Outwardly,
the two were similar: mass paperback international thrillers
published in 2010 by New York houses. The first involved a quest for
the tomb of Alexander the Great—the subject of at least three other
novels I've enjoyed. The second promised a search for an ancient lost
religious artifact.
Despite
my interest in the first book's topic, the prose quickly reminded me
a trying to drive a washboard road. (If you drive only on pavement,
it's a poorly maintained gravel road that's developed a series of
closely spaced ridges—like an old-fashioned washboard.)
I'd
encountered such a road a few weeks ago when trying to visit a
waterfall in Colorado's San Juan Mountains. The online guide said the
three and one-half mile drive from the blacktop to the trailhead was
well maintained. But I suspect that description was placed by a
company that sold replacement tires and performed wheel alignments.
Our
view as the road snaked up the side of the mountain was gorgeous, but
I was so concerned about not damaging the car, I couldn't enjoy it.
If Zapata Falls hadn't come so highly recommended, I'd have turned
around after the first half mile.
I
remembered that road as I tried to read the Alexander story. Page
after page I was distracted by the kind of elements I've told people
for years at writers conferences to edit out of their drafts. The
author did okay with narrative summary, but his dialogue was piled
high with telling. And his characters seldom said
anything. Given the choice, they'd grin
or laugh
their words—or, in a more serious moment, demand
or insist
them.
If
you can write this way and get published by a New York house, why
bother to polish your prose? Or so I wondered for a few more
pages—until I had to put the book down. I just couldn't get into
the story. The writer's technique—if I could call it that—kept
calling attention to itself and pulling me out of the story.
So
I picked up the other novel—and quickly found myself seventy-five
pages in, enjoying the characters, the setting, and the action. It
reminded me of driving the previous weekend to La Veta, Colorado, to
catch a ride on the Rio Grande Scenic Railway. Smooth pavement, no
steep grades, the curves and intersections well marked. Just as it
should be.
The
weekend after Labor Day, we're considering a return trip. And this
weekend, I got another story by the same writer. I think I'll enjoy
it.



