One of the primary functions of fiction, other than to entertain, is to illuminate the human condition. Whether it involves a philosophical examination of the human predicament (e.g., Kafka, Sartre, and much of the 20th-century Western canon), an exposé of social conditions at a certain point in time (Maugham, Dreiser, Sinclair), or an in-depth exploration of individual psychology (King, Stoker, James), literature grounds us in a specific place and time and shines a light on human relations within that construct.

A good novel will transport readers into its world and immerse them in the microcosm in which the characters exist (more on that later). A poorly written one, conversely, will leave the reader flat. Pim Wangtechawat’s debut novel, The Moon Represents My Heart (a title seemingly unrelated to the book itself), belongs, unfortunately, to the latter category.

The story revolves around a family of time-travelers residing in London: Joshua, who hails from Hong Kong, his wife, Lily, a Chinese Brit born in England, and their twins, Tommy and Eva. Joshua, who grew up in the British enclave’s Walled City (Kowloon), a densely populated ghetto demolished after the transfer of Hong Kong back to China, is a researcher who studies history and then travels back to specific points in time.

A promising mathematician, he moves to London to further his education; there, he meets his soon-to-be wife and discovers that, like him, she has the ability to journey through time. And so, too, do their children, who quickly learn of their supernatural skill and are tutored by their parents — who later mysteriously disappear.

In essence, The Moon is a novel about discovery. Era-hopping immigrants seek to uncover their roots and, while tempted to alter events in their extended family’s past, learn they cannot change history. An additional layer of discovery comes from Tommy and Eva’s search for the missing Joshua and Lily, an extension, presumably, of their quest for personal and cultural revelation.

The first problem with The Moon (other than its title) is believability. A well-constructed novel can take you anywhere. There are no constraints (need I mention Kafka again, or, for that matter, Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five, where time is warped in a masterful way?). In order to succeed, though, the writer must convince the reader of the viability of the construct they’ve created.

Here, we have a family of time-travelers but nothing to convince us of the reality of their universe. The reader is simply left to believe. Why is Joshua capable of time-travel? And how did he meet a woman with the exact same gift? It seems haphazard, unless, of course, it’s all just a metaphor for the notion that the search for one’s past is a sort of time-travel. However, the reader (this one, anyway) isn’t convinced that any of these circumstances are other than happenstance, and so the metaphor — if it is one — trips on its temporal tail.

The second problem is that Wangtechawat fails to heed the “show, don’t tell” paradigm underpinning good fiction. As a result, the writing is bland, the dialogue mundane, and the overall effect disappointing, as in this scene from the funeral of the twins’ grandmother:

“After the burial, May [a character who later becomes the mother of Tommy’s child] stops briefly to address Tommy and Eva. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she tells them softly, her eyes downcast. ‘If there is anything I can do, please let me know.’

“Tommy swallows and thanks her for coming in a strained voice.

“May lifts her eyes to catch his for a moment, hers swimming with tears. But he quickly looks away. ‘I’ll…I’ll see you around,’ he mutters.

“May’s cheeks burn red. She drops her gaze, repeats Tommy’s statement, and shuffles away. He does not want her to leave.”

This is the stuff of dime-store novels (and also television, apparently; the book is being adapted by Netflix). To the author’s credit, The Moon broaches a topic of concern to immigrants of all backgrounds: the discovery of one’s roots, not only the cultural variety, but the personal kind. Wangtechawat introduces us to this concept via first- and second-generation Chinese Brits who embrace their culture and language and treasure the old-world relatives they meet.

Still, much of what we’re given seems like random window-dressing rather than carefully planned and executed décor: a Chinese platter here and a London park there. Perhaps the most authentic depiction in The Moon is that of Kowloon, where we feel the crowded conditions of the Walled City and the squalid life its residents are forced to endure. Largely, though, the world the author gives us is two-dimensional.

True, much of this may be intentional on Wangtechawat’s part. But an author’s intentions need to become clear to the reader (or at least make sense) if the story is to succeed. The Moon Represents My Heart, a novel with so much potential, is, alas, a disappointment.

Mike Maggio’s forthcoming novel, Woman in the Abbey, a gothic tale of love and betrayal, will be released by Vine Leaves Press in 2025.

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