Category — literature

Title: The Adventures of Benjamin Skyhammer
Author: Nicole Sheldrake
Publisher: Amazon e-publishing
Pages: 310 (on Kindle)
ISBN: 9780987670700
Price: $2.99 (USD)

The titular character of Benjamin Skyhammer is a guy that pretty much everyone can identify with on some level: he doesn’t fit into society very well, he hates his day job (but loves his hobby), and he spends a good deal of time dreaming about the day when things will change for him. However, it’s all the reasons behind why he’s so easy to relate to, that make Benjamin Skyhammer stand out.

Skyhammer lives on Pingala, a world where everyone uses magic in their day to day lives – everyone except for him. Born without magic, Skyhammer is looked upon as something less than fully human. At their best, his fellow humans go out of their way to avoid any sort of contact with him; at their worst they openly taunt him (at rather low point in his personal history, a group of kids turned him into a snake for a lark).

As Keeper of the Retrograph Vault, a job he was forced into by virtue of being the only one able to get into the vault in the first place, he’s expected to be grateful and happy with such a cushy and easy job. Given that his predecessor spent most of his time as Keeper completely intoxicated, most people think the job is more than Skyhammer deserves as a magic-less outcast. Skyhammer, however, feels the job is a sort of boring punishment and is not content to sit on his laurels and take the easy way out. Instead, he and his best friend – his only friend really – Higgins, (a clever young lady, proficient in wizard level magic) spend the majority of their time hunting down the one Relic – a glove – that could bestow magical powers on Skyhammer and finally make him equal to everyone else.

During his various quests for this glove, Skyhammer finds other Relics and sells them as a source of income. This income goes towards paying informants who are helping him track the location of the Relic. When Skyhammer finally gets a solid lead on the whereabouts of the glove, he and Higgins are caught up in a race against time to get to it before someone else does

Without giving too much away, things go horribly awry and the fallout sends Skyhammer and Higgins on an adventure that ends up becoming far more complicated than either of them could ever have dreamed. Unexplained murders, political intrigues, and battles become the norm as they brave both beautiful and harsh landscapes to find the truth and to fulfill Skyhammer’s only desire. As might be expected, Skyhammer learns a few things about himself and the people around him along the way. Finding the truth, and seeking out your heart’s desire is hard, and sometimes frightening, work – but the rewards are great.

There are many things in this book to interest readers,  and of all the interesting things in it, I was most intrigued by the concept of the Retrograph.

Retrographs are pictures that are taken every minute of an individuals life – picture having a sort of camera as a third eye that takes a snapshot of one moment in time, every minute you’re awake. These Retrographs can be viewed at anytime – but only by the person to whom they belong. No one knows why the Retrographs exist, or for what purpose (those answers died with the ancients), they simply are – and every human, magic or not, has their whole life captured by this inner-eye. I have to admit, if we had anything like that now, I’d want the option of a delete button. After all, who’d want to look back on all the times you brushed your teeth or went to the bathroom (or worse!)?

I also enjoyed the wide variety in races (everything from humans to amoebas that like to knit) and the interesting technology too (flying carpets, magic slates, whole cities that float); it’s a world that is nothing like our own, but its inhabitants make it feel familiar and comfortable. The names of some of the inns that Skyhammer and Higgins pass through gave me the giggles as did the stories the locals feed the tourists regarding the name of their town, Four Hills (all I have to say is “conjoined princesses” – you’ll see).

The story itself moves along at a pretty quick pace. There were a few spots where I felt it went a little too fast, and the landscape, people and conversations went by in a bit of hurry. I’m a greedy reader, I like detail and back story (in the right measure). And there were some questions that I felt were not answered (perhaps the answers I wanted were deliberately not given to add an air of mystery – but I felt a little disappointed at not being let in on it)  and I must also be a little bit voyeuristic, as I would have liked more inner-dialogue – especially from Skyhammer – or at least more description of how the characters were feeling about certain events.

The only other thing that gave me a moment’s pause while reading, were the two instances where I felt that Benjamin Skyhammer acted wildly out of character. He generally seems like a fairly sweet sort of guy – the kind you take home to mother – even a little goofy and helpless at times. I had a hard time reconciling that Skyhammer to the two instances in the story (I could tell you which ones, but I don’t want to, a) spoil the plot or b) put ideas in your head about how you should react before you’ve even read it.) Let’s just say that I couldn’t (and still can’t) see someone of his character doing such things.

All in all, The Adventures of Benjamin Skyhammer is a good, fun read set in an interesting world that you’ll find yourself wishing you could visit for real.

The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun. Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us.

Ecclesiastes1:9-10 KJV

This quote has been on my mind this morning as I contemplate what constitutes plagiarism. My trusty Oxford English Reference Dictionary defines plagiarize as, “1 take and use (the thoughts, writings, inventions etc. of another person) as one’s own. 2 pass off the thoughts etc. of (another person) as one’s own.”

So, basically, intellectual theft – but what if you haven’t actually stolen anything and it only feels like you did? What if you’ve come up with a very, very similar idea – practically the same idea – independently?

Here’s what happened: several weeks ago, I wrote a scene in my first draft where my protagonist is learning to cross over from the human world into the world of the fae via a portal in one of BC’s provincial parks. I describe what the portal looks like, feels like, and even sounds like. The description I wrote has been floating around in my head for the better part of a year now and I was reasonably happy with what I wrote.

However, this morning I was finishing up the latest Sookie Stackhouse novel, Dead Reckoning – I love this series, it’s such good fun to read – and I read a description of a portal to Faery that is, in some respects, nearly exactly like my own – so nearly exactly, in fact, that after reading it I had the uncomfortable feeling of having somehow stolen my description from Charlaine Harris.

Now, given that Dead Reckoning was released on May 3 (two days ago) and I didn’t purchase it until last night, or read the pertinent scene until 5:30 a.m. this morning – and that I have never met Charlaine Harris, never mind been part of her peer review group for upcoming Sookie Stackhouse novels – it’s an impossibility for either of us to have stolen the others idea about what a portal to Faery looks like.

So now I’m left wondering this:  if the ideas are nearly the same – and I’ve freely admitted here that they are – is it plagiarism if I keep my scene exactly the way it is, even knowing that Charlaine Harris beat me to the punch in publishing her idea first?

I want to say it isn’t plagiarism, because I know damn good and well that I didn’t steal her idea. I didn’t read it and think, “Oh, that’s so much better than my own idea of a portal made of Jello and glitter glue, guarded by armed squirrels – yoink!”.  And I certainly don’t own a time machine that would allow me to steal her unpublished work and burgle the bits about her portal to Faery. I wrote my scene in good faith thinking that it was my idea, and my idea alone.  But, now that I know it isn’t, I’m a little worried a future editor or agent will say, ‘Hey, I think Charlaine Harris already wrote this description, you two-bit hack.”

Yes, I could change it and save myself (and the readers of this blog) all my intellectual hand-wringing, but I don’t want to change what I wrote. I like what I wrote because it works for the scene – but is it plagiarism? Am I a thief now that I know how alike parts of the descriptions are?

Please, help me set my mind at ease one way or the other by leaving your take on this in the comments!

Bookstores are one of my biggest weaknesses.

Rare are the days I can walk by one and not go in. Even rarer are the times when I go in and come out empty-handed.

I went into Chapters today with my friends Emily and Beau and within less than five minutes, I’d found a book: At Large and at Small – Confessions of a Literary Hedonist by Anne Fadiman (along with three other books, because I really am very weak-willed in bookstores).

Anne Fadiman is the sole reason I enjoy reading essays. After years of being forced to write essays in high school and university  – writing that seemed to involve sucking the life and joy out of every word ever printed – I was finished with essays. Then I stumbled onto Ex Libris – Confessions of a Common Reader also by Anne Fadiman and what a gem that book is! My copy is a paperback with a pale green cover and contains some of the most entertaining essays about being a book lover I’ve ever read.

That little green book hooked me and suddenly essays were not life-sucking, paper-wasting pieces of boredom; they were interesting, well-written comments on something I truly love: books!

So you can imagine how eager I was to dive into the new find.

After saying goodbye to Emily and Beau I took out my newest treasure and began to read at the bus stop.

Now, I can read anywhere (and frequently do) so I’ve got the skills to read and enjoy a book while being aware enough of the world around me to still catch a bus. I got on the #10, which was unusually crowded, and managed to find as seat at the very back. I sat and opened my book.

Normally, I’d pick up where I left off and the rest of the world would cease to exist. Today, I found it hard.

The guy one seat over to my left had the most piercing nose-whistle I’ve ever heard. The guy to my right was blathering on about the colour blue to the guy next to him at top volume. The bus’s brakes were in desperate need of some kind of tuning given the high-pitched screams of protest they made every time the bus came to a stop. Another woman was digging her in over-sized purse for a phone that was shrieking out Katy Perry’s I Kissed a Girl at a very loud volume (who knew faux alligator skin was such a poor sound barrier) not to mention the various kinds of music leaking out of people’s headphones.

It was nearly too much to tune out. I am not good at meditation – largely because I’ve only ever tried a handful of times and taming the monkey-mind is not going to happen overnight – so drowning out the people on the bus, and the surrounding traffic was not going well today. My immediate feeling towards all these noises (and their creators) was one of pure resentment.

I know the whole world can’t suddenly turn down the volume because I want to read – but that doesn’t stop me from wanting it. This resentment towards the noisy world coming between me and my books goes back a long way.

As a kid I remember not being able to find a lot of time to read quietly – there were always interruptions. Most of these interruptions came in the form of my mother’s voice: “What are you doing inside? It’s a beautiful day, go outside and play.”

You want to see resentment? Separate a kid from her book all in the name of “playing outside”. Anyone who really loves to read will fully understand my sulky replies, the irritated tone of voice and even the backchat that was usually some form of, “Why don’t YOU go outside and play and leave me alone?”

I still can’t understand how parents can desperately want their kids to be readers and yet cannot, absolutely cannot, leave their children alone when they DO finally pick up a book and get absorbed in it. The moment the outside world disappears for a reading child is exactly the moment parents start in on all the apparent virtues of being outside (though, even if the kid does go out, heaven forbid you come back dirty with tears in your clothes and scraped up knees!).

Anyway, after many, many repetitions of this, I got smart. I took a small bag (a red canvas child’s purse with a picture of Snoopy on it), packed a couple of books, some stolen cookies, and a juice box and hightailed it through the woods behind my aunt and uncle’s place directly to the local graveyard. Once there, I found a great and shady spot behind the mausoleum, sprawled out in the grass, and read to my heart’s content.

I can’t remember the name of the family buried there, but I hope they didn’t mind me borrowing a little shade while I read The Secret Garden or The Stand and ate some Oreos. The graveyard is maybe an odd place to find such happiness but it was well chosen. It was close enough to the house that I could get back fairly quickly, but far enough away that if Mum stood on the back step and yelled for me I’d be able to honestly say I hadn’t heard her calling.

I wasn’t an awful child, just determined to pursue my passion without all the commentary – and children need privacy and freedom the same as adults.

In the winter, I lived at the library (usually on weekends) and the librarian, Annie, was always glad to let me take a chair out of the way and read whatever I liked. I also read under the covers with a flashlight, I would read standing around in my room while listening for any sign of a parent (and stuff the book under the pillow and say I was cleaning up when caught), I read in the bathroom, on the bus, at recess, in class (when I could get away with it), on class trips including the over-night trip to Camp Sylvan and once even at a particularly bad company summer picnic.

Romeo and Juliet’s doomed romance was far more interesting than getting a loaf of bread from the freezer, or cleaning my room. Reading about the survivors of “Captain Trips” in The Stand (and my secret conviction that I would have been a survivor too) was much more entertaining than doing the dishes.

Even today, I still feel that same resentment at being pulled from whatever world I was inhabiting. Of course, the good thing about being an adult is that no one ever tells me to go outside and play if I’d rather read. Nor am I frequently interrupted to fetch things or clean my room and best of all – I don’t have to hide out in the graveyard with contraband cookies.

I sometimes think I should open up a reading lounge. People would come in with a book and sprawl out on a plush and comfortable rug or chair and then just zone out and read. No laptops, all cell phones on vibrate, no chatterboxes yapping about the colour blue – just some unobtrusive music and the sound of pages being turned.

How peaceful that would be!

I hear my own reading lounge calling to me; my very comfortable couch where I will read without further interruptions.