I just read Madeline L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time. I’m a science fiction fan and a recovering children’s librarian. This book was already a classic of young adult literature by the time I was of age to read such things. A good friend of mine told me over thirty years ago that it was the best book ever written, and I just had to read it.

So I finally did.

Trigger Warning: Blasphemy.

It bored me. Worse than that, it irritated me.

I will not go into the details of why it bored an irritated me. It’s a respected book which has literally changed lives. My failure to appreciate it is my own failing, not Ms. L’Engle’s.

We all have faults. I reserve the right to have angst about mine, and to take that angst out and fuss with it when I should be doing more productive things.

In the course of fussing, I asked an old friend if she had read the book. This is one of the three or four friends (in S.F. fandom no less!) with whom I still discuss books. She introduced me to Robert Heinlein’s work, back when we were both larval. I thought she would offer a reasoned argument to instill an appreciation for this noted work. I don’t want to be a blasphemer, after all. Blasphemers are broken on the wheel, burned at the stake, or at the very least not invited to respectable dinner parties.

My friend said, “I… think my teacher read it to us in fourth grade? I don’t remember anything about it.” Read: she did not like it.

To Do This Week: Order two sets of fireproof underwear.

My question prompted a question from her: What does make for a gripping novel? We promised to think about it and get back to each other. I think we even did get back to each other, but we found it more interesting to spend that conversation morally judging our peers.

What does make a gripping novel? What books have pulled me in, delighted me, or just stuck with me? I compiled a list and compared the qualities they share.

Clever dialogue – Typical of my generation, I grew up ignoring books and watching television. I became accustomed to dialogue that was memorable, pithy, or laugh-out-loud funny. I later realized that that dialogue was written by people who had read a lot of books. The Number of the Beast is widely considered Robert A. Heinlein’s worst book (alongside Farnham’s Freehold and I Will Fear No Evil, both of which I also really like). When I was 17, it hooked me and made me power through to the end. At that time, the only books I finished were Star Trek novels. Number of the Beast pulled me out of T.V. Land with its frankly hilarious dialogue.

A sense of mystery – this can take many forms. My mother loved murder mysteries: the novels of Mignon Eberhard, Leslie Ford and Agatha Christie. Dark Shadows captured the imaginations of a generation with its depiction of small towns with dark secrets, old, dark houses, and ancient evil hiding in the shadows. And, of course, all those storylines were torn from the pages of H. P. Lovecraft, Bram Stoker, and even Charlotte Bronte. Science fiction often specializes in the mystery of sheer wonder–how big the universe is, and all the things that could be out there. For me, Arthur C. Clarke’s “Odyssey”  novels tapped into this.

A sense of place – this might be related to sense of mystery, depending on the place. I want to feel I’ve visited the places described. Sometimes I’m pulled in because they’re so unusual and outlandish, but mostly because the author makes them feel commonplace to their occupants, and thus real. A wonderful example of the commonplace amidst the strange is Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles, in which the presence of humanity turns a completely alien world into small-town America, or Edgar Allan Poe’s House of Usher, or a roadside hot dog stand, while Martian cities of spun gossamer play host to the corpses of their former residents, whose bodies decay and blow away like leaves on the wind. Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander saga owes a lot to sense of place, as does much historical fiction.

“Why Should I Care?” – This is key. Way back before my kids were born, I took a workshop titled, “Writing Screenplays That Sell,” taught by a guy named Michael Hauge. He told us our job as writers was to make the audience care about a character within about 90 seconds. We were to do this by showing the character to be competent, funny, or sympathetic. Sympathetic hooks me best. I think most of our hearts go out to a character who, right from the beginning of the story, gets knocked down so hard that you fear he may not get up again. Heinlein’s Starman Jones is my favorite example of this. Max is the sole support of his mother, because his father, a space navigator, died in the line of duty. Max’s mother marries a ne’er-do-well, who cheats Max out of the only things of value he has: his father’s lands and his father’s books on astrogation. What happens to Max is so unfair you want to cry, so you of course want to follow his adventures to see if the poor guy lands on his feet. Dickens’s Oliver Twist is a similar story, as is the one story Horatio Alger told across about fifty books.

Humor and Unusual observations – I couple these two together to stress the kind of humor that grabs me. It’s less about belly laughs than it is about sneaking up on the reader and making him say, “That’s so true! I hadn’t made that connection before.” An example is H. L. Mencken remarking on the “American lust for the hideous” when describing the “disgrace to humanity” that is U.S. Route 1, a thoroughfare only about two minutes’ walk from my home. Of course, Mencken didn’t write fiction; but the aphorisms of Lazarus Long come to us via fiction, as do the witty observations about the middle class made by John Galsworthy in The Forsyte Saga. I liked Andrew M. Greeley’s observations about people and faith, too, and L. Neill Smith’s biting critiques of American politics.

Strong characterizations – People are interesting. That’s why people used to watch Jerry Springer. But intelligent, capable people are far more interesting than stupid people. (I actually cannot watch Jerry Springer!) Creative people, inventive people, people striving to overcome obstacles both external and internal. John Jakes’s Kent Family Chronicles kept me reading through eight long volumes because the people were varied and seemed real, but also because they solved big problems. Some, of course, were real, because Jakes’s mission was to incorporate as many historical American figures as he could. I like a sense of humanity in my characters, too: a tolerance of our flawed nature. One of the first things that struck me reading my first Heinlein novel, The Star Beast, was how the author portrayed people as sometimes selfish, sometimes larcenous, often dishonest… and that wasn’t the end of the world. People were people. My favorite character in that book was the Undersecretary of Spatial Affairs, Mr. Kiku, who ends the book humming a snippet from “Frankie and Johnny:”

This story has no moral

This story he no end

This story only goes to prove

There ain’t no good in men

That was eye-opening for me.

Something to learn – I love historical fiction because it teaches me about what has happened in the world, if it’s well-done. I’m currently in the middle of The Masters of Bow Street, which details the founding of Scotland Yard. It’s not as engaging as Diana Gabaldon’s work, nor as rich as John Jakes’s, but it explores a lot of English history that I know very little about. Science fiction, again when well-done, can teach a reader as well. Robert Heinlein taught me pretty much all I know about genetics. He enriched my knowledge of astronomy (as did Arthur C. Clarke) and physics.

Finally, a story needs to say something. Since I finished A Wrinkle in Time, I started one of Lois McMaster Bujold’s Vorkosigan novels. She’s written a lot of them, and won a Nebula Award and four Hugo awards for them, including an award for Best Series. The Vor Game, the one I’m reading, was her first Hugo winner. It is of course well-written and well-characterized, but it fails my “Why Should I Care?” test. I realize I’m starting in the middle of a series. (I’m not slavish about series order. I kinda resent series books to begin with. I think a book that doesn’t stand on its own is not a book.) Still, I feel that I should be concerned when Miles Vorkosigan’s life is in danger, or his cover is about to be blown. Not so much. And, in trying to figure out why, I landed at, “Because I don’t know who Miles really is or what he stands for.” He’s the son of a powerful military leader, born to privilege, despite his physical challenges. But I don’t see him trying to do anything other than try to advance his station. Which, I guess, is all Oliver Twist was trying to do. The difference being, if Oliver didn’t advance his station, he was going to starve to death. A rich character can still stand for something. James Bond is rich, but he stands for protecting his homeland. Batman is rich, but he stands for protecting the innocent from criminals. It doesn’t have to be a political stance (although I enjoy those), but I do need to have a sense of the character’s life philosophy. I believe life has meaning, and I need my characters to think so too.

This list is not exhaustive, obviously, not even for my particular tastes. It’s a stab at an answer to a question asked by a friend. I pass the question forward: What makes you want to read a book?