We asked Terry Brooks if he had time to do a short note about Armageddon’s Children. I guess he didn’t have the time, because, in best Blaise Pascal fashion, he wrote us a quite long one:

I learned a long time ago from Lester del Rey, my original editor and long-time mentor, that my first obligation as a writer of fantasy was to tell a good story.  You might think that this would be self-evident, but he pointed out that a whole lot of writers are more concerned with inventing an idea that no one has ever thought of before or a wholly original species of creatures or even an original mythos than they are with focusing on coming up with a good story.  Since originality has never been my strong point and hard work anathema, I thought his advice excellent.  Just tell a good story; the rest will follow.  Works for me.

Okay, I exaggerate.  I knew, even in my professional writer’s infancy, that telling a good story and nothing more wasn’t enough to give my writing legs and a presence.  It needed to offer more than this.  It needed to say something about the way the world worked.  It needed to illuminate the human condition.  It needed to make readers reflect on their own lives.  All the good fantasy writers of my generation have done this, from J.R.R. Tolkien on down.  The trick, of course, is to avoid sounding didactic or overbearing.  Structure your story so that readers are in a position to draw their own conclusions.  Or maybe, if you do your job really well, your readers will even take a moment to reexamine what they thought they believed.

I wrote my books without thinking too closely about this duality of purpose for many years.  But with publication of the Word & Void series, I began to get a lot of questions about whether or not those books were political in nature.  The questioners did not mean to ask me my political affiliation (at least, I hope not) or agenda (Heaven forbid), but whether or not I was looking to provoke a reaction with issues that were clearly lifted whole-cloth from our own world.  Dysfunctional families, secrets uncovered that destroy lives, difficult choices in the exercise of responsibility, codes of honor and conduct, substance abuse, homelessness, to name just a few.  Was this now the focus of my writing?  Because it sure looked that way to them.

Initially, I responded by saying, rather primly as I recall, that my only goal was to write a good story.

What a lot of hogwash.

Sure, my writing is political.  All writing is political to some extent.  It represents the writer’s views of the world, and views of life by their very nature are political.  But here’s the thing.  Whether the reader agrees with them or not is almost beside the point.  What matters is that the reader should consider those views in light of personal experience.  The reader should become engaged in a kind of discussion with the writer that provokes a rethinking of beliefs and opinions.

Understand, writers don’t necessarily want you to think like they do – well, most of them don’t.  They just want you to think, period.

Am I any different?  What kind of half-baked writer would I be if I were?  I admit it; I want readers to do more than finish my book and declare, “Well, pretty good story.”  I don’t want them to forget it ten minutes after they put it down.  I want them to replay the story in their minds after they have finished reading it.  I want them to ask themselves what they think I was getting at.  I want them to feel a connection with the characters.  I want them to decide for themselves how they see the characters and how they view their struggles.  I want them to measure how much of themselves they find in the story.

Yeah, sure, I’m asking a lot.  I know that.  I know, too, that most readers just want to read the book and move on.  But wouldn’t you be disappointed if that was all I expected of you?

Wouldn’t I be disappointed in myself?

I think you know the answer.