I could see the title, Introduction to Elliptic Curves and Modular Forms. They’re mathematical objects involved in the proof of Fermat’s Last Theorem. Not everyone’s choice of topic, but elixir to Elmo. I’m sure he already is familiar with the subject matter, as he is with almost every branch of mathematics, but his search for new information is unending.
I look at him. His concentration is intense as he takes in the material, slowly turning the pages. Once, when I visited him in his office, I had to shout before he lifted his head and recognized my presence.
I’m the same way when I read mathematics. I’m not the genius Elmo is, so my page turning occurs at nowhere near his speed. But here’s the thing. When you read math you have to go slow, understanding every definition, assumption, and equation.
Fiction, on the other hand, is a different animal. It’s rare a single sentence will receive two reads, let alone the 15 or 20 or more possible when perusing a math text.
Some folks are unusually fast readers, perhaps having taken a speed-reading course. Others process every word, sometimes with lips mouthing each syllable. No matter what the technique, all do it for the enjoyment of a good story.
And so did I. But, since I’ve started to write, that’s not enough.
Don’t get me wrong. Reading for its own sake still is one of the greatest pleasures of my life. But, in addition to the story, I now find myself considering and recognizing the author’s techniques.
For example, how does the author handle descriptions, the topic of my previous post? I take note of how much is revealed, trying to determine for myself what is necessary and what goes too far. It has made me appreciate the importance getting this background material to the story right.
Before, as a tale with its twists and turns unfolded, I simply enjoyed it without much thought. Now I’m conscious of the careful plotting that’s gone into creating those twists and turns, and this helps me as I plan my own.
When the author plants a curious seed, perhaps as simple as a character discovering an acorn on the floor of an otherwise pristine room, I recognize there must be a purpose not immediately obvious. So I look forward to its sprouting, eager to see the effect on the story.
In rare instances, however, I’ve come to the book’s conclusion without any explanation. It makes me angry. If that’s going to be the case, why create the seed in the first place? I suspect the author simply forgot about it. I can understand how that can happen, since I have trouble remembering all the blips I introduce. To save myself from committing the sin of leaving the reader hanging, I note all such items in a small journal, and each must be checked off before I proclaim the book finished.
More and more I admire the complexities of the plots. Some books create a set of circumstances that seem to bear no relation to each other, yet all come together in the end. Others feature one situation after another in a series of adventures leading to the conclusion. I now consciously analyze these techniques. I’m getting better at creating them myself, and to a large extent it’s because of my sensitivity to how others handle it.
Then there’s character development, and so many authors are outstanding in their ability to create someone you like, or you hate, or who makes you angry by doing something stupid, or who makes you afraid for his or her safety. This is a difficult area for me, but again I think I’m improving—because now it’s something I think about. People tell me they like Elmo.
“How could they not?”
Maybe now I know how to break his concentration. “Go back to your book, Elmo.”
So I’m learning, and I owe a debt to all the books and their authors I’ve consumed over a lifetime, and especially in the past few years.