What influences a person to be an avid reader? Certainly, being surrounded by people who read regularly can play a large part in teaching the habit of seeking pleasure through prose. Growing up, I became accustomed to seeing my family members occupy themselves with books, much more than they did with sports, social events, or that contemporary bastion of shared media, the t.v. This, coupled with the standard, pro-reading rhetoric that starts in early grade school, provided early impressions of reading that were positive, accessible, and appealing.
It took the right books, however, to really hook me into reading; before I discovered these paperback treasures, most of the books I met were digested, enjoyed, and then forgotten. Family and school would steer me towards other writers of “young adult” fiction (is that what they call Beverly Cleary this days?), yet these, too, failed to leave any real impressions. It wasn’t until early sixth grade that I was introduced to a few books that completely ruled my attentions, and sealed my fate as an insatiable, dare-I-say proud, reader.
These books were the Dragonlance Chronicles, by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman. There are three of these books, and together, they make a trilogy, appropriately titled the Chronicles, I-III. The individual books are Dragons of Autumn Twilight; Dragons of Winter Night; and Dragons of Spring Dawning. They were published in the years 1984 and 1985 by the now-defunct publisher of role-playing game modules, TSR, Inc. To my knowledge, they were first published in paperback, and only much later in hardcover.
I list these particulars for a few reasons: first, to provide myself with an excuse to look up such minutia on the copyright pages of my battered copies; and second, to offer a little bit of background to anyone unfamiliar with these novels. I suspect, however, that any readers of fantastic fiction near my age (28, as of this writing) have at least heard of these books, if not read them.
Let us turn back to the past for a moment: at The Bookworm, a small, used bookstore in South-Eastern Washington that was more of an eruption of books than an actual building with walls and ceiling; in the back section, where the genres Fantasy and Science Fiction lived, near the Men’s Adventure, Mystery, Western, and other siblings that know the ghettos of literature well. There, I first laid hands upon the books that were to transport me to a wondrous, never-before-seen place, and in doing so, turn me into a reader.
The Dragonlance Chronicles showed me how absolutely adventurous fiction can be, and described adventures that were similar to ones I had imagined, drawn, dreamed of - and took them even further. From the opening pages of the first novel, which introduced a trio of characters, threw in some hobgoblins, and mixed it up in a quick, brutal fight scene, I knew I had found something unlike any other book I had touched before. Here was the sword play I had craved; the honorable heroes I wanted to adore; the magic that chilled and amazed; the villains that threatened; and, perhaps most of all, the dragons that awed. In my recollection of that first reading of this series, what stands out more than anything else is the heady sense of having found something absolutely essential for my life on this Earth.
In other words, I had learned what it is to be obsessed with a book - above any other activity! No games, no recess, no homework, no t.v., movies, friends, nothing could tear me away from this novel. Even more delicious was the prospect of reading the sequels, who beckoned with their painted, Larry Elmore covers. I would stare at these covers, and imagine these characters committing the exploits I had just read. During class, I waited impatiently for that next recess that would see me crounched in a corner, book held mere inches in front of my face; at home, there was no question about my plans for the afternoon before dinner - or the evening that ended with lamplight and whispering pages.
I was wrapped inside the world of these books, and it felt like a new home.
It is a feeling that has stuck with me ever since. Even as I closed that the pages on that green-bound paperback that closed the Chronicles, I had reached only the end of a marvel-filled tale, but not the story. For I knew now how powerful a story could be, and I was drunk upon its manna. I struck out for the book store, determined to find a new adventure, new heroes, new quests. Nor was there any question that this was what I must do. Once I discovered the knowledge of what a book could contain, I had to embrace as many as I possibly could.
Those Dragonlance paperbacks brought me one of the most precious of gifts: a love of reading. These very books - now 15 years old - still reside on my shelf; they are, in fact, stacked nearby as I reminisce. The covers are faded, frayed, and bent, especially that of the first. I have reread the entire series at least eight times, maybe more, and browsed each book countless more. I can take any one of them, turn to a random part, and know exactly what is going on; what has come before; and where the story will go next. If I’m not careful, I may find myself reading the entire chapter, if not the remainder of the story.
Recently, I decided to do more than sample, and picked up the Chronicles again, placing that first, tired-looking paperback by my bedside. It was wonderful to read the adventures of the Companions yet again: to witness the fateful meeting at the Inn of the Last Home; the ambush by draconians posing clerics on the way to Haven; the daring raid in Xak Tsaroth; the duel between red dragons above the keep of Pax Tharkas. I quickly finished the first, and plunged into the second, reliving the journey to Tarsis; the separation of the companions; the nightmare at Silvanesti; the desperate stand at the High Clerist Tower, and Sturm’s tragic death.
I could go on, and on and on. Even though the act of discovery has long passed, these novels capture me still. The characters that Weis and Hickman (and their gaming companions) created are intriguing, exciting, and heroic. One character, in particular, is drawn in such stark relief, he nearly transcends the very world that contains these novels. This of course, is Raistlin Majere, the sorcerer who would eventually challenge one of the Gods of creation - and nearly win. Raistlin is a fascinating character, and an easy favorite for any adherents of the Dragonlance mythos. He is complex, intelligent, powerful, and seductive; few characters in fiction attain such legendary proportions that extend outside of the pages that outline them. In fact, the final scene at the end of the Dragons of Spring Dawning, where Raistlin leaves his brother behind, and enters the Tower of Sorcery at Palanthas, still gives me chills. (Inevitably, I will soon find myself rereading the Dragonlance Legends novels).
I did, however, experience one surprise while reading the Chronicles for the nth (where n = 8, 9?) time. Previously, I have digested the adventure with a sense of gleeful abandon, relishing my favorite scenes and characters. This time I couldn’t resist a certain, analytical bent - brought on, perhaps, by recent readings of Barzun - though I did apply this with care, so as not to hinder the usual enjoyment. In doing so, I realized how episodic the narrative of the Chronicles is. Rather than proceed in a very linear fashion, the story jumps and cavorts from one setting to the next, hurtling its heroes pell-mell about the continent of Ansalon. Thus the fantastic adventure starts in the familiar setting of an inn, then rapidly carries on to an enchanted forest; forgotten city; elf kingdom; and finally, an enemy occupied fortress.
This sporadic narrative style reminded me of other serial fiction, such as Dumas’ The Three Musketeers, and Yoshikawa’s Musashi series. It also explains why the series was so exciting for a budding reader: a lot happens, and in few pages at that. The action is frequent, stirringly told, and dramatic. The characters must face one difficulty after another, and truly, there are times when the odds are so stacked against them, reprieve seems next to impossible. But this is fantastic fiction, where magic can lay just around the corner, and invariably, the heroes persevere - if only to find themselves in the next stage of a difficult journey that attains epic proportions.
I also forgot how much fun these books can be. Sometimes, in the pursuit of dense, insightful literature, this vital element of reading can be forgotten, or at least, relegated to the back of the line. But if reading isn’t any fun, then what is the point of reading, after all? The very word “fun” in any artistic medium invites a barrage of criticism, but this is a silly reaction to an aspect of art that reinforces its hold upon the imagination, and brings joy to the audience.
The Dragonlance Books are fun, period. There is more to them than that, especially when their darker elements are considered, but they are anything if not entertaining. Rereading them at the end of this year, I was struck by the solid quality of the storytelling at hand. Weis and Hickman had their fingers upon the pulses of their characters, and their world, and with confident hands they penned a wonder-filled adventure. If the joy that these novels continually bring is any indication, writing them must have been a marvelous experience.
* * * * *
When I returned to that claustrophobic biblio-eruption about a mile south of my house, and perused the shelves for the next experience, I seized upon another book with the word “Dragon” in the title. It makes me laugh now. Unfortunately, the book not only failed to parallel my experience with the Chronicles, it was a chore to read. The title occurs to me now, but I’d rather not damn the writer and their work in the same breath that piles praise upon a childhood love.
Happily, I have read many more books than that in the intervening years, and discovered others that were equally stunning. In fact, I am reminded of a comment made by Neil Gaiman at the end of American Gods, in his acknowledgements. He thanks Harlan Ellison for his collection Deathbird Stories, and adds that he read it at an age when fiction could still deeply influence him. I must disagree with the implications of this statement: in my experience, there is no age when revelations cease to come from prose.
Should I ever find occasion to publicly thank writers for their prose, Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman will be some of the first mentioned. They were some of my earliest guides in the pursuit of reading, and it was their sure pens that awakened an undying love for the bound, printed tale. Let me salute them now, for imparting such a precious gift to a young life.
