I’ve been a longtime “love-hate semi-fan” of Harry Turtledove – concerning which thing I sometimes fear that I bore fellow-Straight Dope-participants, more than is welcome.
A poster on the Khadaji’s Whatcha reading thread for June this year, mentioned his being in the process of reading a new (2018) Turtledove novel, In Darkest Europe – not hitherto heard of by me. His description: “set in an alternative near present when North African and Middle Eastern Muslim nations are a progressive and relatively peaceful First World and Europe is backward, hyper-violent and fundamentalist”. Unheard-of till then, by me: interest piqued, I acquired a copy.
Having read the book: I spent some time composing a colossal-length essay on my thoughts about IDE and the author’s ways in general; then realised that as a post it would likely elicit from most readers, the tl/dr reaction.
Doing very best for brevity and succinctness: while the book was in itself an agreeable-enough read – it had me concluding as follows. Turtledove – aside from his lesser writing quirks, which drive some to fury / some can live with / some, perhaps, actually like – is, while a creative author of some talent, essentially a rather lazy one; casting doubt IMO, on his often-heard “modern master of alternate history” accolade. He can, and sometimes does, use his own imagination and come up with material of actual not-happened-before originality; but it would seem that the majority of the time, he takes the easy way of either straight re-telling of “this world” events, only under a different guise; or direct “flipping-over” of actual history – as with this latest (promising to him, I feel, a bunch of easy-to-write sequels), where “the post-Christian world is the Muslim world, and vice versa”.
Kudos to Harry for being able to churn out such a huge volume of stuff, and have a multitude of devotees of it, and laugh all the way to the bank; but at the risk of being regarded as an elitist snob: I have a bit of a feeling in this, of being “had for a mug” by him. Quite fun reading, if you can cope with his authorial traits; but: a tendency to reckon that, with the necessary swotting-up, one could do as well oneself… I feel, perhaps perversely, unwilling for the sake of the only moderate pleasure of reading his foreseen future “Darkest Europe” books (or anything else he might come up with), to contribute to his personal gravy train. Am figuring that I’m at a parting of the ways with any of Mr. Turtledove’s future writing.