What do you get when Percy Jackson meets X-Men? Not the Lord of the Flies, that’s for sure.

Posted: July 10, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Life has been getting in the way of writing lately. And reading, in fact. My ‘to read’ pile has been growing and growing because I’ve had less and less time to actually devote to a book (although still, magically, enough time to purchase books). To give an example, Gone by Michael Grant sat, half-read, on my bedside table for a good three weeks. Not because it’s a bad book, just because I hadn’t had enough time to pick it up.

Luckily, this weekend I found a little time to rectify this situation; and now that the reading part is out of the way, I can start on the writing.

Gone is a teenage novel (surprise, surprise…) set in a fictional Californian town called Perdido Beach. A sci-fi dystopia (is there any other kind?), it begins with everyone aged fifteen or over suddenly disappearing, or ‘blinking out’. To the remaining child population, this might initially seem brilliant – no teachers or parents? What a jolly! However, it doesn’t take long for them to think otherwise: inconveniently, as all the adults ‘blinked out’ in the middle of going about their daily business, there are fires to put out, car crashes to deal with, babies to find, etc., etc.

Ultimately, any fledgling party atmosphere quickly dissipates.

Add to this the fact that there is now some kind of solid dome-shaped wall encasing Perdido Beach and its surrounding areas, which is incredibly painful to touch (a bit like the one in The Hunger Games, actually), and means that no one can leave or enter the area, and the characters find themselves in quite the sticky wicket.

To make matters worse, half of the remaining population seem to be developing super-human powers (telekinesis, mind-reading, enhanced strength, and the like), and the wildlife are suffering similarly mutated fates. Is that a talking coyote? Oh dear.

On top of this (well that can’t be all; this is a dystopia, you know) comes the inevitable power struggle: good and evil – those age-old foes – run rampant through the youthful residents of Perdido Beach. On the good side, is reluctant hero Sam Temple, his love interest Astrid the Genius (that’s her nickname because she’s clever. Even parents in a dystopia aren’t that cruel), and the tokenistic ethnic minority side-kick Edilio. Now, you might be thinking this sounds a little bit like the set up in Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief, and you’d be right. There are marked similarities between this trio and Percy, Annabeth, and Grover (although, admittedly, Edilio isn’t half fawn). But, as they say, if it ain’t broke…

Gone also touches on the big ideas that William Golding explored in Lord of the Flies: the children quickly establish their roles within society – leader, carer, enforcer, etc. – and then equally quickly, and without adult authority to keep them in check, dissolve into lawlessness, which is, at times, brutal and savage. However, unlike Golding, who considered the capacity we all have for committing bad deeds, Grant keeps it simple: his characters fall firmly on one side or other of the good/evil divide, meaning any potential to explore the implicit savagery of humanity, or the impact of societal forces on our behaviour is quickly minimised.

So instead of a compelling discourse on human behaviour, we have a sort of novelised teen X-Men, with power-hungry Caine playing a less-charming version of Magneto, and Sam Temple as some sort of Wolverine/Charles Xavier hybrid.

Not that this is an all out criticism; I like the X-Men.

My point, really, is that there’s nothing original about Gone. It’s characters and plot are all familiar, because, in one interpretation or another, they have appeared in books, films, comics and TV shows before. Grant created the potential to make his mark on the teen-hero-saves-the-world-and-gets-the-girl scenario by placing a rather dubious nuclear power plant on the scene – ‘is there going to be a subtly environmental undertone to this book?’  you may wonder – but, at the end of the novel, he hadn’t really made anything of this.

Of course, like most teen books, this is part of a series, so there’s always the possibility that he’ll ham that one up at a later date.

The question is, will I be making the effort to find out?

Probably, actually, because I don’t like leaving things unfinished (and if there’s anything that screams unfinished, it’s an uneasy peace bargain between victorious goodies and some seriously disgruntled baddies).

Also, I kind of want to know where the adults have actually gone.

‘Where is everyone?’

30 Day Book Challenge: Day Three – Your Favourite Series

Posted: May 2, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: 30 Day Book Challenge | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I read a lot of teen fiction.

When I was training to be a teacher, I remember being told that, as English teachers, it was important that we knew about kids’ books, because it was likely that our pupils would ask for advice about books, and it was important to know what was good and what was current. I think I can safely say that in four years of teaching, not once has a pupil asked me my opinion about what book to read, current or otherwise.

Don’t get me wrong, they often ask things like, ‘Miss, have you read The Hunger Games?’ but these aren’t really questions. They’re only really asking so that, whether I reply yes or no, they can say, ‘I have. It’s amazing!’ My response is actually irrelevant to the conversation. Like a lot of discussions you have with teenagers, you’re always left with the feeling that they would be getting just as much out of it if you weren’t actually involved.

I could argue that, despite this, I continue to read teenage fiction in the hope that, one day, someone will come up to me and say, ‘Miss, I really want to read, but I don’t know where to start,’ to which I will reply, ‘The Hunger Games.’ and go away feeling valued, and a little smug. This would be a lie, though. I really continue to read teenage fiction because I actually find it quite enjoyable.

Many modern writers have embraced what other grown ups frown upon: a lot of teenagers have newt-like attention spans. And these writers fashion their books accordingly. Cinema-style action, fantasy settings and relentless pace are common features in many young adult novels these days, and I for one am glad. Sometimes, you want to skip through a storyline at record speed; sometimes you want to immerse yourself in a world of goblins, elves, and wizards, without needing a map and a dictionary to understand the back-story (sorry, Tolkien); and sometimes, rather than be caught up in a beautifully spun web of drifting, melodic prose, you just want a little bit of fun.

The first of my series (yes, I’m cheating again) fits precisely this bill: The Mortal Instruments series (first a trilogy, now up to number five…) by Cassandra Clare features a cast of Nephilim, Vampires, Fairies, and Werewolves in a variety of landscapes, both real and imagined – sometimes urban New York, sometimes idyllic Idris – and centres around the (forbidden) love between the sassy protagonist Clary, and the archetypal tortured-soul misunderstood bad boy, Jace (yes, it’s a stupid name). They battle evils, resolve dad issues, and coach their newly turned Jewish friend on how to be a kosher vampire, all in a quasi-biblical context.  What’s not to like?

But actually, this book has a lot more going for it than just those glowing accolades: it’s a lot better written than some of the other more popular teen books, for starters. And Clary, with her talent, determination, and scrappy attitude, is a much better role model for teenage girls than Bella Swan could ever be.

Better written still, and with an even scrappier heroine, is my next series: His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman.

Like Clare, Pullman creates an array of worlds that swing from the almost real to the entirely imagined. Although, if Clare’s settings are vast, Pullman’s are vaster. Also, there’s an impressive level of detail and imagination in his trilogy that means that, even though it’s years since I read these books, I can still visualize Citigazze perfectly, can still imagine the circling harpies in the underworld, can still picture the Mulefa merrily wheeling along.

While The Mortal Instruments series might be quasi-biblical, referencing those age-old dichotomies – good and evil, saints and sinners, angels and demons – that the Old Testament just seemed to love, His Dark Materials is a different kettle of theological fish. Based on the narrative of Milton’s Paradise Lost, the books deal explicitly with the idea of a fall from grace, whilst simultaneously grappling with the concept of authority in organized religion. It’s pretty serious allegorical stuff.

You could be forgiven for forgetting that these books are aimed at children. And if you do forget, well, that’s okay. It makes my teenage fiction obsession seem a little bit more acceptable.

 

On The Hunger Games and politics

Posted: April 29, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

For me, a fair proportion of the last week has been spent reading The Hunger Games trilogy. It’s a party that I’m a bit late to, considering a colleague of mine was singing these books’ praises a couple of years ago, and Lionsgate has already had the wherewithal to buy the rights, produce and then release a film version of the first book, but still, better late than never, as they say.

Like many other teen novels, these books make use of tried and tested themes and motifs: love triangles, absentee parents, world-saving antics. But what separates Suzanne Collins’ trilogy from Twilight, Harry Potter, et al is the social message weaved into the narrative. Panem – the dystopian world in which the writer sets her scene – is a paradigm of  heavy-handed state control, which at first seems not only abhorrent, but also unthinkable. After all, what kind of government sacrifices children to assert its control over the masses? But, as the novels progress, and the authority of The Capitol is threatened, glimpses of a world not so different from our own appear: surveillance is endemic (how did President Snow know that Gale and Katniss had kissed?), wealth distribution is massively uneven, embarrassments and scandals are covered up, and – most resonantly – the media is endlessly exploited for political gain.

When the parliamentary elections were heating up a couple of years ago, our soon-to-be Prime Minister, David Cameron, was often captured on camera, sleeves rolled up, collar undone, every bit the ‘man of the people’. Cynical as it sounds, this was no accident. A team of aides, spin doctors and stylists had undoubtedly decided that this was the way to make an old Etonian with views somewhere to the right of Atilla the Hun seem likeable. And it worked. In Mockingjay, the third novel in The Hunger Games trilogy, protagonist Katniss Everdeen is subjected to a similar make-over for the cameras as District 13 president, Alma Coin, sets her up to be the face of the rebellion.

Admittedly, our own government may not be using the media to subdue the general populus to such an alarming extent as we witness in Panem, but it’s not really such an unimaginable step, is it? After all, we only need to look at the level of state-controlled media in countries like North Korea, where the people are exposed to heraldic narratives of government victories (like, the decimation of District 13, perhaps?), to see that what Collins was depicting, is not an entirely fictitious society at all.

But Cameron and co. do not have the control of our media sources needed to establish such a distorted image of the world we live in, right? Right, they don’t. But, as the News of the World scandals of last year highlighted, Rupert Murdoch does. Or at least, is not as far away from it as you’d think. And, as the scandals also pointed out, our politicians have spent years sucking up to him.

In Panem, it is President Snow who has the power, and the control. It is he who chooses what should be shown and not shown. In 21st Century Britain, it is News Corporation.

So perhaps Collins’ novels can be seen as a warning against this kind of power. After all, our heroes, Katniss and Peeta, spend three novels fighting against the corrupt, controlling Capitol so that they can finally live a simple life together. And some of their most difficult battles are not in combat with other Tributes during the actual Hunger Games, but in trying to establish themselves as individuals away from the endless media spin of the government and the rebels. It nearly destroys them, and their fledgling relationship.

Nearly, of course. This is teen fiction, after all, and needs a happy ending.