This CASCYL installment differs from previous posts in that it looks at a book that's a part of a larger franchise, arguably one of the largest: the Star Wars Extended Universe. Traitor, by Matthew (Woodring) Stover was one of the middle novels of the sweeping New Jedi Order series, and as such can be easily overlooked, especially by those who don't have the time or inclination to read up on the other books in the series to get the necessary context. I would argue, however, that Stover's treatment of the primary characters in Traitor is deep and intimate enough to allow it to work as a stand-alone novel on that basis alone. While knowledge of the Star Wars and New Jedi Order-specific milieu is certainly helpful, it's not actually required. The story is about novel's the main character - Jacen Solo, one of the twin offspring of Han Solo and Leia Organa Solo - and his personal growth amidst his captivity by the enemy Yuuzhan Vong forces and the enigmatic Vergere. But it also contains a send off for another Extended Universe character that is perhaps one of the finest scenes ever rendered in a Star Wars novel.
The hallmark theme of Traitor, as well as what makes it such a gripping and intimate tale, despite its popular sci-fi trappings, is suffering. Stover explores the theme both directly and philosophically, and the way in which the characters respond to it - and are shaped by it - is an inherently cathartic process that fulfills the primary purpose of fiction: to give the reader experience of having lived an entirely different life, and the chance to allow the lessons and discoveries made in the process to reshape and redefine his or her own life.
For me, though, Traitor drove home a principle of storytelling that I had never fully accepted: the notion that suffering is the force that propels all action in a story. At some fundamental level I understood this premise; but given the ham-fisted treatment that many YA novels I'd encountered had given it, I'd relegated the direct relationship between suffering and plot development as the province of lesser, more brutal storytellers. I surmised the link had to be more attenuated to have the nuance and impact that it ought to have; that the whispered word resonates stronger than the utterance shouted at the top of your lungs. Stover proved that a storyteller can - and, in fact, should - be as brutal toward his characters as the story itself dictates, so long as that brutality is given proper meaning. Unfettered brutality is a spectacle, an event to be abhorred but never understood. It happens because it happens. Brutality coupled with purpose is far more incisive, because the shock-and-awe of the event is inextricably tied to the motives and goals behind it - both those of the in-story tormentor, tormentee, and the overarching daemon who pulls their strings: the author. The lesser storyteller uses suffering as a cudgel to bludgeon the plot along the path he or she wants it to travel; the master uses it as a scalpel, concealing the cut marks of his or her work beneath the fully realized actions and motivations of the characters themselves. The characters' purposes overshadow the author's on stage, to the point where the puppet strings are all but invisible. The reader thereby is forced not only to witness the spectacle, but understand why it has come to be - why, in many ways, the natures of the attendant characters made it so it had to come to pass - and the dual thrill and horror of that understanding underscores the event, transforms it, beyond all logic and reason, into something bittersweet and beautiful.
Stover never shies away from inflict pain and suffering on his characters in his original fiction - the Acts of Caine series being one of the most prominent examples - but never does he focus as much attention on the nature of that suffering and its metamorphic effects on characters as he does in Traitor. It's a masterclass of narration, storytelling, and catharsis.
The hallmark theme of Traitor, as well as what makes it such a gripping and intimate tale, despite its popular sci-fi trappings, is suffering. Stover explores the theme both directly and philosophically, and the way in which the characters respond to it - and are shaped by it - is an inherently cathartic process that fulfills the primary purpose of fiction: to give the reader experience of having lived an entirely different life, and the chance to allow the lessons and discoveries made in the process to reshape and redefine his or her own life.
For me, though, Traitor drove home a principle of storytelling that I had never fully accepted: the notion that suffering is the force that propels all action in a story. At some fundamental level I understood this premise; but given the ham-fisted treatment that many YA novels I'd encountered had given it, I'd relegated the direct relationship between suffering and plot development as the province of lesser, more brutal storytellers. I surmised the link had to be more attenuated to have the nuance and impact that it ought to have; that the whispered word resonates stronger than the utterance shouted at the top of your lungs. Stover proved that a storyteller can - and, in fact, should - be as brutal toward his characters as the story itself dictates, so long as that brutality is given proper meaning. Unfettered brutality is a spectacle, an event to be abhorred but never understood. It happens because it happens. Brutality coupled with purpose is far more incisive, because the shock-and-awe of the event is inextricably tied to the motives and goals behind it - both those of the in-story tormentor, tormentee, and the overarching daemon who pulls their strings: the author. The lesser storyteller uses suffering as a cudgel to bludgeon the plot along the path he or she wants it to travel; the master uses it as a scalpel, concealing the cut marks of his or her work beneath the fully realized actions and motivations of the characters themselves. The characters' purposes overshadow the author's on stage, to the point where the puppet strings are all but invisible. The reader thereby is forced not only to witness the spectacle, but understand why it has come to be - why, in many ways, the natures of the attendant characters made it so it had to come to pass - and the dual thrill and horror of that understanding underscores the event, transforms it, beyond all logic and reason, into something bittersweet and beautiful.
Stover never shies away from inflict pain and suffering on his characters in his original fiction - the Acts of Caine series being one of the most prominent examples - but never does he focus as much attention on the nature of that suffering and its metamorphic effects on characters as he does in Traitor. It's a masterclass of narration, storytelling, and catharsis.
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