The book is being published by St. Martin’s Griffin in trade paperback next week, but it was originally self-published as an e-book. E-book self-publishing is a brilliant plan (with caveats like mostly illiterate idiots), a great way for aspiring authors to test the waters of publishing, and in Ms Hocking’s case, she hit the jackpot- e-books successful enough to warrant the attention of a major publisher. Thing is, it wasn’t popular because it’s a great story- it’s popular because it cashes in on the Twilight-kindled fad of supernatural, fawning hotties.

It starts out interesting enough. Six-year-old Wendy has a temper tantrum at her birthday party. Her mother got a chocolate cake, and Wendy hates chocolate. This is the breaking point for her mother, who goes insane, insisting that Wendy isn’t her real daughter and killed her son. She attacks Wendy with the cake knife, leaving the little girl in need of 60 stitches. Her older brother intervenes and saves her life, and her mother is locked away in a psych ward.

Then we skip forward eleven years. Wendy is sullen, unfriendly, and ungrateful for the constant affection and support showered on her by her brother Matt and her aunt. They’ve moved repeatedly, putting Wendy in school after school as she continues to get kicked out due to her behavior. She has next to no impulse control, a bad temper, and is generally anti-social. Recently she’s discovered that if she thinks very hard at a person, they will do what she wants. In her new school, a last-ditch effort at getting her graduated, she uses this power to avoid getting detentions for falling asleep in class. How noble.

After using her powers on a teacher, she realizes another new student- Finn-  has been staring at her. A lot. She handles her outrage predictably, and tells him off but good. He agrees to stop staring, asks that she stop using her powers on people, and then the subsequent lack of staring bothers her. Wendy doesn’t make sense, and most people excuse this as “being a teenage girl.” Granted, I no longer socialize with a great many teenagers, but even when I did (and when I was a teenage girl), that’s… stupid. You don’t have the right to be upset at someone for doing exactly what you told them to do, particularly when the activity ceased was one that the requester felt was creepy.

So, for reasons utterly baffling to me, Wendy opts to attend a school dance. There, she sees Finn, who dances with her, and then gets awkward and weird, rebuffing her painful attempts at flirting, which enrages her. She uses her power to convince a poor, hapless boy to drive her home, where her protective and loving older brother gets mad at a boy who would fluster her so much. (Seriously, her older brother is the bomb. He cares about his family, he’s a hard worker, and he’s willing to put most of his life aside to help his sister get through her issues with their mother trying to kill her.)

Instead of doing the smart thing and staying away, Finn gets Wendy to let him into her room while she sits up there and mopes. Then he tells her that her family is not her family, and that she’s a troll.

Oh, sorry. Not a troll doll, a troll.

But wait!

That’s not right, either. They call themselves Trylle, and are sexy beasts. The author doesn’t just take the part of the Wikipedia entry that says trolls can look like humans to heart, she runs away with it, cackling madly. I can handle good-looking vampires (they have to attract prey somehow), and what’s Glamour for, if not to make the Fey Folk beautiful? Angels and Demons can be attractive, I suppose, based on folklore. But even looking like humans doesn’t mean that they should all automatically be gorgeous. Oh, no. I mean foxy, as that’s the word the author uses time and time again.

From Ms Hocking’s Goodreads profile: “I also wrote the Trylle Trilogy, which is a paranormal romance without vampires, shifters, mermaids, fae, angels, dragons, ghosts, or ninjas. “

Psst, honey. If they’re all supernaturally beautiful and all have the same magical powers, it doesn’t matter if you call them trolls instead of whatever else has sold well strikes your fancy.

Aaaaaaanyway.

Having talked his way into the bedroom of a teenage girl using the ol’ “You’re special, not like everyone else,” line, Finn (who admits to being 20 years old) explains that her power of getting everything she wants is more proof that she’s a troll. So are her picky eating habits! Also her curly hair that tangles even more than regular curly hair! And some trolls (but not her) have skin of a shade that makes them look permanently seasick! Except they are otherwise gorgeous.

And with all that proof, he wants her to come with him to meet her biological mother and live with the Trylle. Wendy initially refuses, because she doesn’t want to disappoint her brother and aunt (though this is not the first time she says she doesn’t want to hurt them, this is the first time she tries to do something about it). After an attack of plot-moving proportions, Wendy decides to abandon the family that loves her and go with this stranger who tells her crazy things.

My readers who were once fantasy-loving teenage girls have probably figured out where this is going.

Wendy is not just any Trylle changeling.

She’s the daughter of the queen, and heir to the massive fortune and tiny kingdom.

And it would seem to be quite the fortune, as the lands and palace are expansive and expensive, as we are frequently reminded. Note to Ms Hocking: “expensive” and “designer” and “high-fashion” do not actually tell your readers what something looks like.

And all this cash? Comes from changelings. That’s right, the Trylle are basically massive con artists, placing their cuckoos in the nest eggs of wealthy families, who raise, educate, and leave giant inheritances to children, all unsuspecting. One would think that the governments and revenue services of the various countries that house these troll children would eventually catch on to the fact that all this money keeps going to a tiny place in the middle of nowhere, Minnesota along with these children. There’s this thing where governments like money, and that seems like a pattern they wouldn’t just miss.

Wendy’s bio-mother is cold and demanding, insisting that, since Wendy is a princess, she should behave like one, despite being a sullen teenager who had someone try to kill her as a child. A debutante ball is scheduled for a few weeks later, and a huge chunk of the book is then Wendy trying to learn how to be a princess and whining incessantly about it. The boy whose place in human society she replaced lives in the house, and she alternates between flirting with him and Finn, complaining about how Finn doesn’t act in ways she approves of, and dissing the entire society that she gave up a loving family for.

She also snoops in a locked room, and finds a painting of herself, dressed in an elegant silver gown, a look of abject horror on her face, injured, and surrounded by broken glass. Turns out the queen has a talent for painting the future. Wendy dwells on this painting a lot in the following weeks, but apparently not enough.

At one point she and Rhys (human half of the changeling swap) sit down to watch Lord of the Rings, and he tells her that it’s so much funnier when you know real trolls. Really? Because there’s only a cave troll in the first one,  a few in the siege of Gondor, and a pair open the Black Gate. In the extended edition you get a quick glimpse of the trolls that turned to stone in The Hobbit, but the only time anything is ever called a troll in those movies is the cave troll.  Boromir’s resigned, “They have a cave troll,” and then fighting. I hatehatehate it when an author tries to make a cutesy nerd reference while knowing nothing at all about what they just said.

And does anyone else find it creepy that she’s flirting with the biological brother of the man she thought was her brother for 17 years? Because EW.

Sometime in all this entirely boring talk about preparation for her ball, Wendy realizes she’s in love with Finn, and badgers a confession of the same feeling from him because he promised to never lie to her. But! Oh, dear heavens! A princess isn’t allowed to be “caught” with a Tracker or a human! She’ll be banished from the Trylle kingdom!

Right then, the only things she likes about the Trylle kingdom are Finn, Rhys, and the abundant money. Who cares if she gets banished? So she goes back to live with her loving family? Sounds dreadful!

But, because he loves her and he believes it would be best for the kingdom if she inherited, Finn chooses to leave. Sound familiar? Wendy falls into a stupor, needing to be physically guided through the morning of the ball, completely non-functional without her man. Also familiar?

During the designing and fitting of her ball gown, Wendy somehow entirely fails to notice that it’s the exact dress in the prophetic painting. At least her mother has the excuse of not having seen the dress at all during the process.

There is an awkward ball, interrupted by the second convenient attack of plot movement! We’re never given an actual explanation for why these people want to kidnap Wendy, but I assume it’s because of her princess-ness and probably super-powers that have yet to manifest. Nameless people die! Rhys is injured trying to protect Wendy! Newfound friends fight! Finn reappears to romantically save Wendy because she can’t protect herself with her magical powers of persuading people to do what she wants! Finn fights off the bad guys, Wendy goes… Oh, crap. I’ve finally realized this is the scene from the painting, and Finn and the bad guy go over the side of a cliff!

Don’t worry, Finn gets rescued by the guy who seems to only exist to be telekinetic. He’s rewarded with a chaste night of cuddling, and then the queen sends him away For Good. Enraged by the loss of The One True Love of Her Life, Wendy decides that now is the time to run away. She uses her persuasion on Rhys and they motorcycle away.

But they can’t use the gate, because the guards are on high alert after the attack. Rhys remembers a hole in the fence that other humans had used to run away, and they go out that way, noting that the hole had been enlarged. They assume that this was how the bad guys got in, and go on their merry way, back to the human family. It never occurs to them to mention this breech to anyone who might want to do something about it, and Rhys never recalled it before, despite there being a threat of attack from the moment Wendy arrived. The end.

I gather there are two more books in this series. I’m not going to read them. Why would I? Given the way these things work, chances are that there will be at least one more romantic interest introduced, endless pages of adolescent angst will ensue, and it will end happily ever after. I could instead spend my time on books that are well written. Or on writing.

Actually, I’m pretty sure Facebook is a better use of my time.

Towels were laid out.  A fan set up.  But I don’t know what to do about the water that soaked through some of the paint.  I have a sudden paranoid fear that all the furnaces and water heaters are all going to come crashing through the floors above (Unreasonable, I know.  It would take more than a few hours of dripping water to make that happen)., due to the weird noises I’m hearing.  Those are probably associated with fixing the problem.  I’d bet a new water heater for the third floor, since I lack any other information at the moment.

This is not cool.  And I’m suddenly and unexpected grouchy and irritable.

Neil Gaiman wrote an interesting essay on the subject at one point when a fan wrote in, complaining about George R. R. Martin’s ever-extending finishing point.  The writer posits to Mr. Gaiman that perhaps, by utilizing social media tools to communicate with fans, one has a greater responsibility to deliver product in a timely fashion.  Mr. Gaiman responded, in part, with the eminently quotable line, “George R. R. Martin is not your bitch.”

The post is really a good one, and a point that a good many people seem to need to hear, judging on the number of comments I see on blogs and Facebook pages on any post that an author makes asking, “Why aren’t you working on Book Important to Me instead of your current activity?”

Today I found this post by author Brent Weeks, a response to Neil Gaiman’s 2009 post.  He also makes some good points.  People do expect- and not incorrectly- that when a writer begins a series that they intend to finish it, and it does behoove an author- particularly one getting started in a career- to deliver the books in order to develop and increase their fanbase.

But I think that his approach that there is any responsibility to readers on the part of an author is fallacious.  If a book is sold to a publisher on its own, then the author has fulfilled his deal with the publisher.  If an author has a set contract with the publisher, then their responsibility is to meet those deadlines to the best of their abilities.  Not to mention that publication dates are rarely, if ever, set by the authors themselves.  They may finish editing a book a year or even two before the publisher decides that the time to print and release has come.  Yes, it is unwise of an author to make any promises about when the current work will be finished, as that gets hopes up, but people make mistakes, and people who write fiction for a living are as human as the rest of us.

It’s admirable that Brent Weeks hasn’t had an issue with making his own deadlines yet.  It’s great for him, his agent, his publisher, and his fans.  This is not sarcasm.  But even so, not every single fan has the same timeline when it comes to considering when they think a new book should be released.  Some people think that a few years is acceptable.  Others are upset or angry if a new book isn’t out every few months.

There is a writer I love who has only released six books in the last 25 years, and the space between the last book and her next will likely end up being over 15 years.  I’m okay with that.  Her works are worth that wait to me.  Another author I love began releasing two books every three years several years back, and the quality dropped off.  I still enjoy her books, but I’d be happier if she took a bit more time.  In each case, I vote with my wallet.  The first author I brought up- I have bought multiple copies of her books as gifts and spares.  The second I haven’t bought a book from in years, opting to get them from the library.

I have yet to read any books by George R. R. Martin or Brent Weeks (though I’ve heard endless amounts of praise for both bodies of work), but another author of whom I’ve very fond gets this question all the time.  “Why aren’t you writing The Book?”  It makes me crazy on his behalf.

There is no warranty on books.  When you purchase a book, you are paying for the effort that went into that stack of paper and cardboard and cloth in your hands.  You are not paying $25-30 dollars for a hardcover and the right to own the author’s time.  That would be like the people who came up to me when I was off the clock at the bookstore or the theater and demanded that I do something for them right then, without being paid.

It’s not wrong to expect that, when you purchase a book subtitled “Book One in the Epic Series” that there will be more books.  But those books will come on the timetable that the author and publisher have decided upon, and you do not have the right to whine if their timetable is different than yours.  Unless you have paid for a book, you don’t get to demand it.  Things happen.  Authors get sick, and sometimes they die in the middle of a series.  They have family tragedies.  They deserve a vacation as much as the people who work 9-5 desk jobs, sell you clothes at the GAP, bring you your overpriced sandwich, and clean your toilets.  Sometimes, no matter how dedicated, they get stuck on a story and need to freshen their viewpoint by working on something else for a few months.

It’s also not wrong to be disappointed when a much-anticipated book takes longer than you hoped to come out.  It’s natural to be excited about the things you love and anxious to get a chance to read/see/hear them.

The wrong part comes in when a few obnoxiously loud people demand that an author write to the exclusion of all else, including families, social lives, and obligations to a publishing house.  It makes me want to tell the author to take an extra couple months, just to spite the loudmouths.

But.

Sometimes I am reminded of the things I long to see.  Venice.  Rome.  The Louvre.  The Blarney Stone.  Greece.  The pyramids.  Phantom on the West End.  The Tower of London.  The Taj Mahal.  Art and history, physically present.  I was surprised by the gut reaction I had when I visited the art museum here, and the way I very nearly wept at the sight of a few Monet paintings.  Paintings.  A couple square feet of decorated canvas that travel easily enough, and I almost lost my composure entirely.

In America we have our few hundred years of history, but it doesn’t reach very far back.  Not comparatively.  I want to touch a building that was old when Christ walked the earth.  I want to see where the Tudor family created history as we know it.  I want to stand where Julius Caesar met his end.  Nowhere on this continent can I connect with the history of my ancestors as fully as I can in England, France, Germany, and Italy.

We have so much to see and learn in our lives.  We live in incredible times.  All the wonder of the world at our fingertips.

This is because I’m sick.  My face feels swollen and sore, and I can’t breathe without the help of Dayquil.  All I want to do is lay around and watch TV.  I really am not pleased with these germs.  Holiday weekend and NaNo crunch time is not the perfect time to get sick.  Not even a little.

Simon is dying for November to be over.  He’s had a really rough rotation, one that is keeping him at work until past six every day.  Monday night he had a huge presentation before an audience of Big-City pathology attendings.  It went really, really well, and he was congratulated on being a great speaker, but the stress of prepping for it plus the long days has been hard.

November is not an easy month this year, and the lack of sun has only emphasized that.  Thursday the first is going be a celebration: Simon’s birthday, and the end of Hematology and NaNoWriMo.  There will be cheesecake.  And presents for Simon.  December is not only going to be an easy rotation of the home-before-five kind, but he also has a week of vacation between Christmas and New Year’s.  2011 is going to go out right.

And a funnier story:

I just talked to a UPS guy, who was checking on the delivery of a package for our upstairs neighbors.  This box is weird-looking, which is why I noticed it.  An 18 inch by 12 inch by 12 inch styrofoam box, sitting by the main door to the building, right under the mailboxes, for about a week.  Apparently the guy has been calling UPS several times a day for the whole week to complain that it hasn’t been delivered.  I had a good laugh with the delivery guy, he ran it upstairs and put it by the guy’s door and called it in.

Just now the delivery man came back and said that his office spoke to the man and he’s refusing the package because it was delivered too late.

Dude.

He left it sitting by the door- where all the packages sit if they’re signed for by another building resident- for a week, and is upset.  I think he lost all those rights a week ago.  When the box actually came, like it was supposed to.

I realized I didn’t know anything about old crossbow terminology, so I looked it up.

And this is where the problem enters in.  I keep trying to write this scene, and with correct terminology… it sounds like really bad porn.  Cheesy euphemisms and overly suggestive phrases when nothing of the sort is happening.  I keep sending myself off into giggle fits, because really.  Shakespeare used pretty much all those words in sex jokes.  It’s so painful.  I want the scene to be borderline creepy, not campy.

“No problem,” thought I, “I’ll take my mail to the post office, stop at the bank for quarters, and have a nice 2-mile walk to begin my day.”

So I bundled all up because it’s Really Cold and my fingers hurt (see: why the mail had not been dropped off in the past week), and walked to the post office.  That was closed.  On a Friday.  With not a sign in sight detailing why.  The more astute of you may know already what I found out when I got to the bank- which is that the bank was also closed.  Because of Veteran’s Day.

So, I’m stuck with a pile of mail, have no quarters, and have wasted a solid 45 minutes that I could have been using to write… because I didn’t realize it was a holiday.

But I still need underwear.  I ransacked the house for quarters (no mean feat when all the quarters that come into the house get dumped into the Hobbit  box*), and am one quarter short of a load of laundry.  Which might also be a euphemism for my mental state right now.

Luckily I have an Aldi quarter in the car, and Simon is under strict instructions to bring it in with him when he gets home.  One load of laundry.  That’s all we get until Monday.  Where I will miss another 45 minutes of writing time to do this all over again.

I wanted to make hamburger-corn-noodle casserole today, and didn’t quite recall the proportions I needed of the ingredients (I did, however, remember the cream cheese, which is the part I always forget), so I pulled out the recipe and went…  Huh.  That seems like a lot of canned soup.  Well, let’s give it a go!

I now have enough casserole for about four meals.

I mean, I like it, but WOW.

I may hate snow and my fear of driving in it may be increasing yearly, but it still reflects the little bit of sunlight we get.

I hate Murphy’s Law.  I typed that sentence and immediately snow began to fall.  Literally.  The minute I typed the last word.

I want sun.  Real sun, not the fake kind from vitamin D capsules.  I mean, I’d forgotten to take any of my vitamins for a month or so, so my D dose is pretty high for the next two weeks… but still.  Sunshine.  And warmth.  Anyone want to send me to Cancun or Jamaica or Australia for the rest of winter?

Here in the big, polluted city, rain makes the windows dirtier.  I have no way of cleaning the outside of my windows without a ladder, but rain leaves streaks of dirt down the glass and at the bottom of the window a collection of disgusting blackness collects, which no amount of cleaning can ever totally get rid of, because the next time it rains… it returns.  The worst was after Snowmageddon last winter, when the snow collected between the screen and the glass.  When it melted, you could still see where the snow had been from the filth.

Lesson learned: don’t drink the rain or eat any of the snow in the big city.  Not unless you want to feed yourself dirt.