breaking into her conscious mind and she’s losing her grip on who she is. A stranger, Simon, might be able to help, but he is likely part of the problem, and Cas resists his offer. And, both in her resistance and in her solution to the building violence in the city, she comes into direct conflict with Rio, a very, very dangerous thing to do. Yup, that’s right. After being offstage for a couple of books, Rio is back, as formal of speech, literal of understanding, and psychopathic of behaviour as ever. With friends like him, Cas’s enemies look a lot less dangerous.

It’s no secret that I have been a fan of this series from the beginning. It’s high octane, escapist fantasy, full of explosions and car chases and secret desert hideouts. The protagonist is probably – no, certainly – not one of the good guys. Forget morally compromised – Cas didn’t have any morals to start with. Oh, she’s acquired some friends, Arthur, Checker and Pilar, along the way who are nudging her in the direction of a conscience but they are seldom too concerned by the body count that follows in her wake. Maybe Pilar is. A little.

Plastic Smile builds out of events in its predecessors and the long-term plot arc that has been building from the beginning gathers pace. Everything you’ve come to expect in Huang’s writing is present: a diverse cast; flawed characters; taut, snappy prose; a twisting, snaking plot; lots and lots of gunfire. The pace starts fast and gets faster. Gang warfare on the streets of Los Angeles is interwoven with Cas’s personal struggle to retain her identity and each plot thread pulls to tighten and tangle the other.

For me, the superpower/all guns blazing nature of these stories is window dressing for the intellectual positions they present, ones that have nothing to do with mathematics. Plastic Smile is, in large part, about free will and coercion, the right to make choices and whether – and when – it is right to constrain choices. What is the common good? And who gets to decide? People who are certain they know what is best should always be mistrusted, even in fiction, so I can’t but think Cas’s faith in Rio is misplaced. I’m also pretty sure it’s something she has no real control over: from Zero Sum Game onwards it’s been clear her relationship with him operates within limits that he knows well and she knows not at all. In fact, given her fractured mental state, is she competent to reject Simon’s help?

These are big questions and Huang deals with them reasonably deftly. Free-will and autonomy are underlying themes of the series and there are frequent philosophical undertones (Rio as justified sinner, for example). It’s violent stuff, but far from mindless violence. Moreover, despite the (always somatic) violence, I feel very little in face of the carnage littering the pages of these books. Sometimes I’d like to feel more, but the deaths dealt out in Plastic Smile are mostly to anonymous thugs or else to traffickers in children. No need to regret such deaths. We don’t, by the way, ever meet those children. Doing so would complicate the book, unbalance it, take it down into a deeper darkness. There’s nothing truly visceral about these stories. For all their action and adrenalin they are set to appeal to the head rather than the gut, and I’d have no reservations offering them to mid-teen readers.

The short version of this review is very much If you liked the earlier books, you’ll enjoy this too.  If you’ve not read Huang before, do give this series a try. (There are a couple of fairytales that show off Huang’s range as an author.) If that’s all you want to know, stop reading here.

I’ve said I’m a fan of the Russell’s Attic series, and that’s certainly true. And yet, stepping back to look at the big picture, there is an aspect of this type of story-telling I find dissatisfying. These books are the equivalent of multi-season TV programming. Taken separately, each novel is very enjoyable indeed as a few hours of fast action, high body count, low consequences escapism. Nevertheless, four books in, I’m finding the make a bad situation worse style of plotting providing diminishing returns: because the ante needs to be constantly upped, one becomes inured to action and the fast pace becomes less, rather than more, exhilarating. As one becomes accustomed to the setting and better acquainted with the characters, the long-term story arc becomes more important. The long game of Russell’s Attic concerns Cas’s background, identity and abilities. Her questions require answers. Readers want answers, a return on their investment. Drip-feeding information is less of an option and the tap needs to be turned to a faster flow, as it is in Plastic Smile. Answers, however, close down possibilities, thus, in this form of story-telling, every answer must lead to another question. It’s a balancing act between resolution and onward travel, and a very, very delicate one.

It’s a general problem with open-ended, multi-instalment story-telling. The story can’t end with the end of a book/season, so catharsis is never achieved and the reader/viewer is eternally teased but ultimately unsatisfied. It’s rather unfair of me to pick out Huang’s work in this regard since the books are well-plotted, well-written and highly enjoyable. In fact, I’ve been thinking about this rather vaguely for a while and reading Plastic Smile, and writing this review, has crystallised my thoughts. Of course, serial story-telling has been with us for a long time: Huang is working with the modern form of a tried and tested method of presentation. Nevertheless, Dickens or Gaskell knew they had a set number of instalments to complete their story and shaped their work within that constraint. It’s unclear at this point whether such a constraint exists for Russell’s Attic. I hope it does.

Buy links
Amazon US
Amazon UK

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