I think a lot of us have been swept off our feet by the Inklings (or at least some of them, particularly Tolkien) at a certain time in our lives. In my case I’m convinced it did me vastly more good than harm.

Thank you.

For instance: I glanced at Jane Smiley’s _Horse Heaven_ because of the title and was hooked within two pages. Smiley’s a good writer, with an underlying dry sense of humor, and it was a subject I like anyway (horses–racehorses–people around racehorses–the barn side of the track so to speak. Mostly.) On the basis of that, I picked up a couple of her other books. Still a good, vivid writer, but I’m totally not interested in suburban angst. So Smiley, to me, is still a one book writer, but a damn good one book writer.

Joyce Carol Oates I cannot abide and haven’t liked since I read an early story of hers in _Redbook_. I will agree that she is skillful, in the sense that she can make me as miserable as she intends, with all the depressing stuff, but it’s not worth it; I don’t even try anymore. (And she put the last nail in the coffin of my interest when I saw her on TV.)

I did have my every-few-years bout of Bronte this past month, reading three of them in a row (two by Charlotte, one by Anne) and for all that they’re Great Feminist-Victorian icons…I really don’t like living in their world. Jane’s much saner.

Periodically someone tries to get me to read one of the Current American Literary icons (other than J.C.O.) and that doesn’t work either. First, the subjects they write about bore me (unhappy middle-class white guys–or gals–who aren’t feeling fulfilled by their famous-city-urban or suburban life. Big screaming deal. Get a life, on your own time, and then come tell me about your passion for Brazilian butterflies, helping people who really need it, training pigeons to do tricks, whatever.) And second, the writer’s attitude is usually so far from mine that I want a brain-scrub after a chapter or two. I’ve mentioned before that cynicism doesn’t work with me–I “hear” the curled lip and want to plant a fist on it. Nihilism doesn’t work for me. Self-pity doesn’t work for me. Lofty pontificating about one’s own cultural superiority doesn’t work for me.

(When I pontificate about why I don’t like their pontification, that is NOT the same thing. Why? Because my friends gave me a certificate that says I’m Empress of the Universe, and even though it’s unsigned, I take that as an indication that I’m not too pontificaty or–knowing my friends as I do–they’d have sent me a completely different message instead. A certificate of Special Snowflakeness or Goddess of Overblown Entitlement or something. My friends are intolerant of any claim to Specialness even as they bring me chocolate.) *And yes, I see you in the back snickering away in the corner…fine, OK, I’m an idiot and admit it. Satisfied? Or do I have to threaten to reveal to the world that bit about…I thought not.*

And I’m not sure I can separate what I think you mean by “purely craft perspective” from any other–the point about the excellent craftsperson, in any craft, is that they have mastered all aspects of that craft…the pitcher a master potter creates isn’t just beautiful, with an interesting glaze and a graceful shape–it holds water, is easy to hold and pour from, etc.

Nevil Shute, Daphne du Maurier, Dorothy L. Sayers, Jane Austen, Robert L. Surtees, Rudyard Kipling, Elizabeth Goudge. In nonfiction, John McPhee (still alive–broke my own rule!) Winston Churchill (yes, THAT Churchill, not the other one), William Manchester, Barbara Tuchman.

Vivid prose that was disciplined to the need of the story: crisp, precise, elegant to the degree of their time (Austen and Surtees, for instance, wrote in an era when author-to-reader comments were acceptable.) Interesting characters clearly depicted–considerably psychological complexity, but not to the point of miring the story in angst (though du Maurier came close at times!), page-turning ability in terms of pacing, suspense, “interest.”

There are lots more I consider excellent, but this gives a range of writers and times and styles.

Lewis mentioned several writers whose stories he thought better than their mastery of the craft of writing…I couldn’t follow him at all in _Voyage to Arcturus_ (a book I read because Lewis had praised its invention, but which I found repellent and completely unsatisfactory.) I also read some Haggard because of Lewis, and there I agreed with him–great gusto, great storytelling energy, but slapdash handling of the language and details. Yet I would rather re-read a Haggard than any of a score of “literary” writers I’ve attempted whose books just plain bore me.