If you read what's known as high or epic fantasy, you're aware of what doorstoppers these books tend to be. Heck, if you've ever looked at a shelf with fantasy books on it, you might have wondered how it holds up to all that extra weight. Anti-gravity binding glue? IDK.
Unfortunately fantasy of this sort has a reputation among the uninitiated as being bloated and wordy. Largely because much of it is. The real problem, though, is when the writers are convinced it needs to be bloated and wordy. It doesn't. Yes, they're longer than most books due to the fact that an entire world needs to be established. Too bad some authors think this means they can load their sentences down with a cubic butt-ton of extra adjectives and adverbs.
Today we have a truly demonstrative example of this phenomenon. Just in case you're wondering, I'm the one in italics going completely nutso over this wreck:
“Young man! Have you lost your mind?” A stern voice called out as a powerful hand reached over, pulling the boy back onto the castle rampart from where he leaned far out over the battlement.
Whoa. Holy Long Ass Sentence, Batman. At least, it should be a long ass sentence. For some reason the ‘A’ is capitalized even though that sentence isn’t finished yet. Or if it is, it shouldn’t be.
And look, even if you want to keep that one sentence, some things are unnecessary. A “powerful” hand? Well I hardly think a weak, trembling hand is going to do the trick. And what other building has a rampart and a battlement? This one has the opposite problem of the last one: it wants to tell us everything right now without concern for making things unfold sensibly.
“Do you wish to meet your Maker before your time?”
Strike “before your time.” It doesn’t add anything. Obviously if a boy is leaning out over a battlement, the risk of meeting his Maker before his time is self-evident. He’s only a boy.
“No, my lord, I mean to save a life.” The boy answered as he pointed down. “See… A bird lies injured on the ledge.”
“No, my lord, I mean to save a life,” the boy answered as he pointed down. Haven’t you ever read a book before? And just how old is this boy? Who, especially a boy, talks like that? Also, he was leaning over the battlement, down is a bit of a given here.
Edging closer to the boy’s side, he peered out over the side of the battlement.
Wait…he? Who is he? Obviously not the boy, since the boy can’t edge closer to his own side.
There indeed rested a falcon. In a crumpled heap of ruffled feathers, aside from its rapid breathing, the bird lay still; its beak agape as the weary creature panted heavily.
Gah! What? Try Version 2.0: Less Labored: “The bird lay in a crumpled heap of feathers, still but for its rapid breathing, its beak agape as it panted.” Trust me, it doesn’t sound prettier twisted around like that. And it’s obviously in a sorry state, so details like “ruffled” are just padding. Same for “weary.” It’s laying in a heap on a ledge beneath a battlement, it’s hardly likely to be perky. And yes, “heavily” is unnecessary too, though I suppose I could forgive it if the rest of the sentence was cleaned up (but on the whole, panting is heavy by definition).
Its right wing dangled limply by its side.
What, it’s standing up? You need somewhere to dangle from. Consider carefully what something looks like when it’s lying in a crumpled heap.
“You risk your life for that of a bird?” he asked, reprimanding the boy.
Hey author? I still don’t know who “he” is. Why not?
“It is a foolhardy risk you take, Ewen Vatel!”
Oh, now I know who “he” is. “He” is Captain Bloody Obvious. One’s life is going to be a foolhardy risk every time. If you really need to stick in the Vocabulary Word of the Day, have Cap’n tell Ewen Vatel here what a foolhardy boy he is. Try that and maybe I won’t ask why he yelled out “young man” when he knew the kid’s name.
For an instant, the boy cringed inwardly. The only time he was ever addressed by his full name was when he was in big trouble.
“With all due respect, my lord, it is not my place to judge whether my life is of more value than that of the bird,” responded Ewen, in a meek voice as he politely addressed the Prince.
How old is this kid!? For that matter, who is he? Why does he speak like a man with 30-40 years of the best education available? Is he even old enough to be aware of the concept that something might hold more value than his own life? I don’t know because you haven’t bothered to tell me.
Thank you for finally giving me some clue who “he” is, though. But you address a prince Your Highness, generally, FYI.
“What I do know for certain is that falcon is in need of help. And I do not have the heart to deny it of aid, when it is the one thing I know I can offer.”
Holy Ravioli. Who are you, Terry Goodkind? George Lucas? Yes, you’re writing epic fantasy, but that doesn’t mean your entire cast of characters needs to speak like unrealistic cheesy ninnies.
“So be it! Your heart is much too large for your body, my young friend. Fetch a servant to aid you and then call upon the Wizard.
Not just any wizard, but the Wizard. We’re off to see the Wizard, the Wonderful Wizard of ARGH!
Have Lindras Weatherstone tend to the falcon’s injury.
If Lindras Weatherstone turns out to be the wizard—excuse me, the Wizard—I’ll scream. Dialog is not meant to be abused like this.
When you are done, report to the King’s great hall.” With that said, the Prince of Carcross promptly turned away, disappearing down a long, gloomy corridor.
And there goes He, the Prince of Carcass!
…didn’t think that one through very hard, did you, Author?
*****
In the solitude of his small, dim-lit quarters, Ewen Vatel watched with an equal measure of fascination and concern as a tall, lean figure draped in a great, dusky blue-gray robe toiled by the light of the candle.
Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold on, back up. That’s *counts* there’s at least nine adjectives in this one sentence. I don’t even know where to begin.
Solitude is a poor choice here considering its connotations; if you must, try privacy. A candle is obviously a dim light; strike one of those. Or just strike this all together ‘cause why the hell is a Wizard tending an injured bird in a small, dimly lit space? “In the privacy of his small quarters, Ewen watched, fascinated and concerned, as a tall, lean figure toiled by the light of a candle.” And even that’s pushing it. Forget the robes for the moment, they’re really of limited importance now.
The Wizard’s long fingers and large hands worked with uncanny dexterity and care.
We’ve obviously never heard of piano fingers, have we?
They were lined with many wrinkles - worn and tanned against his cascading whiskers.
*blink* Wat. His hands grow out of his face? And am I the only one who finds it slightly creepy how fascinated Ewen is with the Wizard’s hands? If this were a hot female Wizard and Ewen a fifteen-year-old boy, then I’d believe the intense scrutiny. Here it’s just fluff to make your novel longer than it needs to be.
Ewen smiled as he watched Lindras Weatherstone,
I knew it.
the great Wizard of the West
OMG I WAS KIDDING ABOUT THE WIZARD OF OZ THING!
as he set to work, thoroughly absorbed in the task at hand. Lindras grumbled just under his breath as his flowing, silvery beard dangled in his way as he attempted to neatly fold a narrow strip of clean cloth to use as a bandage.
You’re making me lose my ability to critique coherently. That sentence is a mess. “Lindras grumbled under his breath. His beard dangled in his way as he attempted to fold a narrow strip of cloth to use as a bandage.” Less is truly more. I mean, he’s a wise old wizard in a cliché epic fantasy, of course his beard is flowing and silvery. And unless he’s utterly incompetent, he’s hardly trying to sloppily fold a dirty cloth, is he?
Grabbing a hold of this silvery mane by the band of gold that held his whiskers neatly together,
Wat. A mane goes on the top of the head, not on the chin. Just because a lion’s goes all the way around does not make a beard a mane. “Grabbing hold of his beard by the band of gold that held it neatly bound” makes a lot more sense and isn’t padded with as much extra wording. Hint: you already told us it was silvery during the last sentence.
he casually tossed this beard over his shoulder and out of his way.
*hand raising*
Ah, yes, you over there from the Department of Redundancy Department. What’s your question?
DoRD Rep: Um, yes, we were just wondering, does the Wizard have a beard? We weren’t quite clear on that…
Sweeping his long, white hair from his face so he may better see, he tucked the stray wisps behind his ears.
Why is the great Wizard of the West playing with his hair like a bored teenage girl in algebra class? What’s next, is he going to write “Wizrd of the West waz here” on his notebook? And might, not may. Agents and editors generally prefer to pick a tense and stick with it; you should too.
Ewen could not help but notice this Wizard’s
This Wizard’s. This beard. What’s up with all this…this…THIS? The wizard. The beard. A beard. A wizard. Something other than this, it doesn’t even make sense like that.
ears were pointed like that of an Elf,
Oh man, you said the E-word. Look, even Tor is sick of elves and they published Robert Jordan. Chosen farm boys and magical swords cannot salvage this wreck, not even to the eyes of those who normally go for this crap.
however, what was just as conspicuous was that these ears were aged and tattered.
What’s conspicuous to me is that you’re wasting your first two pages on this nonsense. The state of the Wizard of Argh’s ears have no bearing on anything and I don’t care. If I cared about Argh and Ewen then maybe I’d give a damn. But all you’ve done is give them some cliché traits and really bad dialog, which doesn’t make me care.
To Ewen, these old ears looked like they were formed from thick pieces of worn, weathered parchment torn from an ancient book that a dog had chewed on.
Do me, you, and everyone else a favor and strike that. Please. It’s not poetic, it’s not pretty, it’s not profound, it’s just puke-inducing. Stop trying to write prose like a genius until you learn to actually be one.
“It is done,” announced Lindras, wiping his hands clean on a rag.
Oh god, finally.
With the falcon’s eyes shielded by a leather hood, the bird remained calm in this enforced darkness as the Wizard set its wing in place.
Since at this point it’s pretty obvious that I think your writing structure is made of fail, allow me to shift gears here. You fail animals forever, Author. The hood might keep the bird calm in certain situations; the excruciating pain of having a wing set is not one of them.
“That was fast,” commented the boy.
“That is because I know what I am doing,” responded Lindras, his words matter-of-fact.
No, Department of Redundancy Department, I’m not taking any more questions.
“Now, go fetch some water and convince the cook to give you a breast of chicken to feed this bird.”
A quick look on Wikipedia tells me that most birds of the raptor persuasion (i.e. hunting birds) need fur and/or feathers in their diet. A chicken breast is probably not going to meet those needs. A small bird such as a quail, or perhaps something like a rabbit would be good. Research: it’s your friend. Just because this is fantasy doesn’t mean you can (excuse the pun) wing it.
“Raw?” questioned Ewen.
“Of course, raw! It is not as though this falcon can cook up a meal in the wild,” answered Lindras, shooing the young servant away with a wave of his hand as he secured the makeshift bandage with the other.
Hey, two pages of nonsense later and we finally have some inkling of who Ewen is. A young servant. With his own room. Since this is more than likely your standard fantasy Ye Olde McMedieval Europe-alike (most of which are written by people who know jack all about medieval Europe) why would a servant boy, even one in the castle, have his own room?
“Now hurry, for I am confident this falcon will be in need of sustenance after enduring this ordeal.”
Me too, O’ Wise Wizard of Argh, me too. Wow. Overly padded with a horde of adjectives, loaded down with awkwardly phrased sentences and the worst dialog I’ve seen in a long time…Any agent or editor who makes it even this far deserves an enormous bar of chocolate. This is why you’re self-published.
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