Though the last century of technological progress has rendered many forms of entertainment obsolete, the printed book has weathered the storm of time. Podcasts replaced radio, streaming took a bite out of network television and movie theaters, and independent digital media outlets (such as the one you’re currently reading) have all but throttled the physical newspaper. And yet, while live-action and animated television shows and movies are prominent, printed books remain as many people’s preferred way of consuming a story. When books are converted into a show or movie, reviews of the digital form often contain the admission that “the book was better.”

Why is that?

Simply put, writers have the advantage of accessing your life experiences, while filmmakers and producers are forced to show you theirs. When reading the printed page, your mind has the space to fill in the gaps with segments of your unique reality. If a character is described as: “Sarah was a pale woman with luscious, sand-colored hair that fell to her elbows,” you will likely envision someone you met that fits that description. Maybe they were a redhead, or perhaps they were blonde. Is the character wearing glasses? That depends. Did the person this description made you recall have glasses when you met them?

The same goes for feelings, motivations, and actions. “With his skin burning red and a fire taking his mind, Gerald swung at Sam, knocking him to the floor.” The scene you’re imagining when you read this will be based on the last time you saw someone (or felt yourself) grow furious. You’ll feel what Gerald is feeling and envision his punch akin to the last fistfight you saw (if you’ve ever seen one).

But when these stories are told through a visual medium such as a show or movie, the space for our lived experience is closed off. Instead of envisioning Sarah as the friendly classmate from college, we see the actress who was hired for the role. Well, I’ve never met this Sarah before! She doesn’t resonate with me. It’s like being told a cake is “the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted.” You’re now remembering the best dessert ever to grace your lips and dialing it up a few notches. But when the desert comes out from the restaurant kitchen, it’s likely to disappoint given your high expectations. Not because it’s bad, but because you were envisioning something different.

The same goes for environments and physical descriptions. When Game of Thrones first aired, many avid A Song of Ice and Fire readers were underwhelmed by the show version of the Iron Throne. Described in the books as “a thousand swords melted by dragon fire,” readers envisioned something like this:

But given the constraints of a television set, the show version was this:

Hardly a thousand swords. Maybe three dozen? Regardless, it didn’t meet the fantastical expectations George R.R. Martin had created with his inspiring prose.

Books let our imagination run wild, with the only constraints drawn from the limits of our consciousness. Alternatively, screen adaptations give us the show-runner or director’s vision, which is limited by finances, time, and practicality. As 1,000 readers will imagine 1,000 differing scenarios when they read a scene, showing someone else’s interpretation will seldom exceed our own. To be fair, sometimes visual adaptation takes liberties with the story that expands the world or build upon a great work. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn’t. But no matter how good, seeing is never as good as believing.

That’s why the book is always better.

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I appreciate your support! Good Reading — Joe

Sci-fi, horror, and fantasy writers face a unique challenge. While their stories center on fantastical elements, they must still be believable to the audience. We’ll happily suspend disbelief, but only to a certain degree. This requires a delicate balance. Stray too far into mysticism, and the readers will lose interest. Yet, if the story stays too close to reality, it risks losing its essence and being little more than standard fiction. Essentially, authors need to foster plausibility in impossible scenarios, which is no easy task. 

I recently found a perfect balance of this dynamic in Darcy Coates’ Gallows Hill, a horror novel about a cursed winery. It was superb, not only in Coates’ skin-curling prose and story design but in how it threaded this tricky needle. If you’re familiar with Coates’ discography, it will be no surprise that the curse in Gallows Hill brings the dead back to life. Given this zombie uprising happens in one limited location and not the entire world, one would think: “Okay, get in your car and drive away. Or, call the police and tell them to come rescue you, guns blazing. Hell, go buy a gun yourself and blast the undead to kingdom come!”But that wouldn’t be an enjoyable book. So, authors must create rules that govern and constrain the imagined elements of their stories. If they don’t do it well, the rest of the book falls apart because the readers feel it is “unrealistic.” 

It’s odd because I, the reader, accepted the impossible premise that dead people can come back to life and that curses are real. But only to an extent. If Coates had that same undead cackle and soared into the sky, I would have laughed out loud and thrown the book across the room. Whatever other brilliance Coates had put into her work would have gone uncherished by the audience and turned away by her breach of plausibility.

The rules of plausibility are like oxygen: we only notice them when they’re gone or are of poor quality. It wasn’t until the conclusion of Gallows Hill that I realized how Coates had constructed the rules of the curse to be realistic and foster a compelling story. Alternatively, in the Harry Potter series, Hermione is given a time-turner that lets her time travel to attend simultaneous classes. This raises the question, if time travel exists in the Harry Potter universe, why isn’t it used to save Harry’s parents or kill Voldemort? The lack of coherent rules shatters the suspense and consequences of the book, significantly reducing the other benefits.

Given readers' dire need to accept the limits of fantasy, Coates does a beautiful job outlining the rules of Gallows Hill in a believable, consistent, and natural way. There’s no forced exposition dump, and as the character’s story is revealed, more and more limitations come to light, explaining the mystery at the heart of the story. It’s a testament that carefully considering the audience’s willingness to suspend disbelief will lead to satisfying payoffs.

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Each article will delve into a unique literary feature — a complex character arc, a cleverly used cultural reference, or another small yet significant literary device that elevates a good book into a masterpiece. By focusing on these distinct elements, we can enhance our understanding and enjoyment of the book, and also have a lot of fun in the process.

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Happy Reading! — Joe

After several years of intermittent reading, I finally completed The Lord Of The Rings. There's not much I can say about this classic tale that hasn't already been said over the past century. Instead, I'd rather focus on the author and how his obsession with his world of Middle Earth produced one of the greatest stories ever told and birthed the fantasy genre.

This may be a contentious view, but I believe the true essence of Tolkien’s work lies in the appendixes. These are not mere add-ons, but rich troves of information akin to the depth found in non-fiction history books. They unveil the languages of various races, a history that spans millennia beyond the LOTR narrative, maps of Middle Earth, and everything a Tolkien enthusiast could desire. This content is the lifeblood of Tolkien's magnum opus, not just forgettable trivia to satisfy fans like the post-credit scene in a Marvel movie. 

As I made my way through the appendix, learning about the rituals of ent life and the genealogy of obscure Gondorian kings, Tolkien’s purpose revealed itself to me. I don’t believe Tolkien began writing to detail Frodo’s quest to destroy the ring but to create a world that was as deep and nuanced as our own. Instead of prioritizing the peculiarities of a specific character or location, Tolkien concentrated on building a world with complex history, lively culture, and agonizing conflicts. From the vivacious and cruel world of Middle Earth, the story of the fellowship arose. Once their interests and habitats were established in “historical” fact, Tolkien only had to put pen to paper and guide the characters as they followed their natural paths. 

Not only did Tolkien’s world-driven approach create an infinitely enjoyable work for avid readers and inspiration for aspiring authors (myself included), but it also provided a valuable lesson for literary enthusiasts. Writers don't need to go to the extreme depth Tolkien did in creating backstory, but our work will be better if we realize that a world with character creates characters worth investing in. Readers will appreciate rich detail and backstory on their own, while the characters that emerge from a living, breathing world will have stories worth retelling for centuries to come.

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