Seven Stories Concerning Pat Rothfuss « Echocloset

People ask, from time to time, how I learned to write. To which the only real answer is: I haven't. I'm still learning. Which is an obnoxious way of semantically dodging the question. How, then, have I become a better writer than I was a few years ago?

The answer is simple. The only one anybody will ever give you. You read. Books are the fuel that power the Writingmobile.

And, speaking as an adult, there are very, very few books that I've gotten as much mileage out of (so to speak) as Patrick Rothfuss's  'The Name of the Wind'? Life-changing? That sounds a little hyperbolic. I'll go with selfchanging. It's altered the way I think of stories. How I look at words. What I think of as good writing.

I'd still be a writer if I'd never read it, but I'd probably be a pretty different one.

So here's my heartfelt endorsement of the book (and its author, Pat Rothfuss) told through seven brief tales. I will devolve from enthusiastic to devoted to creepily obsessed over the course of this post. Alas. Such is the sacrifice I must make to spread the gospel to the uninformed.

You can read them or skip my stories I don't care. Just, whatever you do, make sure you go out and find a copy of 'The Name of the Wind' after this and read it.

It is Spring 2oo8. Spring semester of freshman year is kind of dragging. I've recently had the epiphany (after two and a half years where I didn't read, didn't write, didn't so much as finish a single short story) that I can't go on thinking of myself as a writer if I don't goddamn write. So I start to gear myself up to break through my years-long writers block by picking up reading again. I start buying books again. Lots. Visiting the library for non-research purposes (discounting the fact that it houses the nearest vending machine when the dorm's is empty).

One of the books I start hearing good things about from every quarter is Patrick Rothfuss's 'The Name of the Wind'. Apparently it's a pretty brilliant fantasy debut from last year. Well, I think, fantasy was always my thing back in the day. I'll check it out.

It arrives via interlibrary loan a few days later. It's a behemoth of a book. Close to 1,000 pages. It has a terrible cover. None of this perturbs me, because there is a gushing quote from Ursula K le Guin on the cover. And Orson Scott Card. And Robin Hobb. Holy damn. I read them over, and this book starts to sound like the most original, best written, hands down incredible piece of anything involving words to come along for a long long time.

So I hunker down. Start chapter one. There's a wierd, short prologue. Then Chapter 1 kicks off with some young innocent farm dudes in a bar, listening to an old wise gaffer tell stories. A servile innkeeper bustles around in the background of the scene.

Great. I roll my eyes. One of these novels. I start to map out how it will progress in my head. Chapter 3, village burns down. Wise powerful person shows up. Quest begins. Ultimate evil begins to manifest. They visit a variety of towns and cities, gaping at the huge crowds of colorful characters.

By the end of the chapter, its become clear that the innkeeper is the main character. And this isn't the beginning of his story–it's the end of it. Or maybe just the middle. Fascinated, I read on. It gets better. A lot better. By chapter seven, I'm hooked.

And then something terrible happens. The innkeeper, a fellow named Kvothe, starts telling his story. All the narrative momentum Rothfuss has built up is swept away. Suddenly we're slogging through first person, not a favorite of mine. I flip through the book, hoping to numb the horror. Nope. That's it. That's the rest of the book. This guy's backstory. Is. A 900fuckingpagebook.

Ugh. I set it down and reach for something more palatable.

A half hour later I've returned to 'The Name of the Wind'. One chapter deep into Kvothe's story and I'm hooked. I read through the night. 100 pages from the end, I start to realize that there's no way Rothfuss can wrap this up in one book. I flip to the front. My horrors are confirmed. It is only the first book in a trilogy. I nearly weep. Regardless, I plow on. Birds are trilling and dawn is pinkening the window as I turn the final page.

I sit and try to figure out what I've just read. I consider how Neil Gaiman's American Gods has been, no-contest, my favorite book since I read it my first year in high school.

Not anymore. It has been dethroned.

The next day I drive to the bookstore and buy a hardback copy of The Name of the Wind. 

It is Fall 2008. Life has taken some shitty turns. I'm stuck transferring to a school I have no desire to go to. Without going into detail, I've gotten in sort of serious trouble, made some big mistakes. A close friend has just passed away. I'm feeling isolated, depressed, and empty in a way I haven't in a long, long time. It feels like invisible walls are closing in on me.

I notice The Name of the Wind on my shelf. I don't reread books, has been my mantra for years, and when I do I give it a good three or four year gap.

A few minutes later it's in my hands and I'm completely wrapped up in Kvothe's tale all over again. I notice intricacies I never imagined the first time around. I realize Rothfuss is a genius. I begin keeping annotations–something I don't even do for classes, let alone fiction I'm reading for fun.

I finish it again a few days later, and instantly seek out Patrick Rothfuss' blog. Book 2′s publication date is set at spring 20o9. Joy floods through me. All is good again.

It is Spring 2009 Life is getting better. And then Book 2, 'The Wise Man's Fear', is delayed. My soul feels like it has been uppercutted by Muhammed Ali. In an attempt to ward off the pain, I begin to read Pat's blog regularly, despite the fact that I don't really give a shit about blogs.

It's funny, witty, and wise. More importantly, Pat at some point mentions Joss Whedon. "I've learned a lot of my craft from this guy," he says. "Buffy taught me a lot of what I know about storytelling. Just look at the arcs he gives each character over the course of a season."

As a Rothfuss devotee and an aspiring writer, I'm intrigued. But really–a show called Buffy the Vampire Slayer? I've spent my entire life kind of passively marvelling over how absurdly campy a name it is. Besides, I hate TV. I'm aloof. I grew up without cable. I'm a book kind of guy.

Almost reluctantly, I give in. Season 1 changes my preconceptions of episodic television.

Season 2 changes how I think about stories. I'm forever altered as a writer. The finale leaves me in tatters, and I know that I now belong to Joss Whedon, now and forever.

Fall 2009. 'The Wise Man's Fear' has been delayed again. Despite the tight pain in my chest, I cope. After all, I've been a George RR Martin fan since 2002. This is nothing. Besides, I can alway reread The Name of the Wind again, which I do, for the third of an eventual five times (one of them is read outloud to my sisters).

I'm sitting at a friend's apartment, sipping on beer and playing pool. The friend is, put bluntly, a jock. Jerseys adorn the walls. Posters of football players. He's wearing gym shorts and a wife-beater, backward Cowboys hat and shitty facial hair. I'm mildly stunned to notice he has a bookshelf. Not only that, but a fairly full one.

I'm also horrified to see that a good portion of it is Terry Goodkind novels.

We get into a discussion about books. I offhandedly mention I have a book that he should read. He shrugs, tells me to drop it by. About a week later, I do, warning him that "in no way should the fact that this story is about a precocious red-headed protagonist with a musical affinity and how he grows up" at all make my devout recommendation any less impartial

Two days later he's knocking on my door asking for the sequel. I inform him of the tragic state of things. After this I soldier on, maintaining my silent vigil for book 2, only now I do not do it alone.

Mid 2010.  A solid release date for The Wise Man's Fear has been set: March 2011. The countdown begins.

I've changed utterly since I first read The Name of the Wind. As a person, as a writer. Somewhere over the past year, I've started to really feel like a writer again. I'm spinning out semi-decent stories at semi-regular intervals. I have Cool Ideas again, a lot. I'm recreating worlds that have been lying dusty and dormant in the back of my head. I'm reading voraciously and broadly–anything, everything, regardless of genre.

A lot of the books I used to love don't quite hold up. I still love them. But now that I revisit them, I'm notice flaws that were invisible before. Structural errors. Poor writing. Sloppy plotting. Two-dimensional characterization.

I revisit The Name of the Wind, and wonder if I'll ever be able to write a sentence as achingly and effortlessly beautiful as Patrick Rothfuss can. I try to imagine if, somehow, someday, I'll be able to create a protaganist half as unforgettable as Kvothe. Desperately hope that I'll one day be able to breathe life into the briefest scene as masterfully.

I'm still trying.

Spring 2011. Book 2 is days from being out. I preordered it months ago. Whilst perusing Pat's blog (I'm a regular reader now), I come across an interesting post: seems first editions of The Name of the Wind are scarce. And in demand. And selling for upwards of $500 signed. I'm getting mine signed in Boston a couple weeks later.

I'm not a collector. Never have been. Still. When I get back with my signed, $500+ first edition of The Name of the Wind, I happily shelve it in its rightful place at the top of my bookshelf.

Some things, it turns out, are worth more than money. Even if they're books that you now own three copies of.

Spring 2011, a little bit later. Book 2 is out. I pick up the Wise Man's Fear in my hand and feel the heft. It's big as hell. 400,000 words. There's plenty of schoolwork due the next day, and I've finally fixed my sleeping schedule. At 8 pm I settle down to read it. Or to start. This time, I'm going to pace myself, read it a few chapters at a time to savor it.

I turn the last page somewhere around 6 am. I'm godblindingly tired. I've lost all ability to evaluate the book critically. Perhaps its flawed. Maybe if I analyze it as a writer I'll have quibbles, complaints, the next day. Perhaps this feeling of deeprooted content will fade.

But for now, The Wise Man's Fear is perfect.

Summer 2011 The wait for book 3 continues. It is still some way off. Years.

This time, though, I have two books to reread whenever I get a hankering to revisit Kvothe's tale.

I don't think the wait will feel very long at all.

___

So that's it. My unorthodox, super long way of saying read this goddamn fucking book. Please. 

It will move you as few things ever will.

[This post done in the style of this one, sort of as an homage. Which, by the way, if you aren't familiar with Joss Whedon, should also read]

http://blog.patrickrothfuss.com/2010/01/seven-stories-concerning-joss-whedon-or/