The perils of potential

I’ve been thinking a lot about potential lately. Unfortunately, it does bring to mind those late, not-so-lamented high school teachers of old who would fix their gazes upon me and opine that my work demonstrated so much potential, but either I’ve grown up to be like them, or more likely, I’m taking a different approach.

When it comes to reading a novel, I wear too many hats: I’m a reader, so I want to know if I like it or not. I’m a critic, so I need to know why a book works or not and why the average reader should spend their money on it. I’m a writer, so I want to deconstruct the book’s basic elements and structure so that I can figure out what works, what doesn’t, and how I can use this information in my own writing. And I’m an editor, so I want to know how this book could be better improved, if at all.

Naturally this can all get rather confusing, but it does mean that I approach reading in a way that a lot of people may not. I read a novel, and on one level I evaluate the bottom line–is it good or not? But at the same time, if the author’s voice resonates with me in some way, I think about where he or she is headed in a few years’ time. So even if the book I’m reading may be flawed, I still give it a decent grade in my mind for what clues it may offer to the writer’s future potential.

The question is, what’s objectively better: a flawed novel with a great voice and talent that suggests the possibility of greatness down the line, or a good novel, solidly constructed, that’s just what it is and nothing more?

To get things started, I’ll first illustrate an example of each possibility, and then bring in a rebuttal.

lI was asked to read the manuscript of a first novel due out next year.

I liked it a lot, as is, but I couldn’t help wondering what the writer

would be doing say, six or seven books from now. The voice was

emerging, the talent was there, and given time and maturity, the writer

could really be excellent instead of the very good that was present in

this debut. This is important to me because I do like to follow a

writer’s career from the beginning, to track the growth and change, and

see how he or she improves each time out.

But I’ve also read novels that did exactly what they set out to do–and though enjoyable, I really had no desire to read their work again. That particular book fulfilled a need–passed time at the airport, allowed me to decompress after reading a difficult or emotionally wrenching book, whatever–and that was that. But in terms of potential, it was already fulfilled, at least for me. I didn’t see a need to take things further.

In a perfect world, of course, the ideal is for a book to deliver on all counts when it comes to craft and be gifted with a singular voice that has the chance to flourish again and again in the future. But that ideal rarely happens (and if it does, it’s often copied to death so the original effect is diluted.)  So all things being equal, I’m more inclined to give flawed books with strong voices some leeway because of what may be promised in the future.

John Rickards, however, feels somewhat differently about this whole business of potential. His whole post is worth reading, but this comparison to answer my question of “what’s better” especially bears notice:

#1: I write a book that sets out to be a good, solid piece of

crime-related entertainment, but nothing more than that – nothing

especially ground-breaking or what have you – and I succeed entirely in

achieving that.

#2: I write a book that I want to be a good,

solid crime-related entertainment, as well as being a thought-provoking

and complex emotional puzzle relating to the nature of good and evil,

personal history and cultural identity, but I fail – it’s not very

entertaining and it’s not very thought-provoking or interesting.

Which

one is better? I’d say #1 every time. You can’t judge things on

potential – if anything, failed potential should only add to the

reader’s disappointment – because you can’t be sure what the author was

aiming for. You can only really judge on results, and a botch job of a

great idea is a worse result than a fine job of a decent idea.

Now, John’s examples are opposite poles, to a certain extent, and many books fall within the spectrum between. But there are so many ways to judge the merit of a book, whether objectively, as separate from anything that preceded it or came after, or subjectively, based on mood, having experienced too much of a writer’s work in too short a time, expectations, etc. So why not throw potential in the mix?

Having said all that, I’m only talking about books that I suppose I’d call “noble failures”–they are generally good, and are for the most part enjoyable to read and not a struggle to get through, but are flawed on certain levels not to be a great work in the eyes of a particular reader. A prime example for me is T Jefferson Parker’s CALIFORNIA GIRL. It garnered scores of great reviews, but I couldn’t quite give it an unequivocal rave. Why? Because even though I thought Parker really captured the late 1960s flavor, delivered wonderful characters, a nuanced procedural investigation, and was more ambitious than he had been in previous books, the prologue–set in the present day–deflated the tension of what was to follow. By revealing right away that the murder that gives the novel its primary focus had a different outcome, it detracted from the pleasure of seeing the investigation and family drama unfold. And then when the epilogue returns to the present and the resolution of the real outcome, it seemed rushed-easily another 50 pages could have been added to flesh out the resolution.

Bear in mind, though, that Parker is one of my favorite crime writers and I think the change in publishers (CALIFORNIA GIRL is the first with his new publisher, William Morrow) and more importantly, the change in editors (to Marjorie Braman) will pay off down the line. It just seemed, at least to me, that the book didn’t quite gel in the way it ought to have. But the fact that it’s more ambitious in scope while retaining Parker’s thoughtful voice is a huge plus.

So despite my mixed feelings, I’d still rate CALIFORNIA GIRL  more highly than other thrillers more competently executed, looking at it from a results standpoint.

Am I trying to wear too many hats at once? Do I cut some writers too much slack or not enough? And is there anything at all to this “potential” business? As ever, your thoughts are welcome.