A Follow-up Imaginary Conversation with Patrick Rothfuss

So I finished A Wise Man's Fear. I was so unsatisfied with The Name of the Wind that I my expectations for its sequel were pretty low. My main complaint for The Name of the Wind was that it didn't really have much of a plot. Oh, stuff happened, but it didn't feel like a story. It felt like a bunch of stuff happening. A bunch of stuff happening does not a plot or story make (did I just write in iambic pentameter? Also, Yoda!).  But Kvothe was so completely un-look-overable that I finished it. And then bitched about it. So while I was completely dedicated to reading A Wise Man's Fear, I hoped that Patrick Rothfuss would pull out some sick shit for this one.

And I wasn't disappointed. There is some sick shit in A Wise Man's Fear. The things that happen to Kvothe got more fantastical and more plot-like. But I still had some issues. Here's another imaginary conversation that I had with Patrick Rothfuss about A Wise Man's Fear. 

WARNING: HERE BE SPOILERS!

Me: So, I liked A Wise Man's Fear a lot better. Way to go!

Patrick Rothfuss: Thanks! I like it too.

Me: But I still have some issues. I still felt some dissatisfaction. 

Patrick Rothfuss: *sigh* Of course you do. What was wrong this time?

Me: Kvothe is still really interesting as a character. You write beautifully about his music and I love that. He still does some dumb shit (he is not a wise man by any definition of the word), but he's interesting. Its basically my same complaint as last time: Stuff just happens to him! Stuff happens in the book and its interesting and cool and amazing, but it still just doesn't hang together as a cohesive story!

Patrick Rothfuss: Its not any better? I thought I did a little better this time...although I thought I did pretty well the first time.

Me: Its definitely better. There are better hints at a story to come in this one. Like the Cthaeh. A tree demon that's perfectly clairvoyant and perfectly evil is pretty compelling.  But the thing with the Adem was just a little too much, especially if it was just to get Kvothe into the Spinning Leaf state of mind. What was the point? Also, now Kvothe has slept with Felurian AND LIVED. He's trained with the Adem, who NEVER TAKE OUTSIDERS. And he's survived an encounter with the Cthaeh, WHO IS PERFECTLY EVIL. Its so evil, in fact, that the Fae KILL anyone who meets it. Seriously? I mean, it stretches the imagination. He escapes almost all the consequences of his actions. I thought you meant this to be like real life??

Patrick Rothfuss: You know, there's a reason Kvothe is almost mythic in the minds of most people in this universe. And there's a reason Chronicler is writing down his story. Its extraordinary.

Me: Right. I get that. But there's no point to his extraordinaryness. I mean from you. Why are you telling this story? Why is Kvothe? Again, I appreciate the meta-commentary on the story within a story, but I still don't understand the greater lesson of this tale. 

Patrick Rothfuss: You're not supposed to yet. Its not done.

Me: COPOUT! The thing that bothers me about all of this is that Kvothe still hasn't gained Wisdom (yes, I meant to capitalize that). He is still basically the same character he was in The Name of the Wind. Yes, he's learned the value of Spinning Leaf and Elodin's lessons. Yes, he's learned that he was in the presence of one of the Chandrian. Maybe he's even learned more about politics from Maer Alveron. But he doesn't respect any of that yet. Its too easy. IS THAT POINT, OH MY GOD. Even if it is, you still haven't had him learn anything about life or love or anything. He's still an idiot about Denna. He's still an ass about learning stuff. And he still hasn't done anything with his big quest, which seems to be to find the Chandrian....BUT NOTHING HAS HAPPENED WITH THAT. 

Patrick Rothfuss: You know, there's still one more book.

Me: Dude, I've said this before. If you're going to publish a trilogy, make sure each one has its own story and point. Because otherwise, its not a trilogy. We have been over this before. But I digress. The last book of this series (I refuse to call it a trilogy) had better be a mind-blowing moment of plot-gathering. Because if there are major loose threads, I will be pissed.

Patrick Rothfuss: You aren't now?

Me: I'm not pissed enough to not read the last book. You have one more shot, dude. Don't fuck it up. Don't feel too bad, though. At least you're not George R.R. Martin. He has a WAY bigger job than you do.

Birthday Surfing in Bali

It was my 30th birthday, I was in Bali, and I was going to try to surf. That's right, Bali...Bali, Indonesia, where the waves are only slightly less terrifying than the traffic and significantly more terrifying than the small Mediterranean waves I had been exposed to on my previous travels to Europe (my only other international travel).  I figured it was all about to go down hill anyway, at least that was what everyone had hinted at ("how do you feel about turning 30?" "You know, things change when you turn 30.""Oh! The big 3-oh! Wow!"), and while nobody had called me old outright, well, maybe I was trying to prove a point.

And I was in Bali! This was my first foray into Asia at all; our trip was only a few days long and I figured I needed to seize the opportunity. Hadn't I just fed wild(-ish) monkeys, in a sanctuary in Ubud? Hadn't I traversed across a strait of ocean to be blessed by the priests of Tonah Lot? Hadn't I successfully haggled a street vendor down to half his asking price for a beautiful sarong for my mother? All of those had been priceless Bali experiences. They were amazing. But people traveled from all over the world to surf in Bali. The waves in Bali are world class. I figured there had to be a kiddie-pool version. Right?

So, I and my intrepid boyfriend signed up for surf lessons for that afternoon.  2pm would be better, the school assured us. At 2pm, the waves would be manageable. Good for beginners.  2pm it was.  Others joined us: my boyfriend's brother and his newlywed wife (their wedding was why we were on this wonderful trip in the first place), her brother, and 3 of their friends. I was, barring the bride, the youngest of the group. My spirits lifted. 

We gathered at 2pm and I nervously watched the waves, which looked no smaller than they had from our villa. They crashed with a noticeable roar; occasionally, after the seventh wave, there would be a brief respite and the silence was notable. It was as though someone had turned off the ocean. But here, on Canggu Beach, the ocean was most definitely turned on.  I could hear it even from the high ground where the school was located. We filled out our waiver forms and I was heartened by the questionaire it contained: Do you have any heart conditions? No. Is this your first time surfing. Well, yes. Can you swim strongly, unaided, for more than 10 minutes? Certainly! That last question lifted my spirits even more. I was always a strong swimmer, even in big waves. I could totally do this! 

After donning rash guards, we gathered our boards and headed for the beach. I got a quick, personalized lesson on how to paddle, how to hold my head out of the waves, and finally, how to quickly jump up into a perfect surfing stance. My instructor also took a moment to warn "Stay aiming for the blue on the fence. The current is very strong and there are rocks. It is also choppy, so maybe harder to paddle." Cool. Strong current. Rocks. Paddle. Keep my head up. When I stand, only my head faces forward. I felt as prepared as I could be.  Everyone else was finished with their personal lesson as well, so we all strapped our boards to our ankles and started wading out into the sea.

As I began to paddle, I realized two things: My board was huge. And paddling is a wholly upper-body endeavor.  This was a problem. My arms are roughly the size of matchsticks. I discovered, as I struggled against the waves and surf, that the strength of my swimming comes entirely from my legs. My confidence began to waiver.  But I kept at it and eventually made it out to the waves.

I was tired, but felt ready. I was going to catch a wave. My instructor shouted instructions to me. "Point your board toward the beach!" I clumsily paddled around, but missed the first wave. It washed over me and swept me off my board.  As I popped up, I heard my instructor again. "Next time, try to point forward more! You will get it!" I realigned myself and waited for the next one. Again, the wave washed over me, and this time it pulled me under. I panicked a little as my board washed pushed under by the strength of the wave. It felt like it was pulling me under along with it. I struggled up and felt my board follow me and as I surfaced, I felt it pop up beside me. Another wave washed over me before I was able to get back on and I felt my enthusiasm waning. I was getting very tired. But I thought "C'mon. You haven't even caught a wave yet. Just catch a wave!"

My last dunking had swept me toward the rocks. As I paddled back towards the others, I looked back and saw my chance.  I was perfectly aligned toward the beach and a wave was surging toward me. I felt it under me and lifted my head and caught it! I was so surprised that all of the careful instruction I had received earlier completely fell out of my head. All I felt was the exhilaration of rushing with the ocean towards the beach. It was so fast! So powerful! I let it sweep me along and felt giddy with success (despite not standing up).

But then reality hit. I had been close to the rocks to begin with. The wave I had caught had pushed me even closer. I began to paddle, buoyed by my success, but that quickly faded as I realized just how far I had to go.  I managed to get back to the other surfers, but my matchstick arms were reaching their limit. After a near collision with another board and the surfer on it, I decided it was probably not a good idea for me to continue. I couldn't keep control of my board and I was exhausted. The beach seemed like a good idea. After some good pushes from my instructor, I made it back. I was totally spent and surprised to find that my whole surfing experience had only lasted 30 minutes. 30 minutes of total exhilaration and exhaustion. It had seemed like forever.

I sat on the beach and watched the others as they popped up onto their boards. Most of the time they fell, but every once in a while, someone would get up and stay up and we on the beach would cheer (though they probably couldn't hear us). I was one of the few that day to not stand up on my board, but despite that, I felt good (tired, but good). I was in Bali, it was my birthday, and I had tried something new. Not a bad way to start getting old. 

Fancy Underwear

I sat in my fancy underwear behind the washing machine in my grandma's tiny spare

bathroom with a dirty swiffer in hand and thought to myself "Happy Cinco de Mayo!"

I was swiffering behind the washing machine because Grandma was worried about what the movers would think. Grandma is a neat and tidy lady by nature. I can't remember ever seeing dust in her house and she religiously vacuumed every Tuesday. But she was 85 and her washing machine had broken, and who washes behind their washing machine anyway? I'm sure Grandma would have if she could, but she couldn't. Not at 85. I was having trouble at 30.

That was mostly because Grandma's washing machine was settled in a nook just barely large enough for it in her spare bathroom. Her and Grandpa's house had been built in 1952 and I think dryers weren't really that common. Heck, who even needs them in Tucson? (I have one, but I hardly ever use it; only sometimes in the winter and during monsoon season). So her house had been built with a tiny nook just large enough for a washing machine. Settled right in front of it? The toilet.  That meant that the washing machine could only be pulled out of its little nook about foot before it ran right into the toilet (which is necessarily bolted into the floor). To move the whole thing, you'd have to lift the washing machine over the toilet, rotate it, and then jimmy it out of the doorway. It had somehow gotten in, so we knew it was possible to get it out, but can you blame her if Grandma didn't want to clean back there? So she hadn't. For a long, long time. And who even cares? Grandma didn't. Until the washing machine broke.

Someone was going to have to move it. And what if they saw the mess back there?  So Grandma and my Uncle David, aka, World's Best Son-In-Law, were discussing how anyone could possibly get back there to clean. Uncle David was doing his best to assure Grandma that the movers wouldn't care. They'd understand how difficult it was to maneuver the washing machine out of its nook (since they were going to have to do it) and forgive any mess they might find. But Grandma kept wondering if there was any way. To prove his point, David pulled out the washer as far as it would go. Nobody could get back in there. They'd only have about a foot to work with, they'd have to be able to get underneath the washer too, and to top it all off, they'd have to climb over the washer itself to get there.

In the interest of being a good granddaughter, I had stopped by to say hi in the midst of the above discussion. I went into the bathroom and looked at the space he'd made. I could definitely fit. In that same filial spirit, I told Grandma that I, aka World's Best Granddaughter*, would clean the space behind and under the washing machine for her. She looked me up and down and said "Do you think you could? How are you going to clean in that?" And pointed at my corduroy, definitely-not-stretchy pencil skirt. "Well, I guess I'll just take it off and close the bathroom door." Grandma looked skeptical, but assented by grabbing the box of swiffers and handing it over.

I shut myself in the bathroom took off my skirt. I looked down and realized that today was fancy underwear day. Well, why not? I mean, what was the proper attire for cleaning behind a washing machine anyway? I suppose I would have preferred to be in old cut-offs and a t-shirt, but how often to get to set your Grandmother's mind at ease by spontaneously doing something nice for her?  I was just going to have to be a little more careful, and was that such a bad thing? No. So I squatted behind Grandma's washing machine, scrubbing up the accumulated grime in my fancy underwear, feeling intensely awkward and intensely generous. It occurred to me, as I swiffered away, that it was also Cinco de Mayo. I was sure my peers were swilling margaritas in some shady bar somewhere and the awareness of the nobility of my actions added a nice layer of intense smugness to the mix. They were dissolute alcoholics. I was a saintly granddaughter doing a good deed. In fancy underwear.

I did a damn fine job too. Like I said, Grandma is a very neat lady and has high standards of cleanliness (even if its behind the washing machine). I went through about 5 swiffers, but that floor and wall behind that washing machine was spick and span by the time I climbed out from behind it. Grandma was beaming. Now she could have her washing machine moved, confident that the movers wouldn't think ill of her.  And that was totally worth it.

*I am not the really the World's Best Granddaughter (Grandpa definitely thinks I should visit more. Actually, I should definitely visit more), but I felt like it that day.