While I was out looking for a new cookbook I picked up a remaindered copy of The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry; it seemed like the sort of novel I'd like (Victorian era, monster storyline, female lead.) I also saw that it was the author's second book, which gave me pause. I don't like to read a story by any writer until they have at least six major works published, as the initial efforts (especially the first two) are usually problematic. I used to have more patience with that kind of thing when I was younger, but I'm a crabby old lady writer now. Keep in mind what follows are just my opinions, and allow for the fact that I am still quite upset with the book and myself for reading it all. I've also edited this post about a dozen times trying to tone down my contempt.
Anyway, I should have gone with my instincts. This novel was not for me.
With ongoing hope it would improve I did read the entire book. Issues started off minor but quickly multipled and became major. Fundamentally it was the kind of kitchen sink novel that writers can't often avoid during their first years as pro (I don't say this to be patronizing; mine was a genre version of this, so I'm just as guilty.) It seemed to have a strong plot and defined characters and interesting settings, so I kept reading. Books that start off badly sometimes improve. I do think this author has a great deal of potential that I hope time and experience can develop.
Unhappily the plot got lost, the characters never lived up to their definitions and (despite endless descriptions) the settings somehow faded into the background, which is why I won't bothering detailing any of them. The literary everyone and anything POV mashup with incessant head hopping and the juvenile technical structure of the prose (strongly reminiscent of that as written by a tween with a flashlight under the covers in her school composition book) was probably a flounce of the author's skirts at convention; I've seen a lot of that kind of thing in literary fiction. Since this is hostile toward the reader it made the book particularly unpleasant and perpetually jarring for me to read. Might be why it was remaindered, too. Who wants to read stories that keep kicking you out of them? I also got the sense this was poorly edited, if at all.
Like most new pros the author suffered from thesaurusitis (I now know every synonym for the color blue, for example) and an earnest need to impress. This is forgiveable. Other problems, not so much. I picked up on what seemed like major familial score-settling. Having wrestled with the same in my early years, I'll not speculate the who or the why that spawned this. It explains, however, why nearly all of the male characters are tarred and feathered with contemptuous styling. They're all over-privileged, self-indulgent narcissists who seem incapable of caring for themselves. They do quite a lot of whining, too, and rely on the female characters to redeem/save them, and of course bail them out of trouble. Most men -- at least those I've known and loved -- are not like this.
The attempts to be literary and snub structure went overboard time and again, resulting in nearly unreadable chapters, meanderings away from the plotline, too many odd scenes that served no purpose, cardboard characters, characters who seemed to serve only as Bobs (explainers for the reader, in the sense of "As you know, Bob, yada yada yada) and descriptions that actually turned my stomach. The lovely moments, the relatively minor romance and everything I wanted described better were ignored, also a literary styling. It made for a truly miserable read.
From the first page the author's dialogue deafness likewise hampered the story (nearly all the characters sounded exactly like each other and without the name/said tags would have been impossible to identify by their lines, aka the litmus test for dialogue deafness.) There were several unpleasant personal/political soapboxes onto which the author constantly climbed and ranted from, also a symptom of second book syndrome (i.e. I've published one, so now I'm a pro who can lecture you.) None of the characters were at all admirable or even likeable, and nearly all of them did things that did not sit well with me. This book has neither hero nor heroine, just a bunch of selfish wafflers who can't be true to their own (and myriad, and overly inflated) opinions of themselves. Even the children characters made me shudder from time to time
By the end of the book it all became quite exhausting for me.
Finally, I hated the non-ending ending, which made me consider tossing the book in the garbage. I'm still debating whether or not to do that. I've only deliberately destroyed one other book in my life so I would not be responsible for inflicting it on someone else. This is in the same category, although not quite as terrible.
An odd thing cropped up in the about the author section in the back, in which there's a mock interview with the author that was probably done by e-mail. The reporter claims that the author had a strict Baptist upbringing and was forbidden from reading any twentieth-century fiction. The author corrects the reporter and claims there was no contemporary culture like television or pop music in the house.
As it happens, I had a very similar upbringing, but I never let it hamper me. In fact I went to the library on my own and read all the forbidden books there, and watched television shows while my mom was at work. With enough determination and motivation one can always find a way. Plus upbringing is not an excuse on which to blame your shortcomings as a writer. Take responsibility for your own faults and flaws by correcting or at least improving on them. I think it's also why I seriously disliked this book -- it suggests I might have ended up writing like this.
Obviously I can't recommend The Essex Serpent, but only hope that the television series is better than the novel. If the author wrote the screenplay I'd pass on that, too.
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