I've come across a number of articles noting a worrisome trend in contemporary science fiction and fantasy. A cursory glance at genre best-seller lists shows a slew of derivative, paint-by-numbers premises endlessly recycling the same stock characters. (Only Wool distinguishes itself from the rest of the list).
You might argue that it's always been this way. True, there's always been a market for schlock potboilers. But try to recall a book in the sci-fi or fantasy genres from the last ten years that could stand beside Cat's Cradle, The Lord of the Rings, or Dune. Reviewer hyperbole often claims that the Wheel of Time books or A Song of Ice and Fire meet this test, but despite their quality both series stand on the shoulders of giants.
Why does current genre fiction underachieve compared to its predecessors? Donald Maass identifies a vital element of standout fiction: that the author has strong convictions and makes those beliefs come through in the book's characters, conflict, and themes.
Contemporary sci-fi and fantasy authors seem to be lacking in this regard. John C. Wright has a thoughtful essay on how postmodern disillusionment with scientific progress is stifling imagination. Writing on the Orson Scott Card affair, Jim Bennett blames rigid political correctness for creating a publishing environment that excludes challenges to the popular zeitgeist.
Neither culprit alone seems to explain the dearth of challenging fiction. Taken together though, a clearer picture of genre fiction's current malaise emerges. Escapism is the point of genre fiction. Fantasy transports the reader to a world that is better because it is simpler--both technologically and morally. Science fiction flies us either to worlds made better by human ingenuity, or else destroyed by it. In either case, genre fiction must be able to instill hope for or fear of worlds different from ours. It must therefore go against the grain of dominant thought for best effect.
In contrast, most contemporary genre fiction (I don't say "modern" because current science fiction is decidedly postmodern) adheres to one of two tropes: either the self-congratulatory insistence that everything is just fine or utter despair at the current paradigm's inevitable demise.
If we look back to sci-fi's origins, it's plain to see how the genre took up the cautionary role once held by fairy tales. Great science fiction authors from Jules Verne to George Orwell used their stories to warn society against the possible excesses of its pet theories. Likewise, great fantasy enshrined traditional understandings in danger of being forgotten. That genre fiction has ceased to fulfill this function illustrates why it's being reduced to a flavor of the month clearinghouse.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Sweatshop Censorship
Free societies have long grappled with balancing artists' right to self-expression with the need to prevent libel, slander, fraud, and treason. At long last, Apple has found the secret for deciding when censorship is acceptable.
"We view Apps different than books or songs, which we do not curate. If you want to criticize a religion, write a book. If you want to describe sex, write a book or a song, or create a medical app. It can get complicated, but we have decided to not allow certain kinds of content in the App Store."
Everyone from Voltaire to Larry Flynt argued that freedom of speech hinged on the rights of the speaker and the message's content. Now we know they were all looking in the wrong place, for Apple has shown us that the medium through which a thought is expressed suffices to justify banning it.
A practical example of Apple's censorship policy is the humor game Sweatshop, which was banished from their app store. Though the game was developed and marketed as a humorous expose of child labor and sub-poverty level wages in overseas clothing factories, one of Apple's reasons for dropping it was the depiction of factory managers blocking fire escapes.
Forgive me for not using this space to explain the workings of satire. I doubt it would do any good.
A second look reveals that the app store's policy is silent on the issue of criticizing a major corporation. The question of whether such criticism may be expressed on a blog seems to occupy a gray area. What do you think?
"We view Apps different than books or songs, which we do not curate. If you want to criticize a religion, write a book. If you want to describe sex, write a book or a song, or create a medical app. It can get complicated, but we have decided to not allow certain kinds of content in the App Store."
Everyone from Voltaire to Larry Flynt argued that freedom of speech hinged on the rights of the speaker and the message's content. Now we know they were all looking in the wrong place, for Apple has shown us that the medium through which a thought is expressed suffices to justify banning it.
A practical example of Apple's censorship policy is the humor game Sweatshop, which was banished from their app store. Though the game was developed and marketed as a humorous expose of child labor and sub-poverty level wages in overseas clothing factories, one of Apple's reasons for dropping it was the depiction of factory managers blocking fire escapes.
Forgive me for not using this space to explain the workings of satire. I doubt it would do any good.
A second look reveals that the app store's policy is silent on the issue of criticizing a major corporation. The question of whether such criticism may be expressed on a blog seems to occupy a gray area. What do you think?
Monday, March 25, 2013
Thrice-Told Tale
Since I've been focused on revising my work, I thought it would be helpful to compare multiple drafts of the same project to chart my progress. The results proved both edifying and embarrassing.
Here's an example: the same paragraph from Nethereal chapter 3 as it appears in the first, second, and third drafts.
First Draft:
The Enforcers conducted their search in shifts; none of them being able to tolerate prolonged exposure to the conditions inside—this despite the fact that the door had been off its hinges since early that afternoon. According to the householders, the temperature had not risen at all. Fortunately, they weren't made to investigate for long. Redrin Culvert's personal effects, including his identification, two changes of clothing, and a type of Worked pistol called a zephyr, were quickly discovered and noted. Of the man himself, there was no sign. A guilt-driven flight out of town was submitted in explanation, although the room was windowless, and the lock had been jammed from the inside—melted, in fact, by some unknown corrosive agent.
Second Draft:
Despite the fact that the door had been off its hinges since the early afternoon, conditions within had still been barely tolerable. Fortunately, the search hadn’t taken long. The Enforcers had quickly turned up Redrin Culvert's personal effects, including his identification and a zephyr model Worked pistol. Of the owner’s whereabouts, they’d found no sign. A guilt-driven flight out of town was submitted in explanation, though the room was windowless, and the lock had been jammed from the inside: melted, in fact, by some unknown corrosive agent.
Third Draft:
The vicious freeze had haunted the room for hours. Luckily, the search hadn’t taken long. The Enforcers had quickly turned up Redrin Culvert's personal effects, including his identification and a Worked zephyr pistol. There was no sign of the owner’s whereabouts. A midnight flight from justice was suspected, but the room was windowless; and the lock hadn’t simply been jammed from the inside. It had been melted by some unknown corrosive agent.
Don't know about you, but the third version is the only one I can read without flinching.
Here's an example: the same paragraph from Nethereal chapter 3 as it appears in the first, second, and third drafts.
First Draft:
The Enforcers conducted their search in shifts; none of them being able to tolerate prolonged exposure to the conditions inside—this despite the fact that the door had been off its hinges since early that afternoon. According to the householders, the temperature had not risen at all. Fortunately, they weren't made to investigate for long. Redrin Culvert's personal effects, including his identification, two changes of clothing, and a type of Worked pistol called a zephyr, were quickly discovered and noted. Of the man himself, there was no sign. A guilt-driven flight out of town was submitted in explanation, although the room was windowless, and the lock had been jammed from the inside—melted, in fact, by some unknown corrosive agent.
Second Draft:
Despite the fact that the door had been off its hinges since the early afternoon, conditions within had still been barely tolerable. Fortunately, the search hadn’t taken long. The Enforcers had quickly turned up Redrin Culvert's personal effects, including his identification and a zephyr model Worked pistol. Of the owner’s whereabouts, they’d found no sign. A guilt-driven flight out of town was submitted in explanation, though the room was windowless, and the lock had been jammed from the inside: melted, in fact, by some unknown corrosive agent.
Third Draft:
The vicious freeze had haunted the room for hours. Luckily, the search hadn’t taken long. The Enforcers had quickly turned up Redrin Culvert's personal effects, including his identification and a Worked zephyr pistol. There was no sign of the owner’s whereabouts. A midnight flight from justice was suspected, but the room was windowless; and the lock hadn’t simply been jammed from the inside. It had been melted by some unknown corrosive agent.
Don't know about you, but the third version is the only one I can read without flinching.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Racial Profile: The Gen
A hierarchy of being exists in the Soul Saga universe that spans from the simplest sub-atomic particle to the all-encompassing Nexus itself. Originally, no place in this grand continuum was left empty. The rise to dominance of humanity--which occupies the exact center of the cosmic hierarchy--also saw the decline of many lesser and greater races. Of these, the Gen suffered worst of all.
Standing one rung above man on the evolutionary ladder, the Gen closely resemble their human cousins. Physical differences between the two races are subtle. Unlike humans, Gen do not fail with advancing years. They slowly grow nobler (and ideally wiser) with age. Physical and mental defects are almost unknown among them.
The greatest difference between humans and Gen is that, barring disease, misadventure, or murder, a Gen will never die. As one would expect, immortality affects the Gen's outlook on life. They are great lovers of learning but approach new subjects methodically, exhausting a given field over decades or even centuries before tackling the next.
Though the Middle Stratum had no Fall event (physical and moral evil have another source), the Gen could be viewed as an unfallen--or rather, less fallen--version of humanity. They are smarter than men on average, and they more easily subject their appetites and passions to the rule of will.
The two preceding observations help to explain what humans consider an oddity of Gen behavior: their habit of attaining and then abandoning great technological achievements. Indeed, the elder race mastered space flight before men practiced agriculture. Not long after, the Gen returned to the safety of their home spheres and left their wondrous ships to rot.
This pursuit of knowledge for its own sake instead of some practical end likely saved humanity. Had the Gen been less reserved, they might have revived their ancient high technology to drive mankind back to the stone age at the first sign of persecution by humans. Instead they exercised their customary patience, hoping that their juniors would gain spiritual maturity. The result was the Gen's near extermination.
Standing one rung above man on the evolutionary ladder, the Gen closely resemble their human cousins. Physical differences between the two races are subtle. Unlike humans, Gen do not fail with advancing years. They slowly grow nobler (and ideally wiser) with age. Physical and mental defects are almost unknown among them.
The greatest difference between humans and Gen is that, barring disease, misadventure, or murder, a Gen will never die. As one would expect, immortality affects the Gen's outlook on life. They are great lovers of learning but approach new subjects methodically, exhausting a given field over decades or even centuries before tackling the next.
Though the Middle Stratum had no Fall event (physical and moral evil have another source), the Gen could be viewed as an unfallen--or rather, less fallen--version of humanity. They are smarter than men on average, and they more easily subject their appetites and passions to the rule of will.
The two preceding observations help to explain what humans consider an oddity of Gen behavior: their habit of attaining and then abandoning great technological achievements. Indeed, the elder race mastered space flight before men practiced agriculture. Not long after, the Gen returned to the safety of their home spheres and left their wondrous ships to rot.
This pursuit of knowledge for its own sake instead of some practical end likely saved humanity. Had the Gen been less reserved, they might have revived their ancient high technology to drive mankind back to the stone age at the first sign of persecution by humans. Instead they exercised their customary patience, hoping that their juniors would gain spiritual maturity. The result was the Gen's near extermination.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Souldancer Deleted Scene: The Taming of Hazeroth
In hell's Third Circle a motley crowd gathers beside a river of blood. No two hideous congregants are alike. Yet all share a bloodthirsty fascination for the spectacle playing out in their midst.
The demon mob encircles a single figure. He resembles a being of the Middle Stratum far more than any of the infernal denizens surrounding him. But his skin is sallow, and his eyes are the same sanguine hue as the tainted river. His hands grip the fossilized wings of some eons-old reptilian giant, joined end to end by a shaft of bone. Sometimes they seem to move by their own power.
At some imperceptible signal one of the monstrous onlookers enters the ring. The stone wings blur, and he is cut down. Undeterred, another demon lunges at the sallow man and meets the same end.
Like a dam bursting, the circle closes around the lone figure at its center, devolving into a mindless fray. The first charge ends poorly. None of the fiends get closer to their foe than the point of his blade. The demons close ranks and fall back, forming a wider circle than before.
The swordsman brushes black curled hair from his forehead. His bloody eyes betray his lust for more.
"Hazeroth," a deep clear voice resounds across the blood-soaked plain.
The demons cow as if struck. The circle parts, admitting a towering figure in lavish gold robes. An expressionless white mask with a ruby in its brow hides his face.
The swordsman turns at the sound of his name. "You disturb my sport."
"If I must. The word I bear to you takes precedence."
Hazeroth points a long-nailed finger at the masked messenger. "You will have to wait your turn."
"I am ill disposed to suffer delays."
The masked figure lifts his arms. Sickly yellow light bursts from beneath his golden robes, sweeping the demon mob away like a pile of burned leaves.
Hazeroth scowls. "Your aid was neither asked nor wanted. If you would treat with me, it will be on my terms."
In a motion that would bewilder the human eye, the swordsman covers the distance to his intended victim and shreds the golden robe with one swing of his double sword. Suddenly he no longer stands on the bloody river's bank, but on a broken sheet of coal-black rock. A golden glow limns the horizon, and a single white point glows faintly in the dark sky.
"Hazeroth!" the same booming voice cries again. This time, it seems to emanate from everywhere at once. "I am the Will of Shaiel. Here, in my seat of power, you shall heed me."
The swordsman tries to move, but the cold turns his muscles to dried wood.
"High honor is set before you," Shaiel's Will declares. "My lord would have you bear his blade. What say you?"
"I am a prince of hell," Hazeroth says through clenched teeth. "Others swear their blades to me!"
"And many more yet shall. Serve in Shaiel's kingdom, and he will restore your own. Yea, it shall have tenfold increase."
The demon prince tries to struggle; fights even to move. The cold is relentless: seeping into his bones; creeping toward his heart.
"I will serve," he groans at last.
The demon mob encircles a single figure. He resembles a being of the Middle Stratum far more than any of the infernal denizens surrounding him. But his skin is sallow, and his eyes are the same sanguine hue as the tainted river. His hands grip the fossilized wings of some eons-old reptilian giant, joined end to end by a shaft of bone. Sometimes they seem to move by their own power.
At some imperceptible signal one of the monstrous onlookers enters the ring. The stone wings blur, and he is cut down. Undeterred, another demon lunges at the sallow man and meets the same end.
Like a dam bursting, the circle closes around the lone figure at its center, devolving into a mindless fray. The first charge ends poorly. None of the fiends get closer to their foe than the point of his blade. The demons close ranks and fall back, forming a wider circle than before.
The swordsman brushes black curled hair from his forehead. His bloody eyes betray his lust for more.
"Hazeroth," a deep clear voice resounds across the blood-soaked plain.
The demons cow as if struck. The circle parts, admitting a towering figure in lavish gold robes. An expressionless white mask with a ruby in its brow hides his face.
The swordsman turns at the sound of his name. "You disturb my sport."
"If I must. The word I bear to you takes precedence."
Hazeroth points a long-nailed finger at the masked messenger. "You will have to wait your turn."
"I am ill disposed to suffer delays."
The masked figure lifts his arms. Sickly yellow light bursts from beneath his golden robes, sweeping the demon mob away like a pile of burned leaves.
Hazeroth scowls. "Your aid was neither asked nor wanted. If you would treat with me, it will be on my terms."
In a motion that would bewilder the human eye, the swordsman covers the distance to his intended victim and shreds the golden robe with one swing of his double sword. Suddenly he no longer stands on the bloody river's bank, but on a broken sheet of coal-black rock. A golden glow limns the horizon, and a single white point glows faintly in the dark sky.
"Hazeroth!" the same booming voice cries again. This time, it seems to emanate from everywhere at once. "I am the Will of Shaiel. Here, in my seat of power, you shall heed me."
The swordsman tries to move, but the cold turns his muscles to dried wood.
"High honor is set before you," Shaiel's Will declares. "My lord would have you bear his blade. What say you?"
"I am a prince of hell," Hazeroth says through clenched teeth. "Others swear their blades to me!"
"And many more yet shall. Serve in Shaiel's kingdom, and he will restore your own. Yea, it shall have tenfold increase."
The demon prince tries to struggle; fights even to move. The cold is relentless: seeping into his bones; creeping toward his heart.
"I will serve," he groans at last.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Patience Obtains All Things
Since I started taking my professional novelist ambitions seriously many well-meaning folks have asked when my books will be out. I'm grateful that people have shown interest in my work. I also advise those people to stoke their enthusiasm for the next several years.
Taking an idea from draft to finished manuscript to publication usually takes a long time. Published author's I've consulted say that the average is about five years. This means that some authors get published in a year. For every first year prodigy, someone else waits ten years.
It takes me about six months to write a novel draft. I go through a minimum of three drafts before I start to think that my work might be fit for public consumption. Each draft goes out to beta readers from whom I get as much feedback as possible before re-drafting.
When editing devolves into aimlessly pushing words around the page, I've done all that my petty skills allow. It's then time for agent queries and possibly a few direct publisher submissions. I don't approach many publishers directly because:
1. Few publishers even accept unagented submissions these days.
2. Those few publishers who do allow open submissions still give top priority to projects from agents they've done business with before.
3. The stigma that writers making unagented submissions weren't good enough to land agents.
4. Publishers are far less likely to buy a manuscript rejected from their slush pile (which it almost certainly will be) even if an agent represents it later.
5. It is extremely poor form to submit the same MS to multiple publishers at once. It can be career-ending to get caught.
I'm focusing most of my efforts on querying agents. It's generally okay to query more than one at a time if you promptly inform the others when one accepts you. Agents who say they're taking on new clients will only add one or two at most, but those odds are still better than in the slush pile.
The good news is that I've been hard at work querying agents. Most have replied via form letter, which is neutral. The few personalized rejections have only been encouraging. To my surprise, no one in the industry has yet labeled me an illiterate hack.
Once again I ask your kind patience. Delayed gratification is the best gratification.
Taking an idea from draft to finished manuscript to publication usually takes a long time. Published author's I've consulted say that the average is about five years. This means that some authors get published in a year. For every first year prodigy, someone else waits ten years.
It takes me about six months to write a novel draft. I go through a minimum of three drafts before I start to think that my work might be fit for public consumption. Each draft goes out to beta readers from whom I get as much feedback as possible before re-drafting.
When editing devolves into aimlessly pushing words around the page, I've done all that my petty skills allow. It's then time for agent queries and possibly a few direct publisher submissions. I don't approach many publishers directly because:
1. Few publishers even accept unagented submissions these days.
2. Those few publishers who do allow open submissions still give top priority to projects from agents they've done business with before.
3. The stigma that writers making unagented submissions weren't good enough to land agents.
4. Publishers are far less likely to buy a manuscript rejected from their slush pile (which it almost certainly will be) even if an agent represents it later.
5. It is extremely poor form to submit the same MS to multiple publishers at once. It can be career-ending to get caught.
I'm focusing most of my efforts on querying agents. It's generally okay to query more than one at a time if you promptly inform the others when one accepts you. Agents who say they're taking on new clients will only add one or two at most, but those odds are still better than in the slush pile.
The good news is that I've been hard at work querying agents. Most have replied via form letter, which is neutral. The few personalized rejections have only been encouraging. To my surprise, no one in the industry has yet labeled me an illiterate hack.
Once again I ask your kind patience. Delayed gratification is the best gratification.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Writing Antagonists
I already discussed protagonists and their vital narrative role. Now on to the flip side of that coin: antagonists.
If the protagonist--the main character in pursuit of a goal--is the most important character in a story, the antagonist comes second by a hair's breadth. Conflict drives plot. The antagonist provides that conflict by opposing the protagonist's goals.
Let's examine two common claims about antagonists.
1. Purely evil "mustache twirling" characters are poor antagonists.
The truth of this maxim rests on the kind of story you want to tell. The Wicked Witch of the West would strike a dissonant tone in Heat, but she's right at home in her own fairy tale fable.
The antagonist should fit the genre. A story with a gritty realist tone demands a fleshed-out antagonist. Conversely, fairy stories are cautionary tales at heart. The villain of a morality play can embody one vice or another because he's more of a symbol than a character.
2. Antagonists have to be people.
This misconception is easily disproved by glancing at the canon of literature. A protagonist can find a worthy foil in an inhuman monster, in nature, and even in himself.
The Dark Knight aptly illustrates this point because it includes every kind of conflict to some degree. The Joker isn't really a character. Christopher Nolan has explained his decision against filming the Joker's origin story by saying that he wanted the character to be elemental--a force of nature.
The closest that The Dark Knight comes to having a classic antagonist is Two Face, but only after Harvey Dent loses his own man vs. himself conflict.
To sum up, the antagonist is the character and/or force impeding the protagonist's attainment of the story's main goal. One-dimensional antagonists are okay for morality tales, and they can be impersonal social or natural forces.
Tales striving for greater realism (including sci-fi and fantasy) should have antagonists who are just as fleshed out as the main character is. They should also be people who want something--directly opposed to the protagonist. If you're smart, your antagonist's ends and means will be fully justified; at least to himself.
If the protagonist--the main character in pursuit of a goal--is the most important character in a story, the antagonist comes second by a hair's breadth. Conflict drives plot. The antagonist provides that conflict by opposing the protagonist's goals.
Let's examine two common claims about antagonists.
1. Purely evil "mustache twirling" characters are poor antagonists.
The truth of this maxim rests on the kind of story you want to tell. The Wicked Witch of the West would strike a dissonant tone in Heat, but she's right at home in her own fairy tale fable.
The antagonist should fit the genre. A story with a gritty realist tone demands a fleshed-out antagonist. Conversely, fairy stories are cautionary tales at heart. The villain of a morality play can embody one vice or another because he's more of a symbol than a character.
2. Antagonists have to be people.
This misconception is easily disproved by glancing at the canon of literature. A protagonist can find a worthy foil in an inhuman monster, in nature, and even in himself.
The Dark Knight aptly illustrates this point because it includes every kind of conflict to some degree. The Joker isn't really a character. Christopher Nolan has explained his decision against filming the Joker's origin story by saying that he wanted the character to be elemental--a force of nature.
The closest that The Dark Knight comes to having a classic antagonist is Two Face, but only after Harvey Dent loses his own man vs. himself conflict.
To sum up, the antagonist is the character and/or force impeding the protagonist's attainment of the story's main goal. One-dimensional antagonists are okay for morality tales, and they can be impersonal social or natural forces.
Tales striving for greater realism (including sci-fi and fantasy) should have antagonists who are just as fleshed out as the main character is. They should also be people who want something--directly opposed to the protagonist. If you're smart, your antagonist's ends and means will be fully justified; at least to himself.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Endings and Beginnings
Since most stories are told from beginning to end, it seems logical that they should be written that way. This is wrong.
Once again, I invoke the wisdom of Kurt Vonnegut in advising writers against drafting in chronological order. I don't meant that you should write backwards from the ending. What you should do is figure out what the story's climax is: where the conflict between the protagonist's goal and the antagonist's interference comes to a boil. That's the heart of the story.
Many people think that a story's ending is the point when the plot is resolved. This isn't necessarily true. Ending a story is less of a problem than it's often made out to be, and most stories have several possible exit windows. The key is to know when your themes are resolved.
When you've got your protagonist and antagonist, you know what they want, you know the point of greatest conflict between them, and you know the ideas which will inform that conflict, it's time to start writing.
As you know, a beginning is a delicate time. The most helpful piece of advice I've found on starting a story is Chekhov's Razor: "First, throw out the first three pages." Doing so will weed out your initial fumbling attempts to find a narrative thread.
I've found Vonnegut and Chekhov's advice on endings and beginnings indispensable. If anybody else has tips for tackling the bookends of a story, feel free to share.
Once again, I invoke the wisdom of Kurt Vonnegut in advising writers against drafting in chronological order. I don't meant that you should write backwards from the ending. What you should do is figure out what the story's climax is: where the conflict between the protagonist's goal and the antagonist's interference comes to a boil. That's the heart of the story.
Many people think that a story's ending is the point when the plot is resolved. This isn't necessarily true. Ending a story is less of a problem than it's often made out to be, and most stories have several possible exit windows. The key is to know when your themes are resolved.
When you've got your protagonist and antagonist, you know what they want, you know the point of greatest conflict between them, and you know the ideas which will inform that conflict, it's time to start writing.
As you know, a beginning is a delicate time. The most helpful piece of advice I've found on starting a story is Chekhov's Razor: "First, throw out the first three pages." Doing so will weed out your initial fumbling attempts to find a narrative thread.
I've found Vonnegut and Chekhov's advice on endings and beginnings indispensable. If anybody else has tips for tackling the bookends of a story, feel free to share.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Souldancer Excerpt 2
Time for another Souldancer sample. We join Nakvin of Avalon as she contends with a house guest who's rather outstayed his welcome.
“Not Thera,” said the priest, “but the wretched souls despoiled to restore hers.”
“What does he want with them?”
Sulaiman came closer than he ever had to shrugging. “To fulfill some perverse Working,” he guessed. “Or perhaps to keep company with kindred spirits.”
Nakvin fought to keep her face from betraying how close that was to the mark.
“Whatever his reason,” the priest went on, “Shaiel’s gain is our grave loss. You must send me to Mithgar.”
“I must do nothing,” said the queen. “I came to discuss state business; not to aid private vendettas.”
“Have you heard nothing I’ve said?” Sulaiman asked. “Shaiel imperils the cosmos of which your fiefdom is only part.”
Nakvin slammed her fist upon the desk. “Enough!” she said. “Don’t test me, Sulaiman. While you rotted in prison, I was busy learning.”
The priest’s smile was acid. “Kill me then,” he said, “as I know you wish to.”
Sulaiman’s abruptness gave the queen no chance to hide her shock.
“My god has left me,” he continued, “but I need not his gifts to read hearts. You have your sire’s throne. Let’s see you match her malice.”
“Go,” Nakvin sighed. “Find out what’s happening on Mithgar. Stop it if you can.”
Sulaiman brushed past her but stopped in the doorway. “Pray any power you like to send me victory.”
“She never answers,” said the queen.
Sulaiman’s eyes went rigid as iron.
“One whom Hazeroth of Gheninom fears can only be a terror not seen since the
old gods’ day. You heard what game the hunter seeks.”
It was an effort for Nakvin to speak.
“The Souldancer’s host.” “Not Thera,” said the priest, “but the wretched souls despoiled to restore hers.”
“What does he want with them?”
Sulaiman came closer than he ever had to shrugging. “To fulfill some perverse Working,” he guessed. “Or perhaps to keep company with kindred spirits.”
Nakvin fought to keep her face from betraying how close that was to the mark.
“Whatever his reason,” the priest went on, “Shaiel’s gain is our grave loss. You must send me to Mithgar.”
“I must do nothing,” said the queen. “I came to discuss state business; not to aid private vendettas.”
“Have you heard nothing I’ve said?” Sulaiman asked. “Shaiel imperils the cosmos of which your fiefdom is only part.”
Nakvin slammed her fist upon the desk. “Enough!” she said. “Don’t test me, Sulaiman. While you rotted in prison, I was busy learning.”
The priest’s smile was acid. “Kill me then,” he said, “as I know you wish to.”
Sulaiman’s abruptness gave the queen no chance to hide her shock.
“My god has left me,” he continued, “but I need not his gifts to read hearts. You have your sire’s throne. Let’s see you match her malice.”
“Go,” Nakvin sighed. “Find out what’s happening on Mithgar. Stop it if you can.”
Sulaiman brushed past her but stopped in the doorway. “Pray any power you like to send me victory.”
“She never answers,” said the queen.
Friday, March 8, 2013
World Building
All fiction genres share the same building blocks. They must have protagonists, antagonists, a goal, conflict, and themes. Only science fiction and fantasy add a step to these elements: world building.
In my experience, shoddy world building is the second most common cause of poor storytelling right behind underdeveloped characters. Some people harbor a naive view of world crafting in which rewinding time to the bronze age and introducing dragons suffices to ground a fantasy setting.
Much like writing believable characters, solid world building takes finesse. If the structures and rules of your secondary world depart too far from the reader's experience of the primary world, you risk breaking his suspension of disbelief.
On the other hand, an effective fantasy world must be able to foster and maintain escapism. Offering the reader vicarious adventure beyond the confines of reality is the whole point of speculative fiction. So the setting has to include at least one major exotic element: magic, geocentric cosmology, androids, FTL travel, etc.
Creating a sound secondary world is a tightrope act. Lean too far one way, and the audience can't relate. Lean too far the other way, and the setting becomes too dull to hold their attention. The best way to avoid both extremes is to lay a foundation of internal consistency.
Figure out how your secondary world most differs from the primary world. Is your world separated from ours in time? Is it another planet in the same universe? Is it in another cosmos altogether?
The answers will indicate how much your world's rules may differ from those of the primary world. (For example, since my fantasy setting is located in another universe I avoid using words derived from earthly people, places, and events.) Once you've set these standards, don't deviate from them unless the change results from natural story developments. Much like symbolism, world building is most effective when readers don't consciously see it.
That's my approach to world building. What are your picks for best/worst designed sci fi/fantasy worlds?
In my experience, shoddy world building is the second most common cause of poor storytelling right behind underdeveloped characters. Some people harbor a naive view of world crafting in which rewinding time to the bronze age and introducing dragons suffices to ground a fantasy setting.
Much like writing believable characters, solid world building takes finesse. If the structures and rules of your secondary world depart too far from the reader's experience of the primary world, you risk breaking his suspension of disbelief.
On the other hand, an effective fantasy world must be able to foster and maintain escapism. Offering the reader vicarious adventure beyond the confines of reality is the whole point of speculative fiction. So the setting has to include at least one major exotic element: magic, geocentric cosmology, androids, FTL travel, etc.
Creating a sound secondary world is a tightrope act. Lean too far one way, and the audience can't relate. Lean too far the other way, and the setting becomes too dull to hold their attention. The best way to avoid both extremes is to lay a foundation of internal consistency.
Figure out how your secondary world most differs from the primary world. Is your world separated from ours in time? Is it another planet in the same universe? Is it in another cosmos altogether?
The answers will indicate how much your world's rules may differ from those of the primary world. (For example, since my fantasy setting is located in another universe I avoid using words derived from earthly people, places, and events.) Once you've set these standards, don't deviate from them unless the change results from natural story developments. Much like symbolism, world building is most effective when readers don't consciously see it.
That's my approach to world building. What are your picks for best/worst designed sci fi/fantasy worlds?
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Nethereal Progress Report 3/6/2013
Most agents and editors are too busy to send anything but form rejections these days. I've sent out other queries that were answered with rejections, but all of them have either been form letters or polite but vague rejections. None of them gave direct criticism of my work.
I queried literary agent Russell Galen about Nethereal back in November. He was recently kind enough to give me my first piece of personalized feedback. It wasn't even that much: just a single sentence declaring that my book sounded "fine" to him. However, the slot on his dance card reserved for a sci fi-fantasy author is full.
After months of wondering if my story is irredeemable schlock, someone in the industry has confirmed that it has a modicum of literary (or at least commercial) merit. Again, I know full well how busy the agents who didn't give feedback are. No hard feelings.
I continue the agent search armed with Mr. Galen's encouragement.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
The Power of Symbols
Storytellers have always used symbols. Even the most ancient texts contain rich symbolism. So do tales predating the written word by millennia.
At first it seems counterproductive to wrap ideas in layers of metaphor. What's easier: saying, "Being too single-minded can land you in trouble," or writing a 635 page book about a guy chasing a whale?
So why do human beings like our messages delivered via symbols? Whatever the reason, it's ingrained deep in our nature. There's no denying that concepts encoded in symbols enjoy far wider distribution and have much longer shelf lives than dry, straightforward discourse. It's a safe bet that the number of people who could tell you one of Aesop's fables is greater than the number who can recite a given passage from Plato's Republic.
Symbols are powerful tools to convey meaning. Contrary to the example above, they can do so quite efficiently. A yellow sign with two stick figures on it prompts you to drive cautiously better than one saying, "There is a school nearby. Kids will probably be crossing this street at some point, so you should slow down."
Though symbols are effective, they are best used with a light touch. The paradoxical nature of symbols dictates that their effectiveness increases (at least in literature) with their subtlety. A scruffy ranger who wins a kingdom through trials and selflessness paints a better picture of messiahship than a talking lion. Sorry, Jack.
Speaking of which, the Christ figure is probably the most enduring and ubiquitous symbol in all of literature. The same holds for pre and non-Christian societies. Whether a writer thinks that the symbol's content is true or not is irrelevant. There's something fundamental to the human condition that makes most people want it to be.
I've been devoting this space to writing advice lately, but all I can really tell you about using symbols is that 1: you'll do it whether you mean to or not; and 2: resist the urge to explain the symbols you use. As Dean Koontz explains, stained glass windows don't have subtitles.
At first it seems counterproductive to wrap ideas in layers of metaphor. What's easier: saying, "Being too single-minded can land you in trouble," or writing a 635 page book about a guy chasing a whale?
So why do human beings like our messages delivered via symbols? Whatever the reason, it's ingrained deep in our nature. There's no denying that concepts encoded in symbols enjoy far wider distribution and have much longer shelf lives than dry, straightforward discourse. It's a safe bet that the number of people who could tell you one of Aesop's fables is greater than the number who can recite a given passage from Plato's Republic.
Symbols are powerful tools to convey meaning. Contrary to the example above, they can do so quite efficiently. A yellow sign with two stick figures on it prompts you to drive cautiously better than one saying, "There is a school nearby. Kids will probably be crossing this street at some point, so you should slow down."
Though symbols are effective, they are best used with a light touch. The paradoxical nature of symbols dictates that their effectiveness increases (at least in literature) with their subtlety. A scruffy ranger who wins a kingdom through trials and selflessness paints a better picture of messiahship than a talking lion. Sorry, Jack.
Speaking of which, the Christ figure is probably the most enduring and ubiquitous symbol in all of literature. The same holds for pre and non-Christian societies. Whether a writer thinks that the symbol's content is true or not is irrelevant. There's something fundamental to the human condition that makes most people want it to be.
I've been devoting this space to writing advice lately, but all I can really tell you about using symbols is that 1: you'll do it whether you mean to or not; and 2: resist the urge to explain the symbols you use. As Dean Koontz explains, stained glass windows don't have subtitles.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Writing Protagonists
I'd like to share a simple concept. If your protagonist sucks, your story will suck.
The engine that drives every story has three parts: a protagonist, something the protagonist wants, and an antagonist (human, environmental, psychological, etc.) who obstructs the protagonist's attainment of that goal. When you relate what the protagonist does to overcome the obstacles in his way, you are telling a story. Since so much rides on the protagonist, he'd better be interesting.
Here are a few tips for writing protagonists who engage and interest readers.
Goals: as I and writers far better than myself have said before, a protagonist must be properly motivated. There must be some goal that drives him through to the end of the story. Passive characters that events just happen to are dull.
Pseudorealism: note that I didn't say realism. That's because I write genre fiction. Fully realistic characters are preferred for interpretive fiction or nonfiction. For sci-fi and fantasy the idea is to give your characters (especially the protagonist) enough believable personality traits to balance the crazy make-believe elements.
Luke Skywalker is a space shaman prophesied to destroy an intergalactic empire. If someone approached you today and made the same claim, you'd rightly doubt his sanity. However, we suspend our disbelief in Luke's case because we also see that he's a working guy lamenting his frustrated dreams. That brings me to...
Relatability: a protagonist's mindset and motivations should be intelligible for the most part. This doesn't mean that you have to spell everything out. In fact, an touch of mystery is good for sci-fi stories. However, if your main character is inaccessible to common human experience, readers will have trouble vicariously inserting themselves into the tale through him. That in turn leads us to...
Sympathy; not Pity: the key to engaging readers is to ease their acceptance of the protagonist as a vehicle for their own vicarious experience. They must live the story through the main character. There is a spectrum of audience reaction to certain characters that runs from empathy to sympathy to pity.
Empathy means actually feeling what someone else feels. If your characters reach this stage (which I doubt is possible for fictional sub-creations), you've missed your exit and should turn back. If on the other hand the reader feels sorry for the protagonist with an undercurrent of contempt, you've engendered pity; not sympathy.
It's easier to describe what sympathetic characters are not instead of what they are. They don't have to be perfect. Protagonists can even have genuinely rotten flaws such as flagrant bigotry and past murder convictions. As long as the character has at least one redeeming virtue and expresses at least tacit remorse for past wrongdoing, he can earn our sympathy.
These are just a few qualities of effective protagonists. Can anybody think of more?
The engine that drives every story has three parts: a protagonist, something the protagonist wants, and an antagonist (human, environmental, psychological, etc.) who obstructs the protagonist's attainment of that goal. When you relate what the protagonist does to overcome the obstacles in his way, you are telling a story. Since so much rides on the protagonist, he'd better be interesting.
Here are a few tips for writing protagonists who engage and interest readers.
Goals: as I and writers far better than myself have said before, a protagonist must be properly motivated. There must be some goal that drives him through to the end of the story. Passive characters that events just happen to are dull.
Pseudorealism: note that I didn't say realism. That's because I write genre fiction. Fully realistic characters are preferred for interpretive fiction or nonfiction. For sci-fi and fantasy the idea is to give your characters (especially the protagonist) enough believable personality traits to balance the crazy make-believe elements.
Luke Skywalker is a space shaman prophesied to destroy an intergalactic empire. If someone approached you today and made the same claim, you'd rightly doubt his sanity. However, we suspend our disbelief in Luke's case because we also see that he's a working guy lamenting his frustrated dreams. That brings me to...
Relatability: a protagonist's mindset and motivations should be intelligible for the most part. This doesn't mean that you have to spell everything out. In fact, an touch of mystery is good for sci-fi stories. However, if your main character is inaccessible to common human experience, readers will have trouble vicariously inserting themselves into the tale through him. That in turn leads us to...
Sympathy; not Pity: the key to engaging readers is to ease their acceptance of the protagonist as a vehicle for their own vicarious experience. They must live the story through the main character. There is a spectrum of audience reaction to certain characters that runs from empathy to sympathy to pity.
Empathy means actually feeling what someone else feels. If your characters reach this stage (which I doubt is possible for fictional sub-creations), you've missed your exit and should turn back. If on the other hand the reader feels sorry for the protagonist with an undercurrent of contempt, you've engendered pity; not sympathy.
It's easier to describe what sympathetic characters are not instead of what they are. They don't have to be perfect. Protagonists can even have genuinely rotten flaws such as flagrant bigotry and past murder convictions. As long as the character has at least one redeeming virtue and expresses at least tacit remorse for past wrongdoing, he can earn our sympathy.
These are just a few qualities of effective protagonists. Can anybody think of more?
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