May 30th, Thursday

Best of BEA II at Books of Wonder – 6pm

I think this event will be a signing and possibly a reading. You can get more information here at the Books of Wonder website.

May 31st, Friday

10am to 11am: Signing free copies of The Twelve-Fingered Boy at Author Autograph Area table #13. Javits Center.

11am: Interview on Author Podcast

7pm: Attending Chuck Wendig’s book release for The Blue Blazes, and I’m really excited about that because I haven’t picked up a copy of it yet and I’ve only heard rave reviews. Looking forward to that and then making my agent buy me drinks. Here’s the Facebook event link right over chere, dawlin’. The reading will be at The Singularity & Co. in Brooklyn. So, I’m packing my skinny jeans (to wear as a wristband).

June 1st, Saturday

As of right now, my schedule is wide open for the rest of the weekend. I leave on Monday. Holler at me if you want to hang out or have suggestions as to what I should do. I might just go walk around BEA and shoplift stuff.

I am a writer.

Strange to type that, but there it is. At varying points of my life – and even currently – I could make many similar statements:

I am a father.
I am a husband.
I am a musician.
I am a designer.
I am an artist.

All of these vocations (and responsibilities) are hard. Harder than most people who don’t do them – or don’t do them well – can believe. And success at any of those things is subjective, fleeting, and always up for review.

In the course of these human events, we fathers, husbands, musicians, designers, artists, and novelists have to ask ourselves why we keep doing it. Because it is fucking hard, a hard and thankless road for long stretches, miles upon miles, and many times during the journey it would be easier just to abandon the path and walk away.

But we don’t.

Why?

Writing just to get published seems like saying I listen to music just to keep myself from boredom. I sing to keep myself from suicide. The inner workings of writers – and most artists, though I’m just speaking for myself – are labyrinthine and convoluted, motivated by obscure forces, and writing just to get published doesn’t ring true, not for me.

So, why do I write, now that it’s not just to get published?

Is it for the money? Again, a year ago, I would’ve answered differently than I do today, because then money seemed like a bonus. THEM: “Hey, man, we want to publish your book, it’s fantastic, we love it. Oh, and I almost forgot, we’re gonna give you some money for it, too. How’s that sound?” ME: “Uh, freaking awesome! I’d just be happy to get published. But money too!?! Pinch me.”

But that was then.

Now, while I don’t write for the money, I’d be lying if I said I don’t have plans for every cent I earn writing. The money isn’t peanuts anymore, either. So, yes, I do write for the money. But not solely for the money.

Do I write for the glory? The renown? Ahahaha. Money and glory? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, right? I write horror novels, fantasy novels. I write books for teens.
Example: I went to a movie premiere in Little Rock the other night and schmoozed with the editors from Oxford American, a magazine published here in Arkansas. When I told them I was a novelist, they were very interested in me. When I revealed I was a horror/fantasy author, noses suddenly became elevated. The managing editor said, “Oh.” Sniff. “We don’t cover that sort of… literature.” I had been drinking so I laughed it off, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt. (Turns out, the editor, Marc Smirnoff, was soon to be removed from his position due to some inappropriate harassment of the sexual stripe. Here’s the NYT article.)

So, no, I don’t write for the glory.

However, it is wonderful having novels on the way to publication from great houses and knowing that when they do come out, people will read them and know my name. The fame a writer has is infinitesimal compared even to some C or D list actor, but still, knowing that people are aware of you and your work is a great – and sometimes terrifying – feeling.

But I am no Ozymandias.

When I hear people saying, “I write because I can’t NOT write,” I want to smack them about the head and shoulders and edit their double negatives. Placing the desire and vocation of writing on the level of, say, breathing, is the same sort of reasoning twelve year old girls use to justify getting the newest skirt – they just HAD to.

I’ve heard writers speak of TRUTH – that it’s at the tip of their pen and all of literature is an attempt to achieve it. I’ve read that some authors feel that we’re all born flawed, and wounded, and the act of all creation is a way to heal that wound. Certain misogynists feel that all artistic pursuit is an attempt by men to become a gestative, creative force – all art is due to womb envy – which leaves me wondering, then, why do women write?

No, none of this applies to me. Or maybe all of it. Shit I don’t know. But I keep going back to one thing.

It’s 1979 and we’re somewhere outside Kankakee, Illinois, barreling through the night in my father’s light blue ’73 Impala. My mom slumps against the passenger window, head against a pillow, bare feet on the dash. My sister has passed into slumber on her side of the car, sprawled out on the big bench seat, no seatbelt in sight.

I can’t sleep. I’ve always been a good sleeper, going down easy if I had half a chance, but I’m too excited and we’ll be in Ludington, Michigan, in the morning and that’s my most favorite place in the world, on the beach, the eastern shore of Lake Michigan, sliding down the dunes, roasting hot-dogs over driftwood fires, having ice cream at the nearby A&W Root Beer stand.

But it’s after midnight now and I can’t sleep.

Dad fiddles with the dial, moving the red frequency indicator back and forth across the face of the radio, changing the shape of the soft static coming from the speakers and making my mom grunt and twist her body a little. He turns it off and drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

In the backseat, I scoot up and hang my arms over into the front seat, resting my chin on the upholstery.

Dad, in a kind of whispery voice, says, “Hey, tiger, you wanna hear a story?”

“Yes!”

Mom shushes us but then says, “Just keep your voices down, okay? It’s late.”

Dad says, “You ever heard of the Greeks?”

“No.”

“Not Hercules?”

“Yeah, we saw that movie.”

“That’s right.” He rubs his chin and says, “This story was close to the same time in history, but it’s about a war. The Trojan war. All fought because of a girl.”

He stares out the windshield for a bit, headlights passing us like ghosts while bugs make bright streamers in the air before ending as soft splats on the window.

“It starts like this, if I can remember it right…’I sing, O Muse, of the wrath of Achilles, Peleus’ son…’”

“What’s a Muse?”

He smiles and even though I can’t see it in the darkness of the car, I know it’s there.

“Well…let me tell you…”

I sit, chin on upholstery, hands empty and swinging loose, hanging on his every word as he retells The Illiad, after midnight, going eighty miles an hour, somewhere in Illinois, 1979.

This I will never forget. This I will never forget.

There are moments that shape the course of our lives. Some bad, some good. Sometimes they’re such small, passing moments, you never realize how important they are to you without the space of forty years in which to view them.

But I know why I write.

I write in hopes of giving to others what my father gave to me. The intense joy of story, well-told. An adventure. An escape. And to add my voice to the chorus of innumerable storytellers since mankind sat huddled around campfires.

We are what we do. Sometimes, we can change the world – or at least another person – by what we say.

So, going by the title of this post, I can say right away that if you’re still unpublished you probably have a dayjob and there’s a good possibility that you have health benefits. So you got that going for you right there. Go kiss your HR person and then schedule a $25 copay visit to your doctor just because YOU CAN, you healthy motherscratchers.

The other day Chuck Wendig posted 25 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT OUTLINING and as usual it really hit home. I’m a more recent convert to outlining. Traditionally there’ve always been “plotters” and “pantsers” though I prefer George R.R. Martin’s more elegant dialectic of gardeners vs. architects. When I first started writing, I clearly fell on the side of the gardeners.

Southern Gods, This Dark Earth, The Twelve-Fingered Boy were all written without outlines. Or, I should say, were written with only the barest of outlines usually half-way through the story. The Twelve-Fingered Boy was short enough where I held the whole of the plot in my head throughout the process of writing it without ever putting any sort of roadmap down.

The Incorruptibles, The Shibboleth, The End of All Things, Infernal Machines… all of these books of mine have, if not in depth, then comprehensive outlines spanning the whole of the narrative.

Why this change?

Necessity. All of these books that I’ve outlined extensively, it’s been done to keep me on track toward deadlines, to prevent me from meandering. I’m due to finish a book every nine months (or so). Publishers expect the books. That allows me no time to woolgather or explore subplots that go nowhere.

So, as I was reading Chuck’s wonderful post and nodding my head in agreement, I started thinking of what it was like before I was published and certain things occurred to me. I was always in such a mad rush to get SG or TDE into print, I took for granted the strength of my position as being unpublished. I know that might sound weird but there are great benefits to that time before you’re published. And now, while I love Southern Gods, my first novel, there are things I would change in it. Flaws I would fix. But, they say perfectionists never get published – they’re always working on the latest draft of their unpublished masterpiece. At some point you have to let go.

However, when you’re unpublished, you have the luxury of exploring every rabbit hole. An unpublished writer can take a decade and write a perfectly wonderful and sprawling masterpiece. An unpublished writer can become expansive, can throw pacing to the wind, can introduce thousands of characters, and (in fantasy) develop convincing flora and fauna and magical species to fill this world. Massive unexplored terrains. In essence, the unpublished author knows no constraints.

And that is a position of strength.

Why?

Because if you have the juice, if you have the ability, the skill, the artistry, you’re going to get published. It’s going to happen. You’re not going to let anything stop you. And nothing CAN stop you. Despite the flux of crap self-published books and cheap pulp novels, people are always starving for thoughtful, exciting, well-wrought entertainment.

But right now, before you have your big deal (and all contractually-based schedules appended to said deal), it will (most likely) be the only time in your career that you have the luxury of exploring your own literary world in a leisurely fashion. It’ll be the only time you’ll be able to write a book as big as you’d like. To create massive landscapes and fill them with interesting people. To construct intricate plots. To explore every rabbit hole.

Some of you might be saying “Bullshit. Books like that never get sold.” I say to you Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, The Name of the Wind, and The Blade Itself. I say to you A Shadow in Summer and The Lies of Lock Lamora.

I say to you The Hobbit.

So, if there’s a piece of advice I could give to myself five years ago when I first started writing, it would be, “Slow down. I know you’re thirty seven and feel like you don’t have a lot of time, but… ease up. Make the book bigger. Include the subplot regarding Rabbit and Alice. Develop the world more. In the end it’ll pay off.”

Keep your chins up and keep writing.

That’s all, folks.

ADDENDUM:

Interesting discussion on the Twitters regarding this post with Chuck Wendig, Thomas Pluck, and yours truly. https://twitter.com/tommysalami/status/335109247685763075

So, thanks to the illustrious (and illustrative) John Picacio, artist extraordinaire, gentleman, and lover of fine scotch, I managed to get on the schedule at ConQuest in Kansas City. I think he put in a good word for me. If not, well, thanks to him anyway for being such a mensch. You seriously need to go to his website and check out his work. He’s also featured this month at George R.R. Martin’s website.

Okay, so ConQuest in Kansas City. Here’s my schedule.

How do you Write so Fast
Room: Embassy
Friday, May 24 2PM
Tips, tricks and Dark Arcane Secrets about how you can increase your productivity as a writer.

Panelists: John Hornor Jacobs [MOD], Claire Ashgrove, E. P. Beaumont, Devin Harnois

The State of the Art
Room: Royal Ballroom
Friday, May 24 5PM

Our panelists discuss and present a slideshow of images of some of their favorite art and artists working in sf/f, and discuss what trends and influences they see shaping sf/f.

Panelists: John Picacio [MOD], Patrick Rothfuss, Chris J Garcia, George RR Martin, Mitchell Bentley, John Hornor Jacobs

The Hobbit Trilogy
Room: Imperial
Friday, May 24 8PM

One down, two to go. Is Peter Jackson’s new trilogy living up to the legend of LoTR? Join us as we go ‘There and Back Again.’

Panelists: Trudy V Myers [MOD], Amy J. Miller, John Hornor Jacobs

Writing – The Creative Process
Room: Monarch
Saturday 11AM

Our panelists discuss the how’s and why’s they write, what’s important, and what’s doing more harm than good.

Panelists: M.C. (Mary) Chambers [MOD], Patricia C. Wrede, John Hornor Jacobs, KD McEntire
YA – Not just for Kids [MOD]
Room: Monarch
Sunday 1PM

Harry Potter, Hunger Games, and many more. YA may mean Young Adult, but that’s not just a reading age. Come and discuss why this genre is made for adults too.

Panelists: John Hornor Jacobs [MOD], Patricia C. Wrede, Keri O’Brien
Reading/Q&A/Autographs [MOD]
Room: Regency
Sunday 3PM

Finishing your work is like making the sale in Glengarry Glen Ross. I admonish you to watch this video snippet:

So, that being said – substituting THE END for THE SALE (and subtracting all the non-politically correct language because, you know, we’re all politically correct up in this biznatch at all times), if there’s any hard and fast rule to writing it has to be finish what you start. Without a completed piece, you’ll never be able to discern what works for you and what doesn’t. You’ll have nothing to sell. You’ll have wasted your time.

Steven Pressfield has written a wonderful motivational book called THE WAR OF ART. In it, he states that all of art is war and you have to face down Resistance that keeps you from the finish line. I recommend this highly. It’s full of insightful things like:

So, much advice on writing is available on the web. And you can lose yourself down that rabbit-hole. I think most writers should do so, at least once. Become familiar with all the advice, read books on writing – Anne Lamott and Lawrence Block and Stephen King, they all have books on the art and craft of writing. Hit Chuck Wendig’s TERRIBLEMINDS and peruse his points about writing and publishing – you are a student and forwarned is forearmed. Follow writerly people on the Twitters and Facebook. Attend workshops. Join a writing group.

And then, after you’ve absorbed all that you can, try to forget it all. Your job is to write and finish the job. You are an assasin that must kill the project. Don’t let advice stop you. Feel free to allow yourself to just write without rules.

Don’t let expectation inhibit you.

You’re not a novelist until you’ve finished the manuscript. You have nothing until you’ve reached the end. That should be the holy grail for you.

Nothing else matters.

I’m blogging this to remind myself.

I’ve been sitting (uncomfortably) on the news for six months but today’s the day! Very happy that Marcus Gipps, my editor, found it worthy of joining the amazing line-up of authors they publish at Gollancz, including George R.R. Martin, Pat Rothfuss, Phillip K. Dick, Scott Lynch, Brandon Sanderson, Bob Silverberg, and Gene Wolfe to name a few luminaries. To be listed among them is purely an honor.

You can read the official press release at the Gollancz blog here to see the official missive and to get an idea of the premise of THE INCORRUPTIBLES.

And because THE INCORRUPTIBLES is a fantasy novel, please enjoy this map.

After seeing the trailers, I realized this EVIL DEAD was more of remake of the first movie, its serious tone, than the hammy, slapstick of the second one. But that’s cool. No worries there. It’s just that in what I’ve heard described as a post-’The Cabin in the Woods’ world, you have to give some nod to the implausibility of a plot set in, well, a cabin in the woods. DIGRESSION: the prevalence of cabin-in-the-wood plots arise mostly due to budget. A single set is far less expensive to shoot a movie on than on multiple sets. Consequently, over the years, you get a lot of cabin in the woods movies because horror, often, is cheap. All the more reason for better writing. END DIGRESSION.

Sadly, EVIL DEAD was a cover of a great tune. A flawed tune, but a great one, nevertheless. The cover cannot match the original. And while EVIL DEAD offered lots of suspenseful scares and cringe-worthy body horror moments – there was a LOT of physical trauma in this flick – its main flaw was that it didn’t offer an intellectual reason to be scared.

Here’s the rub – when you make a movie dealing with possession by malevolent forces (gods, demons, evil spirits, ghosts) you have to allow that force enough sentience to provide the viewers with a sense of the depth of the entity’s hatred or evilness. In the originals, much of the intelligence of the infernal was conveyed through the gleeful nature of the possessed, and the recorded warnings found on the tape-deck. Neither were present in this movie.

How do you prove a demon’s sentience in film (or literature)? You give it dialogue. This is something William Peter Blatty understood, instinctively. Instead of having the baddy bellow things like “I’m going to rape your soul, motherfucker!” you have the entity bound somehow and you interrogate it in order to prove its existence. You allow it, through dialogue, to play with its intended victims and maybe even provide them with some history and/or a fatal flaw delivered as it crows. The fatal flaw revealed through pride.

EVIL DEAD had the opportunity for dialogue with the driving malevolent spirit many times – most notably when Mia, the possessed junky, was locked in the basement (pictured at the top AND bottom of this review) – but failed to punch up the intelligence and playfulness of the infernal presence, forgetting that the mind is where real terror lives, not in the buckets of blood splashed about. There was one good, creepy scene near the end but I can’t spoil it for you.

KUDOS: Big props for the setup – the junky going to the cabin to dry out – and the copious use of practical effects. I hope other filmakers take note.

It’s interesting to note that horror movies are far, far more scary when you are fourteen years old than when you’re forty-two.

All that being said, the movie was fun. They spared no expense on buckets of blood, ichor, and goo. I enjoyed it and would recommend it to people who like horror movies or are fans of the first one.

I’m inordinately proud of this poster. Made in reference to this poster.

]]> http://www.johnhornorjacobs.com/hobbit-poo/feed/ 0 http://www.johnhornorjacobs.com/on-reviews/ http://www.johnhornorjacobs.com/on-reviews/#comments Thu, 21 Mar 2013 16:50:14 +0000 johnhornor http://www.johnhornorjacobs.com/?p=3061 GIVING REVIEWS

I wrote a review the other day on Treasure Island, The Musical, and my Statcounter app tells me it’s been viewed a few times by someone who might’ve been upset by the review. I felt bad about that for a while, really, that my opinion might have upset someone because it wasn’t said in hate, it was just something I had an issue with and I voiced my opinion.

But I’m noticing that I don’t really want to review things I like, or that I have no problems with, I just want to slag shit I don’t like. So I end up not reviewing stuff often. But more importantly, I don’t like feeling like the bad guy. The asshole. Which makes me realize any necessary component for a successful reviewer is an absolute indifference to what the creator or artist might think of him or her. This frees them up to say whatever they want. Of course, they’re probably insufferable assholes, as well, but that’s just the kit of the proverbial caboodle.

RECEIVING REVIEWS

I get all sorts of reviews for my books, most good, but there’s always the bad, the one stars, the folks that hate my work. There’s not much I can add to the discussion about being on the receiving end that John Scalzi hasn’t already said here and here. Some of the highlights:

1. Everyone is entitled to their opinion about the things they read (or watch, or listen to, or taste, or whatever). They’re also entitled to express them online.

2. Sometimes those opinions will be ones you don’t like.

3. Sometimes those opinions won’t be very nice.

4. The people expressing those may be (but are not always) assholes.

And this:

Once again: How do I feel about one star reviews? I’m fine with them. I’m sorry these folks had an unhappy reading experience, but the point is that no matter what I wrote, someone would have had an unhappy reading experience. I know this because there’s not a novel I’ve written that someone hasn’t seen fit to complain about, often at length and sometimes with the vitriol usually reserved for politicians of the party one does not like.

It’s part of the territory, and the sooner one as a creator comes to grips with it and accepts it as part of the process, the better off one will be. I think as a creator you owe your audience your best efforts, but if at the end of your best effort some of them are still not happy, the best response is, oh, well, maybe next time. You will never make everyone happy. If you try, you’ll likely create something mediocre, and then nobody will be happy. Least of all you.

As usual, Scalzi does a great job of breaking it all down and I suggest you read it if you are an author, a musician, or anyone in the public eye.

READING REVIEWS AS POTENTIAL AUDIENCE

I want to discuss how pointless reviews truly are from the audience point of view, at least for me as the audience, that is. From the potential buyer, potential fan, looking for something to read, looking for some entertainment.

Here’s the way I see it: 5 and 4 star gushing, cum-bath reviews rarely say anything worthwhile about the book, movie, album in question other than sticky (and salty but hey, full of protein! Okay, I’ll stop), overblown praise. It’s nice as a “content provider” to get them, but they’re like empty calories.

1 and 2 star reviews are often so negative, I find myself trying to figure out why the reviewer is so full of vitriol. Is the subject matter making him or her have all the FEELS they don’t want to have? Is there some social/political slant that’s informing this person’s worldview to the point of monomania?

3 star reviews are often where you find the most penetrating and even-handed insights regarding a work. The reviewers have weighed the good and the bad and offer that up for your perusal, allowing you to make a decision regarding purchase.

I’m going to digress for a moment. The other day, Jared, @pornokitsch tweeted this.

https://twitter.com/pornokitsch/status/312250900318150656

I went to the review, read it. It was entertaining because I had read Wise Man’s Fear prior to reading the review and I could see what the reviewer said had some merit, even through all the hate. I skimmed through some of the other reviews. That lead me to another reviewer’s site that was BONKERS in its hate-filled screeds against some fantasy books. I won’t mention the website (partly because the reviewer, obviously brilliant, scares the shit out of me) but also I don’t want to bum you out because surely, if you began to read this person’s reviews, you’d start feeling physically ill. Karma and all that.

But, like Blackbeard’s wife, I opened the door and looked. I read them anyway. One of the reviews was for Peter V. Brett’s The Warded Man, which I had just bought and was currently reading. The review eviscerated the book, I mean, really took it apart, albeit from a very limited viewpoint, but disassembled the novel, shat upon the the various parts, attacked the author and then shat upon him. Lots and lots of shitting.

So when I returned to reading The Warded Man, I couldn’t help read the book through the prism of the review. Everything thing that had a whiff of what the reviewer complained about, I noted it.

My mind was tainted against the book.

I managed to work through it because The Warded Man is quite a fun read, full of fun characters and demons of all stripe (and you know how I loves me some infernal shiznit).

This brought to my attention how susceptible I am toward negativity. I’ve noticed this trend for me, negative (or three star with heavy doses of criticism) reviews on Amazon, Goodreads, or Rotten Tomatos taint my experience though I still am able to enjoy the thing reviewed. Examples – Daniel Polansky’s Low Town, Jack the Giant Slayer, and The Hobbit movie.

The reviews, in essence, became an irritant during the experience of the media but didn’t kill the enjoyment of the media itself. Like spending a day at the beach, drinking beer, soaking up the rays. Yeah, there’s some sand in your swimming trunks, chafing your funbits a smidge, but nothing you can’t handle. The sun and beer and surf outweigh the itch.

Anyway, I’ve already tried to stop reading reviews of my own books, unless they’re brought to my attention by a publicist. But now I’ve found I have to start ignoring reviews as a customer as well. In the end, the only valuable reviews have some modicum of negativity and I need to stay positive now.

Looks like I’ll have to form opinions about stuff all on my own.

That is all.

Since I so rarely have opinion about stuff – actually that’s not true. Let me rephrase. Since I so rarely have opinions about things strong enough to merit me taking an hour or two out of my day to write about them (I am not an essayist), when I do have thoughts I want to share, I’m going to do that. I’ll try to stay away from being negative. Can’t make any promises.

——

I recently attended the world premiere of Treasure Island – The Musical here at The Arkansas Reperatory Theater. I was very excited because it’s rare we get good productions in Arkansas, seeing as we’re on the edge of the world here. Digression: one of the major problems with Arkansas is that a majority of its truly talented denizens tend to leave for greener pastures, commonly referred to as BRAIN DRAIN. We’re too provincial for a burgeoning arts scene and the majority of the population doesn’t care about or support the arts yet we’re affluent enough for much of the artistic minded to have enough income to pursue some form of artistic endeavor creating a disparity between opportunity and ability to support oneself pursuing the arts. We’re a state of hobbyists. If I had a dime for every time people looked at me blankly when I say I’m a novelist, I’d be able to support myself as a writer in style. Close digression tag.

So, my whole family was very excited for the chance to see a brand new musical, a world premiere no less. My daughters and wife dudded up in pretty dresses and I tamped down my hair and we took our seats after a nice dinner. Lights go down. Actors tromp on stage.

THE GOOD:

There was far more good than bad in this production. We all know the story, right? Treasure Island. A fatherless boy gets swept away from home in a plot to find stolen gold and runs afoul of pirates? Long John Silver, the cook with a history of larceny on the high seas and a cadre at his back with a half-submerged desire for a son (and possibly redemption) stages a mutiny in order to claim the treasure for himself. I won’t recap the whole plot for you but you can get a good idea of it here at Wikipedia, or a fine recap and review of this production by Lauren James on the InArkansas Blog. And of course, you can read the text of Treasure Island for free at Project Gutenberg.

It’s a bildungsroman of the best sort and Logan Rowland (Jim Hawkins) acts with the assurance of someone far beyond his years. And while Treasure Island is a coming-of-age story, Jim Hawkins’ story arc is only interesting insofar as being an innocent foil to the adult characters that – at least in the musical production – take pre-eminence. Indeed, every pirate has his moment to shine and young Jim spends much of his stage time hiding, listening, or being fawned over by a phantom mother existing only in his mind – a contrivance, I imagine, to insure that the majority of Treasure Island isn’t a sausage fest, which, essentially, it is. Yet. This production does bring Jim’s character arc to fruition and Rowland does a fine job with the character, culminating with the moment he’s forced to kill. It has real emotional impact and goes a long way toward ameliorating the production’s other flaws. Kudos to the writers.

Richard B. Watson chewed up the scenery as Long John Silver while eschewing the dreaded “Arrgh,” (see what I did there?) originated by Robert Newton, patron saint of pirate-talk around the globe. Every time Watson opened his mouth to speak, I was riveted. And despite some of the productions failings (which I will get to in a moment) there was a real pathos when Silver reached out to Jim at the end, showing a depth of feeling, a conflicted character, and an understanding of the source material and, simply, some tremendous acting chops.

Another standout was Squire Trewlaney, played by Michael Thomas Holmes. His ebullient portrayal of the Squire was a crowd favorite, garnering laughs. I couldn’t help but think if there ever was a person fit to play John Adams in 1776, the musical, Michael Thomas Holmes is that man.

And then there was Ben Gunn, played by actor Patrick Richwood who, after a bit of Googling, seems to be a highly accomplished stage, television, and movie actor. His portrayal of the lunatic Ben Gunn was manical, hilarious, fascinating and the highlight of the evening, receiving a thunderous amount of applause when all the players took the stage at the end. And deservedly so.

To wrap up The Good section, Treasure Island - The Musical is a wonderful way to spend an evening and, Arkansans, if you don’t head out and support this wonderful production, you’re a dickhole. Hie thee hence and purchase a ticket. Available March 6th to March 31st.

THE BAD:

I’m not going to slag Treasure Island – The Musical too much because the ensemble was fantastic and I want it to do well. You will notice, however, I didn’t refer to the music at all in my section referring to the good. Probably because the music was the least memorable part of TI-TM.

Okay, bear with me for a moment while I make a few postulations:

If you walk out of a theater after seeing a musical and can’t hum the chorus from one of the songs, sing a snippet of a ditty, that musical wasn’t a successful experience.

A few days after seeing Treasure Island: The Musical, I was watching It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia, namely the episode in which the gang – Charlie, Dennis, Mac and Frank – decide to form a band. Of course, in the constant shifting machinations of those horrible (wonderful) people, they kick out Charlie (and Dennis) who then join forces. Witness:

And for the next week or so I had that retarded melody running round in my head. And earworm indeed. Certain ideas began to click in my head almost as though I was huffing paint.

Shortly after, I told my wife what I was thinking.

“Dominant melodies. The Lion King,” I said. She looked at me and then sang the chorus of “Hakuna Matata.” And then she paused and sang the line, “I just can’t wait to be king!”

“Guys and Dolls,” I said. She looked at me blankly so then I sang, “I got the horse right here, his name is Paul Revere,” and then went into a long rendition of “Luck Be a Lady.”

“Oklahoma,” she said and I responded by singing about how corn grows as high as elephant’s eyes.

“My Fair Lady,” I said. Again she looked at me blankly but I sang “Get Me to The Church On Time,” and “I Could Have Danced All Night.” Turns out I have a far greater knowledge of musicals than my wife does. Go figure.

After that we went through more Disney musical numbers, including “Part of Your World,” and “Be Our Guest” and “Under the Sea.” Then we sang “Food Glorious Food” and “Thank You Very Much.”

The point is, musical theater music is popular music. Musical theater is emotion writ large. It’s simple and blatant, not subtle. A character takes the stage and announces to the world, in song, what his or her motivations are. If your character wants a father, or misses a father, or wants adventure – then you have that character – Jim Hawkins – sing a song about how he wants adventure – verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, verse, chorus with some talky parts. If your character wants revenge, or love, or anything, then that character sings a catchy song about his or her motivations.

If you’re going to put on a musical, the songs need hooks. HOOKS. Earworms. Dominant major melodies that get in our brainmeats and pulse uncomfortably. Pleasurably.

Unfortunately, Treasure Island – The Musical didn’t provide that. The closest it came was when Squire Trewlaney sang about becoming rich. It was the most charming musical number. Motivations were clear.

Don’t get me wrong, the music was professional, and well composed. But it wasn’t engaging and that, I fear, will be the thing that keeps Treasure Island – The Musical from becoming a hit, a production that really takes off.

But still, it was a very fun night and you’ll still be a dickhole if you live in Little Rock and don’t go see it.

That is all.