StanleyWheeler

Why I Hate Nick Cole

Hate is a strong word. Strong words are unequivocal. They leave no doubt about one's intent and meaning. I don't mean to convey a sense of apathy, or simply an inability to appreciate. Without hyperbole or exaggeration, my hatred for Nick Cole boils like a seething cauldron heated by the fires of the earth's core (that is, according to one source, about 10,800 degrees Fahrenheit, 6000 Celsius -- which is about the same as the surface of the sun -- other sources put it at about 9,800 F or 5,400 C). I will allow the magma of my malice, the lava of my loathing, to erupt here in a great burst of bile and enmity.

Before I get to the spurting spite and erupting execration, allow me to digress. The writing this week went wonderfully. I exceeded the daily goals and added another bonus set on Saturday. Although there was a bunch of dialog, various episodes of biting, fighting, and struggling against the unstoppable forces of nature kept it lively. A couple characters made surprising developments which will undoubtedly play into the exciting finale. If you haven't read the first two books in the series, Threading the Rude Eye and Power to Hurt, you should get them now. Links are in the column at the left.

And now, back to the promised splenetic outburst.
It all began when I picked up The Red King by Nick Cole.

I posted this same picture last week, and carelessly sprinkled about a few words of mild praise. I was wrong. Even then, at less than halfway through this novel, I had an inkling.

The thing is, I picked up this book for free without realizing the zombie apocalypse nature of the story. I have absolutely no interest in the genre. I don't read that despicable stuff. That's not who I am, and I look down with disdain (utter disdain) upon those who read that genre which I consider to be the lowest, most untouchable, vile, unclean of all fantasy/sci fi genres (that's probably an exaggeration, but I'm rolling here). So that may give you some idea of the reason for my rancor toward Mr. Cole.

After I discovered the nature of the book, I read it anyway--Don't judge me. I had my reasons. I expected to read a few pages or a couple chapters before putting it aside in disgust with a snide sneer (that's redundant but I like the alliteration and that's a subtle theme in this post) of authorial superiority. I had planned to refer to the book in passing, simply mentioning that I had read it but that the genre was not something I could appreciate--neither praising nor condemning Mr. Cole.

Unfortunately, Mr. Cole's gravelly yet smooth narrative voice--like dark chocolate syrup over a crushed bed of mixed nuts with a mere hint of sea salt--sucked me into the story. His descriptions flow very near to the point at which my interest threatens to wain, but he stops just short, creating an almost perfect setting rich in color, texture, and atmosphere. I get the sense that Mr. Cole might be describing places right outside his front door, just down the road, or couple blocks over from his home or the shops which he frequents.

Cole creates characters. These aren't ambulating cliches in clothing descriptions. The characters lug around their own strengths and weaknesses, promising continuing development. They beckon the reader to follow their adventure. That adventure could be called dull at times--if a roller coaster ride through a shooting gallery across a mine field beneath attack choppers can be called dull.

In all of the excitement, amidst all of the running, shooting, killing, whacking, drinking, smoking, hiding, meetings and conversations between enemies and allies, Cole creates gritty, realistic characters and takes them on white-knuckled rides through extreme hazard and exhilarating jeopardy without resorting to insulting the reader with profanity and filth. That feat alone sets Cole apart from, and well above, the majority.

It's not often that I find an author whose work I would rather read than my own. If Cole's other books are as good as this one, he falls into that very limited category. There you have the source of my hatred--absolute, naked jealousy. How can I expect to write as well as Nick Cole? He took me on a journey that I resisted, and compelled me to enjoy it in spite of how determined I had been to loathe the experience. Curse you, Nick Cole.

I do have another reason to hate Nick Cole. I know it's early in the new year, but I have little hope of reading another book this year which constrains me to forego other activities, or which induces me to sneak in a few pages during breaks between court cases like this one did. I'm already getting the tremors because I need another drink of Cole's literary liquor. Curse you, Nick Cole.

The Red King by Mr. Cole is a magnificent tour de force. I don't know if I can resist purchasing the next book in the series. Curse you, Nick Cole.