I know people who are huge readers of SFF who have never read J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Some of them have tried and pronounced his dense, description-laden prose “boring.” Some have heard this pronouncement from others and shied away because of it. And this breaks my heart, because LotR was an omnipresent backdrop behind my entire childhood. My father read it to my brother and me on Sunday afternoons when we were still young enough to think sprawling on the livingroom carpet, listening to Dad read stories was cool. The family boat was named Gandalf. When I was 12 or so and read it for the first time on my own, I made fun of my Dad for weeks over how badly he mispronounced his Elvish (”Daddy, say ‘Caradhras’”).
But it wasn’t just the fact that it was Dad’s favorite book. It was because Tolkien built a world you could immerse yourself in. And because he described it in a way that sucked you into it and kept you there for the duration. You could feel the midges biting you in Midgewood. You could hear the Elves singing in Lothlorien. You could see the White Tower of Minas Tirith shining in the morning light, standing obstinately in the Dark Lord’s way. (Of course, when I say “you” I mean myself.) This is because Tolkien understood how to use words to paint pictures, how to use their rhythm to set a mood.
And it makes me all kinds of happy that Elizabeth Bear gets it.