I'm a long-time fan of Michael Crichton so naturally I was devastated by his death and yet thrilled to learn that two manuscripts, one complete and one incomplete, were discovered on his computer. The first was Pirate Latitudes, a fun but not a particularly deep pirate adventure that was more of a historical adventure akin to Crichton's earlier works such as The Great Train Robbery and Eaters of the Dead than his techno-thrillers of recent times. The second was Micro which was only a third complete. Crichton's widow and his editor selected Richard Preston, an author who was known to write novels about infectious disease epidemics and bioterrorism, to complete the book.
I went into the book apprehensive because I was unfamiliar with Preston's work and I wasn't sure if I would be able to tell Crichton's work and from Preston's. Unfortunately, it became far too easy to tell. The book plays out like Jurassic Park meets Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, and even though this premise was more ludicrous than Crichton's normal fare, and I could tell where the book was playing with his ideas.
Preston's side of the book stuck out painfully: Rarely have I read such horrible prose and poorly written dialogue in a published work. The prose constantly broke the simple writing rule of "show, don't tell" that it became hard for me not to throw the book across the room. The dialogue felt unnatural and clumsy, while the narration often repeated itself within several pages or even with single paragraphs.
With all this in mind, it's no surprise that the characters themselves had nothing going for them. Almost all of them were cyphers and merely played out roles for the needs of the story instead acting out their own motivations. Everything each character did was predictable and boring and the only shocking moment of the whole story was when the lead character was abruptly killed.
If this book was so bad, why did I keep reading? I've read every single Crichton fiction novel (with the exception of State of Fear) so I suppose kept with it out of some sense of loyalty. I wanted so badly to enjoy this book. Granted Crichton's work declined somewhat in recent years (his last great novel, in my opinion, was Timeline) but I always at least enjoyed reading his books. Micro had some interesting ideas but Preston did an absolutely appalling job in presenting them and and even worse job maintaining the spirit of Crichton's work.
I went into the book apprehensive because I was unfamiliar with Preston's work and I wasn't sure if I would be able to tell Crichton's work and from Preston's. Unfortunately, it became far too easy to tell. The book plays out like Jurassic Park meets Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, and even though this premise was more ludicrous than Crichton's normal fare, and I could tell where the book was playing with his ideas.
Preston's side of the book stuck out painfully: Rarely have I read such horrible prose and poorly written dialogue in a published work. The prose constantly broke the simple writing rule of "show, don't tell" that it became hard for me not to throw the book across the room. The dialogue felt unnatural and clumsy, while the narration often repeated itself within several pages or even with single paragraphs.
With all this in mind, it's no surprise that the characters themselves had nothing going for them. Almost all of them were cyphers and merely played out roles for the needs of the story instead acting out their own motivations. Everything each character did was predictable and boring and the only shocking moment of the whole story was when the lead character was abruptly killed.
If this book was so bad, why did I keep reading? I've read every single Crichton fiction novel (with the exception of State of Fear) so I suppose kept with it out of some sense of loyalty. I wanted so badly to enjoy this book. Granted Crichton's work declined somewhat in recent years (his last great novel, in my opinion, was Timeline) but I always at least enjoyed reading his books. Micro had some interesting ideas but Preston did an absolutely appalling job in presenting them and and even worse job maintaining the spirit of Crichton's work.
