The Magicians

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The Magicians
Author: Lev Grossman
Rating: ⭐️⭐️
Thoughts: Definitely a Lot of Good Parallels for Fantasy Fans; Too Much Exposition; Narnia Spoof; Really Hard To Get In To, But Wrenching Once You Do; The Story Doesn’t Start Until The End

I was really excited to read Lev Grossman’s series because I’d heard it was like a “Dirty Harry Potter” and as a thorough Harry Potter nerd, I really looked forward to passing my judgement. Outside of a few joking references, though, The Magicians has nothing to do with Potter, but a lot to do with The Chronicles of Narnia.

Grossman was clearly creating a Narnia spoof, and with good reason, but I couldn’t help but feel like he didn’t actually get to the plot until maybe the last 150 pages of a 400 page book. The protagonist, Quentin, gets invited to a magic college early on, but then we spend the entirety of the first half of the book learning next to nothing about Quentin’s school, but rather passing his way through time through a series of large time-gaps and exposition. Characters are plucked from nothingness only to be tossed back in (and occasionally repeating the process). It was as though Grossman had gotten the idea into his head of a magic college and then married the idea when, in fact, the college had almost no significance to where the story was going other than that they thereafter (and somewhat feebly even) knew magic. I’m not even sure why the first half of this book exists.

Basically, the first half of this book is prolonged exposition scattered with a smattering of actual scenes that seem to take on no real significance. What is the point of Welters? for instance. Or the whole South Pole thing? If you’re looking for a book about a magic school, this is not it. You get very little from Q’s time there.

The strongest point of this book is definitely the coming of age aspect, which I felt didn’t really shape up until quite late as well. Quentin, of course, has a lot of growing up to do. I like that Grossman puts his character through the ringer, that he has him make almost catastrophic mistakes, that his personal life is in shambles. I’m tired of this genre of writing having everything work out so perfectly. Quentin’s life gets messy and not everything goes well. That’s a hard lesson for him to learn, but a lesson so quickly left out of Young/New Adult literature. I definitely enjoyed that theme abutting the Narnia-spoof.

Honestly, I didn’t love this book. By the time we FINALLY get to Fillroy (the Narnia-esque land), it’s a bit rushed to me. I hated most of Quentin’s friends. I hated the way Grossman tossed around characters, the way I always seemed to know less about the character’s lives than what was happening, and–most of all–I hated all the exposition. Is it so wrong to want to be in a story, rather than hearing about a story? But I did like the adult themes, the way he clearly dirties up a typically innocent cannon, the way he could create issues out of one’s grasp.

But honestly, I didn’t get into it until the end. It was hard slugging for a long time there, waiting merely for the inevitable Fillroy plot to finally manifest. I’m probably not going to be reading on, albeit I’m a bit curious and angry about a curveball that’s mentioned entirely without comment, as if it’s perfectly usual, at the end.

SPOILER

Seriously? Where did Julia just come from? YOU CAN’T JUST DO THAT!

How FanFiction Changed My Life: A Personal Writing History

I wasn’t one of those children that carried home delicately bound paper books full of my stories from school. I actually hated Writing class because I was (undiagnosed) dyslexic and couldn’t pass a spelling test to save my life. So any stories I wrote before I started using a computer were scoured, discouragingly, with red marks and tossed shamefully in the garbage before my parents could see them.

It was clear I had a natural propensity for math and not writing. I still score better on a math test, even after all this time.

But I never learned to love math. Math bored me. It was stories that I spent my time with, my face lovingly pressed deep into the pages of a book. I carried around volumes as big as I was, always another story waiting to be discovered like a lingering adventure. So I read a lot as a child, but it never much occurred to me that I could create my own books until I was older.

So while, clearly, I couldn’t write as child, I had a great affection for stories. I diligently spent much of my free time (of which there was a lot, the daughter of a working, single mother and a commuter father) making a terrible, terrible comic strip called The Bigheads.

My propensity for drawing rivaled my ability to spell, in that it was horrible and mostly consisted of heads, shoulders, and arms (the hands always hidden behind their bodies, I never got the hang of fingers). The Bigheads was about a small family: a moronic, dopey father who was a professional baseball player; a quirky family dog, who sat silently judging like a laconic Garfield; and a moralizing, do-gooder daughter. I remember them all quite clearly–I spent ages shaping them in my mind, albeit my terrible drawings could never quite capture them as elaborately as they were in my head.

The Bigheads is probably still squashed away somewhere in my mother’s attic. I spent ages drawing them out in my rainbow-colored pens. They were probably my most successful project from Fourth Grade, if not ever…

In middle school I was finally tested into gifted and no longer spent my time in class sitting bored in the corner, passing tests without ever opening the text books. I finally found a creative bunch of weirdos I could call my own.

We did nothing simply. Dress-up became a full-on soap opera re-enactment. Soccer practice became a musical song-and-dance. Our lunches had to be served in a separate room from the rest of the kids or else they’d come up and rub our heads while we ate: they called it the Gifted Petting Zoo.

We didn’t pass notes, we passed notebooks. Between each class, each of us would sneak our notebook into the next recipient’s backpack and they would spend the whole next class scrawling a long-winded missive about Phillip’s hair or whoever.

I didn’t care for boys. How could I? I was always at least six-inches taller than the tallest boy in class, and I still held a grudge because they were the same boys who called me gay repetitively in elementary school. I only had one crush in middle school and it was mostly fabricated (most popular guy in school, I hadn’t even the patience to come up with a creative lie!). I didn’t write about boys in our notebooks.

So I made things up. Lola the Lizard who spent much of her time living in our English teacher’s ratty hair. That sort of thing. My most popular stories were a strange brand of Harry Potter FanFiction that depicted multiple, almost episodical, scenarios in which Harry started falling in love with Ginny Weasley (called it–sorry, my inner-fangirl will never get over that I TOTALLY SAW THAT COMING!). Eventually, these became so popular that I started getting my own notebooks and filling them with these terrible FanFiction romances, which were passed around school like a John Green novel.

I became known for these. Oh man, I’d cringe to read even a single one these days, but people liked them. We giggled over them in the locker room. Sometimes I pushed the boundaries into the elicit.

We also used to play this game in English where we’d write for a while and then pass our story onto the next person and they would continue it. By the end of class, we’d read them aloud. It was always known which parts I’d written, everyone would turn to me and laugh as I’d take a perfectly dull story and turn it into something absurd. I loved that feeling–making people laugh with my own strange thoughts.

One day before soccer practice, I remember it perfectly, I was at my friend Kelly’s house and, while her mom was otherwise preoccupied (she was a helicopter parent), she took me into the computer room and promised to show me something. It was a website devoted to Harry Potter FanFiction (this was back in the day, FanFiction wasn’t even a term yet). It was like my Mecca. It was just a trove of stories about Harry Potter, hypothetical later books (the series was only on about Four at the time), short stories, minor characters turned into major. This changed my life. It was like giving a twelve year old the key to changing her world.

It’s mildly embarrassing to admit that I started writing because I was a huge Harry Potter nerd. I was a Fangirl, plain and simple. I used to like to write myself into the books. Tall and awkward, I craved a place where I’d be accepted–maybe writing could be it?

I got carried away with the whole FanFiction thing. By high school, we’d all stopped passing notebooks, and Harry Potter had been replaced by Jane Austen. I had fewer and fewer friends and more and more stories. I finished novel-length works that were really just modern adaptations of classic novels.

I fed on reviews. I honestly believe that FanFiction was the perfect place to start for a young writer–hopelessly regurgitating the same plot, fleshing out classic characters over and over again. I can still repeat Pride and Prejudice to you scene-for-scene. I learned what a good story consists of by repeating these stories on message boards. I learned through reviews how people would react to every word I typed. I learned how to write on a FanFiction forum.

Eventually things morphed and I wasn’t even, without even noticing, writing FanFiction anymore. I was just writing. They weren’t from a novel updated or adapted, they were from my own head. Some loosely held the plot of the book I’d posted them in, but they were a whole new thing entirely.

I was becoming my own writer.

It’s weird that I still feel the burn of shame for something that took up so much of my time and childhood. I didn’t want to go to a party on a Friday night, I wanted to stay in and write FanFiction. I wrote it until around the time I graduated college, but I’m not sure I ever intentionally told a soul; every now and then someone would use my computer or look over my shoulder and I’d snap at them as if they’d just offended my mortal being (or rather glimpsed my biggest secret).

I was (still am?) really embarrassed about the whole thing, but, in a way, grateful. I am the writer I am now because FanFiction made me really passionate about sitting down and creating a story.

Oops. My Bad

Sorry. I didn’t do my book review this weekend (I will try to write and post it tonight, instead). I haven’t written almost anything.

In fact, the only writing news I have is that I’ve started a second blog. It’s a little more focused on everyone’s favorite subject, which is of course, their selves. Anyway, it’s just about adjusting to my new city and, well, the mess that my life seems to be in currently. Check it out, if so inclined, because the only people reading it are, like, my aunts… possibly my mom.

As for my book… well, I’ve been killing my darlings… I’ve slaughtered the poor things, even. In my head, there are almost no details which I haven’t changed. I’ve even changed the age of my protagonist. I’m about to sit down and re-write chapter one. I think, in all honesty, that I will be re-writing the whole thing. Every. Last. Word.

Color me daunted.

I once read that J.K. Rowling had to type the first Harry Potter ten times. In a way, it may have been a brilliant, albeit accidental, editing technique. You’d have to really consider the importance of every little word when typing it out so many times.

So, structurally, the book is getting a makeover, but I think the story will remain almost entirely intact. The school, though, is about to be town apart. I really messed that up and, after all this writing, am returning to an earlier version of the structure of the school, which I’m actually very happy with. It’s a lot closer to my original vision of the story. No one wants to read a book about something boring.

So. Shall we do what writers do best and make a hella great story?

Back to the drafts.

Edinburgh| Harry Potter in Pictures

It’s really no wonder Harry Potter was written here. Edinburgh is magical in it’s own right. Hogwarts isn’t too much of a stretch when you’re standing at the base of Edinburgh Castle.

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Wouldn’t it be so wonderful to write a book that so thoroughly alters the world that tourist now knock bikers off their bikes so they can take a picture of the cafe where you occasionally wrote.

Wow.

Day Twenty-Nine: From First to Last

Rough writing day today. Managed a few feeble pages before succumbing to the long list of errands I’ve been putting off. (I.E. I went to the grocery store then took a two hour nap.)

Have settled in for day two of my Harry Potter/Painting marathon. I’ve finally reached the deadline for priming my apartment and (like all good procrastinators) I work well under deadlines. The paint job is patchy at best, but I’m a little buzzed and almost done with my third Harry Potter film (Alan Rickman in a dress!) so I’ll consider it a success.

I haven’t read a Harry Potter in almost four years. I haven’t watched a movie since the last one was out in theaters. I know the books are better than the movies and that a bottle of wine sometimes has this affect on people, but Harry Potter is so good! It has always been so good! It will always be so good!

I was a Harry Potter fan girl at age seven, carrying around the books that were bigger than me at the time. I’ll probably always be a Harry Potter fan girl. I look at my own writing and I can’t help but think “You’re still writing Potter FanFiction…” Even after all this time and devoting myself thoroughly to my own work, I think I owe so much of who I am to J.K. Rowling.

She taught me how to love to read. She taught me the power of learning to write. She’s irrevocably changed me as a person.

I once wrote in a photography course that Harry Potter was my favorite book only to get mocked openly for it all year. I never answered that way again (Count of Monte Cristo, for the record, has been my answer since… and it’s just as exciting as any Harry novel, but old enough to be taken more “seriously”). Literature and academia don’t always look fondly on those sorts of things. It disobeys all sorts of pretentious concepts (I swear the literature community was into the obscure way before it was popular… the original hipsters. The term was even first popularized by Mailer) of being a “serious writer”, but Harry will always be my first literary love. I’m not ashamed to admit that.

I think that’s why I’m so into this children’s literature thing. These are the books that will teach a whole new generation of children how to love to read. Let’s make them good!