Micro by Michael Crichton
Micro! Or "Honey I Shrunk the Grad Students!" Or "The Magic School Bus Visits Brobdingnag!" What's that sound? It sounds like Michael Crichton cursing from the beyond the grave.
If I ever become a writer, I'm going to do two things. First, I am going to leave a completed, ready for publication, freaking AWESOME novel on my computer to be found and published after I die, so THAT'S how people will remember me. Second, I will bequeath my computer to someone who will wipe the hard drive of anything unfinished. Michael Crichton has taught me a lesson.
I've read quite a bit of Crichton, and while the set up and plot are certainly very Crichtony, the writing just isn't. It was really, really bad. Like, truly terrible. Here's a sample I transcribed for a friend:
As he marched at the back of the line, Rick Hutter glanced at the others, studying them. He considered Karen King. He really couldn't stand her. She was full of herself, arrogant, aggressive, thinking she was such an expert in spiders and arachnids and hand-to-hand combat. She was good-looking, but beauty wasn't everything. Even so, Rick felt somewhat better that Karen was with the group. She was a fighter, you could say that much for her. Right now she seemed icy, cold, alert, on edge, weighing every move. As if she was in a fight for her life . . . well, of course she was. He despised her and yet . . . he was glad to have Karen around.
Since this novel was only 30% complete (give or take?) when discovered, I'm going to go ahead and lay the blame for that squarely on Richard Preston's shoulders. Not even giant spiders could make that prose exciting.
- Merrin
If I ever become a writer, I'm going to do two things. First, I am going to leave a completed, ready for publication, freaking AWESOME novel on my computer to be found and published after I die, so THAT'S how people will remember me. Second, I will bequeath my computer to someone who will wipe the hard drive of anything unfinished. Michael Crichton has taught me a lesson.
I've read quite a bit of Crichton, and while the set up and plot are certainly very Crichtony, the writing just isn't. It was really, really bad. Like, truly terrible. Here's a sample I transcribed for a friend:
As he marched at the back of the line, Rick Hutter glanced at the others, studying them. He considered Karen King. He really couldn't stand her. She was full of herself, arrogant, aggressive, thinking she was such an expert in spiders and arachnids and hand-to-hand combat. She was good-looking, but beauty wasn't everything. Even so, Rick felt somewhat better that Karen was with the group. She was a fighter, you could say that much for her. Right now she seemed icy, cold, alert, on edge, weighing every move. As if she was in a fight for her life . . . well, of course she was. He despised her and yet . . . he was glad to have Karen around.
Since this novel was only 30% complete (give or take?) when discovered, I'm going to go ahead and lay the blame for that squarely on Richard Preston's shoulders. Not even giant spiders could make that prose exciting.
- Merrin