Yesterday I downloaded a book from Kindle onto my iPod where the author did not follow a single one of the rules:

* Begin in a place of action, drama, danger.
* Your first sentence must hook the reader.
* No prologues.
* Show your hero(ine)'s goal, motivation, conflict.
* Reduce the narrative--reveal character and plot through dialogue.
* No infodumps.
* Show don't tell.
* Dribble in your back story. You must carry your action forward.

And the one that says the hero and heroine must meet within a certain number of pages.

This book has a long prologue--a narrative historical, sociological, and geographic study of the inhabitants as well as page after page of back-story and info dump giving two versions of a past conflict that was long ago resolved. The third part of the prologue is a catalogue of scholarly studies and sources for this information.

Chapter 1 beings with a long description of a character in a bucollic setting who has a few minor conflicts with family and neighbors that he easily resolves. There is also a lengthy back story about his nephew. And I saw only a few scraps of dialogue. Their main goal seems to be to give a party. Heroine? None in sight. E-books aren't paginated, but I'd guess by now we're 30-40 pages in.


This book was only published because the author was good buddies with the editor who did it as a personal favor. Yet the first time I read it, summer of 1968, I ripped through the whole thing in 3-4 days. Picked it up on the way home from work Friday night, read while cooking, eating, in the bath tub, on the jon, in bed. I barely slept. Read, dozed, read, dozed. Brought it to work Monday and kept sliding open my desk drawer to read just one more page. I must've read it a dozen times. It's been called the most influential book of the 20th Century. It was made into blockbuster, Academy Award winning film(s). Now it's drawing me in again, and I'm coming back to some dear old friends.

Oh there is a hint of a larger conflict in the prologue: "Though [Gandalf] did not say so to Bilbo, he also thought it important, and disturbing, to find that the good hobbit had not told the truth [about finding the ring] from the first: quite contrary to his habit."

This comes from "Die for Love," on page 33 of the 1987 Tor paperback edition:

Accustomed as she was to male loveliness in all its youthful variations, Jacqueline felt a faint but localized flutter when Victor von Damm stood face to face with her. He loomed over her--not only because he was several inches taller, but because he know how to loom. He probably practiced it daily, along with hand-kissing, smiling, and smoldering looks.

I cannot recommend this author highly enough. If you haven't read her books... what are you waiting for?? Get busy!

I chose this one to share because the author, Elizabeth Peters, does a masterful job of showing (not telling) what happens when the heroine's long-time (though mostly absent) lover turns up with a wife. The book is Night Train to Memphis.

Quoted text begins on page 21 of the paperback edition.

". . . my son and his wife will be pleased to have someone their own age to talk to. Not that they . . ." She looked up, over my shoulder, and the change in her face made me stare. So she could smile. "Ah, but here they are. Looking for me, I expect. My dears, allow me to introduce . . ."

I didn't hear the rest of it. When I turned, my ears went dead, the way they do after a sudden change in altitude.

She couldn't have been more than eighteen--twenty, at the outside. Her skin had that exquisite English fairness and her hair was a mass of cloudy brown curls framing her heart-shaped face. I saw that much, and the fact that the top of her head barely reached his chin, and that he had gone dead-white under his tan and that his eyes were as flat and opaque as blue circles painted on paper.

The girl smiled and spoke. My ears popped midway through the speech, and I caught the last words. ". . . call me Mary. This . . ." She tilted her head and looked up at him, her eyes shining. "This is John."

He had himself under control, except for his color; he always had trouble with that. His voice was cool and steady. "How do you do. We'd better hurry; the others have gone on. Mother--"

She waved away the arm he offered. "No, darling. I'm perfectly capable of walking a few more yards unassisted. You look a little . . . Are you feeling well?" His brows drew together, and she said hurriedly, "Oh, dear, I'm fussing, aren't I? I promise I won't do it again. Come along, Vicky, you and I will lean on one another."

She didn't need assistance; she was a lot steadier on her feet than I was. I stumbled along beside her, grateful for the uneven terrain and the heat and the need for haste, since they offered an excuse for the fact that I couldn't seem to take a deep breath. From behind me I heard a murmur of voices and a soft, silvery laugh.

The bus was one of those modern monsters, air-conditioned and enormous. As soon as we had settled ourselves an attendant came round with a tray. "Mineral water?" he inquired softly. "Orange juice? Mimosa?"

It occurred to my numbed brain that mimosas had alcohol of some kind in them. Champagne? Who cared? I grabbed one and tossed it down.

Jen had taken the seat next to mine. Several rows ahead I saw the familiar outlines of a neatly shaped skull covered with fair hair. Mary's head wasn't visible over the back of the seat, she was so tiny.

Have I mentioned I am almost six feet tall?

. . .

I choked on my drink. Jen gave me a hearty slap on the back. Her brow clouded. "Oh, dear, I hope I didn't offend the dear boy. Men are so sensitive about weakness, you know, and I promised myself I would stop fussing over him, especially now that he has a wife to look after him, but he was so ill last winter . . . A skiing accident, and then pneumonia. He seems quite fit now, but I worry."

"Skiing accident," I repeated, like a parrot. I guess it could have been described that way. . . .

. . .

I had not known about his subsequent illness, but I wasn't surprised to hear of it. If he had stayed in bed for a few days instead of sneaking off the first time I left him alone . . .

Fortunately Jen didn't notice my abstraction; she was perfectly happy to carry the conversation. I sat slugging down champagne and orange juice while Jen went merrily on, telling me how she had feared her dear boy would never settle down--"he is so attractive to women"--about the whirlwind courtship--"he didn't bring her to meet me until a few weeks ago"--and about their insistence that she join them on their honeymoon.

"Honeymoon," said the parrot.

. . .

I don't remember what else she said.