Book Review: My Swordhand Is Singing

My Swordhand Is Singing
by Marcus Sedgwick

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It’s almost more difficult to review a run-of-the-mill book than to review a bad one. There is nothing to rave about, nothing to rant about. Mostly, it’s difficult to think of something to say when you forget the book as soon as you’ve finished it. My Swordhand Is Singing is inoffensive, but for all its exciting subject matter it fails to elicit more than a yawn or two. It’s a struggle to imagine how Sedgwick made 17th-century vampires dull, but he has.

Perhaps Sedgwick’s biggest mistake was holding his characters at arm’s length and forbidding us from mustering anything more than a vague interest in their fates. To his credit, Sedgwick went out of his way to make sure that the backdrop was accurate. He’s quick in telling us that he researched 17th-century vampire lore and did his best to portray it accurately, which he’s probably done. But in doing so, he’s focused too much on the history and sacrifices the characters’ personalities in the shuffle. The only characters who manage to lift themselves from being mere ink on paper are the protagonist’s father (a drunk with a sword) and Sofia, the Gypsy girl who sings and slaps people. Even the hero’s horse was more interesting than most of the cast, which is a cruel fate for anyone.

The premise of the story is interesting enough. Tomas and his son Peter (whose names have taken me two paragraphs to recall), are woodcutters who are widely disliked by their clientele in the nearby town of Chust. When a distant friend of Tomas’ is found hanged in the forest, it’s the beginning of a series of deaths in the village that the inhabitants are quick to blame on the supernatural. Peter, being the age of impressionable rebellion, doesn’t know what to think, and proceeds to dally through most of the book. I half-hoped that the vampires would get him in the end, but Sedgwick isn’t quite that dark.

Sedgwick can’t seem to quell the urge to cross-examine his characters’ actions, just in case we couldn’t do that much for ourselves. More than once, we’re forced to read the feet-draggingly dull analysis of a young man with a drunk for a father. And, when that gets too depressing, the narration switches to other characters for a paragraph or two: Tomas, who spirals through a life of regret; Agnes, who can’t decide whether she loves Peter or not (this issue is later resolved by the vampires, who seem to dislike indecision as much as I do); and the occasional vampire victim. Instead of providing different angles to the story, the tactic was jarring and caused faint bouts of vertigo.

The final nail in the coffin (couldn’t resist) is Sedgwick’s mimicry of poetic prose. Many authors have managed elegant prose; many more have failed. Sedgwick attempts to force himself into the first group, but he relies so heavily on clichés that the result seems tacky. When the entire book reads like the back of a DVD, it’s hard to take anything seriously.

All in all, My Swordhand Is Singing isn’t a bad book, but it certainly isn’t a good book. It was well researched, but a mind for accuracy is Sedgwick’s only redeeming quality. Most of the characters are unlikeable, the prose is occasionally interesting but more frequently cookie-cutter, and the entire thing seems cramped. The story never moves beyond the village of Chust; but rather than providing the claustrophobia that small-town horrors usually create, it only makes the tale seem limited.

According to the book jacket flap, Sedgwick works in publishing. There are two very different skills involved in publishing a book: good writing and good polishing. Those who excel at the first can improve at the second with enough time and practice; but those who excel at the second will never master the first, because they’re more interested in expectation than inspiration. My Swordhand Is Singing covers the bare requirements of getting a book published, but it isn’t a writer’s work.

Excerpt (p. 12):

But why? Most murderers tried to conceal their victims’ bodies. Why display Radu’s body instead? To Peter, it seemed like a warning, a warning that death was walking in the woods. And Peter was right.

 

Rating: C-
[Amazon]

 

my swordhand is singing review marcus sedgwick aydee book

 

~ by AyDee on March 8, 2008.