Kairos

The following was originally written as a prologue to Souldancer. I cut it upon deciding to start the book with the main action.

Almeth Elocine staggers across the narrow span.  Though Kairos knows neither “was” nor “will be”, the newcomer’s footsteps echo with regret and herald woes to come.

The bridge traverses every epoch of history, an alabaster beam suspended over a canyon of whirring cogs. Oblivious to the abyss yawning below, Almeth walks on—harried by defeat. Kairos is time as the gods know it, and the traveler’s memory of certain victory turned to rout seems only moments old.

The ubiquitous machinery turns in a continual dance of shifting fractal patterns, and Almeth hears again the guardians’ voices. They hail him as Faerda made flesh; the last god. He suffers these titles; comes to embrace them and finally to believe.

Ahead, the towers of spinning gears part to reveal the terminus. It is the last place that Almeth wishes to be, yet he recognizes the heart of Kairos as the natural end of his pride. All other paths are shut to him. Now he sees the platform clearly. A tall stocky figure stands at the head of the bridge, waiting.

“Elocine! It’s not too late to turn back!”

If Almeth is surprised by the man’s presence, he gives no sign. Unhindered he answers, “the Guild rules the spheres now, Cleolin. Where would you have me turn back to?”

Cleolin’s brow is stern, but the hardness doesn’t reach his eyes. “I would ask you the same, Blackbow. Even a mortal such as I know that one may reach any place or time from Kairos.”

Almeth sees the syndex’s muscles tense at his approach—a message clear as bared steel. “Everything’s gone wrong.” Elocine’s voice hardly exceeds a whisper. “I’m the last. Only I can mend it.”

 The syndex of Midras frowns—the mere sight of which oft sets foes to flight. Cleolin Redbeard beholds his former captain’s ashen face; sees the cold sweat that’s turned his hair into a mat of black lambswool. The priest knows that he is witnessing a marvel without precedent: Almeth Elocine is afraid. “Turn aside, Almeth!” the syndex warns. “Whatever your intent, to rewrite fate’s decrees is folly, even for a god!”

Though faltering, Almeth’s pace doesn’t slow. “The resistance is lost,” he says without inflection. “Should I leave my people in thrall to an upstart fiend?”

“The remnant of Annon chose their lot. The guardians may yet survive in Strata untouched by the Brotherhood.”

The human priest and the godly Gen stand face to face below the broad stair. Cleolin’s visage is grim; Elocine smiles wanly without mirth.

“You speak without forethought,” Almeth laments, “as is your race’s wont. Wheresoever I lead my broken following, the Void shall overtake us as it has the Middle Stratum.”

“The Guild has conquered the spheres; not the Void.”

“One is merely the consequence of the other,” Almeth says, pressing forward. His advance is halted as a smooth motion of the priest’s hand sends an icy jolt through Elocine’s torso. He recovers from the shock in time to see Cleolin withdraw his red-tipped blade.

“Forgive me this sacrilege,” the syndex says as Almeth collapses against him. The priest’s stout arms are all that keeps Elocine from folding to the floor.

Urgency beyond all concern for himself drives the Gen back onto his feet. He looks upon the syndex’s startled face a final time; then exerts his will. Kairos itself propels Cleolin backward so rapidly that his imposing stature instantly diminishes to a tiny distant mote. His scream reaches Almeth seconds after he vanishes beyond the terminus.

Clutching his wound, Elocine staggers to the edge of Kairos. Cleolin was the last tie binding him to life in this cosmos. Its severance empties him of all feeling, and he sits down to wait.

He Is Legend

Richard Matheson died this week. My limited verbal powers cannot adequately describe the impact of this towering figure on the science fiction and horror genres. We shall not see his like again.

I encourage you to celebrate Mr. Matheson's life and career by enjoying at least one of his works in the coming days.

I Am Legend

Stir of Echoes

The Legend of Hell House

"Nightmare at 20,000 Feet"

The Incredible Shrinking Man

Duel

What Dreams May Come

SD v. 2.2b

The latest draft of Souldancer is nearing fruition. I'm averaging a chapter a day, so at that rate I expect to finish in two or three weeks.

Since I'll have just finished redrafting, the book will need inspection by objective eyes. If you would like to be a beta reader for this project, please volunteer in the comments section below or by sending me an email expressing your interest. I know there are already a couple of people I can count on, but in this case more is more.

Thanks to everyone who's supported me in this enterprise.

Prologues and Epilogues

Before I'm accused of closed-mindedness regarding supplemental novel materials, let me say that both of my manuscripts' first drafts had prologues. I was persuaded to cut them on the wise advice of my beta readers.

Prologues and epilogues have staunch defenders who point out major books by famous writers that have them (Robert Jordan and Neil Gaiman for instance). I cut my prologues for two simple reasons.

1. Agents and editors hate them.
2. I am neither Robert Jordan nor Neil Gaiman.

Let it be noted that the prologue to The Eye of the World is one of the best opening hooks in modern fantasy (it's certainly my favorite), yet it violates all of Ms. Lakosil's guidelines. As I wrote in this space before, you must master the rules before you're allowed to break them.

Since this blog sticks to advice for beginning writers from a beginning writer, I say in all bluntness: avoid prologues and epilogues. Make them your first and last chapters, integrate the material elsewhere in the book, or just cut them altogether. Again, the main reason for this rather crude approach is that 90% of agents and editors admit that a prologue negatively impacts their view of a manuscript. If you must include supplemental material, submit the MS without it and tactfully discuss adding it back in once the project's been accepted.

Entering Elantris

I recently started reading Elantris by Brandon Sanderson. It's his first novel, and that fact does color my perceptions of the book. First, it's 60 percent longer than my Nethereal manuscript, giving me encouragement that my work is an acceptable length for a first book.

Besides the editing considerations, Elantris' plot is very high-concept, which is how I like it. A land inspired by late medieval Europe plays host to a race of immortal sages randomly divinized by unknown mystical forces. These chosen demigods all congregate in the tale's eponymous city, where they forge startling new technologies with magical runes and buy the commoners' adoration with free food.

Sanderson then brilliantly describes the crushing end of a bread and circuses based political structure when the same ineffable force that gave the Elantrians their power capriciously takes it away. In a delightfully perverse twist, the former divinities aren't just demoted back to human status. They become leprous undead wretches, unable to work their former magics or even to heal from the slightest wounds. The gods' former seat of power becomes their plague colony: a filth-ridden tomb shunned by its former subjects.

Ten years of upheaval follow as anyone and anything connected with Elantris' cursed inhabitants is violently uprooted and cast aside. The monied middle class, being the only group whose prosperity didn't depend on the Elantrians' largesse, step in to fill the power vacuum. One of Sanderson's master strokes is depicting the upjumped nobility's aversion to keeping servants after seeing the Elantrians' former worshipers turn on them.

There's always room for improvement, especially in a first novel (if eighteen months of revisions taught me anything, this is it). I'll list a few weaknesses I've found in Elantris with the caveat that I'm only a quarter of the way through the book, and it's difficult to judge a work's merits until the last word is read.

As mentioned above, Elantris is long. I'm a marathon reader; not a guy who consumes one coffee break-sized chapter at a time. Yet I'm progressing at roughly half the pace I set while reading Count to a Trillion, which is comparable in length. I think Elantris' pacing needs some work, but I'm not sure how yet.

Though their dialogue is solid, most of the characters serve as exemplars of established fantasy archetypes without enough to flesh them out (at least so far; some main and side characters show promise). The prince is an able leader trained in the arts of politics: in short, a prince. However, his native likability succeeds in gaining reader sympathy for his plight. Princess Sarene reads like a suffragette transported to Henry VIII's England. She's very good at it though, and her characterization could hint at why Sanderson was named Jordan's heir.

The character who most engages me is (of course) main antagonist Hrathen: a high priest of a militaristic faith who's given three months to convert a foreign kingdom. Sanderson gives him perhaps the biggest stakes of any main character in terms of immediate ramifications, for his failure will mean the country's bloody demise.

Those are my first impressions of Elantris. I'll reserve my final review till I've finished the book.

The Hagiology of Superman

Zack Snyder's Man of Steel is the second attempt at a new direction for the Superman franchise in less than a decade. For many superhero properties, a reboot means a darker, grittier take on the character. Snyder (and producer Christopher Nolan) indulge a bit of that angst-driven sentiment here, but to me the most intriguing change in direction for this iteration of Superman isn't really a change, but an expansion within the continuity of his main source tradition.

Soon after the character's debut, commentators (including Nazi propagandist Joseph Goebbels) noted Superman's resemblance to Moses. Both Israel's founding father and the Last Son of Krypton escaped genocidal calamities as infants, were raised in secret by foster parents, altered the natural courses of major bodies of water, and served as the exemplars and protectors of specific nations' creeds. Both characters also have Hebrew names (Kal-El: "Swift God", and Mosheh, derived from the Egyptian: "Son").

Several items in the movie's subtext hint that Snyder and Nolan have graduated their Superman from prophetic to messianic status. Without spoiling any major plot points or characterizations, here are some of the Christological elements I noticed on my first viewing:

• Jonathan Kent has a deep sense of Clark's special role and strives to foster his potential. He also expresses awareness that his son has another father who sent him to earth for a reason. (One could build an entire post on the Pa Kent/St. Joseph parallels alone).
• As seen in the trailers, Clark travels with a group of fishermen at one point.
• Clark is prominently framed against a stained glass window depicting the Agony in the Garden at a dramatically resonant moment.
• Superman gives his age as 33 (in the original Superman: The Man of Steel graphic novel, he is 29. This can only be a deliberate parallel).
• At least one scene with an implied crucifixion motif.
• Kal-El is referred to as a god and the savior of humanity.
• A woman is the sole witness to the revelation of Clark's superhuman nature, and none of her associates believe her until they see for themselves.

I could go on, but I think the observations above make a strong case that the filmmakers intended to portray Superman as a Christ character. From a theological standpoint, the character's expansion from prophet to messiah is an internally consistent and frankly ingenious reboot approach. It raises the story's stakes and magnifies the character's significance by way of the natural progression of his underlying mythos. Far from spurning Superman's Mosaic roots, Snyder and Nolan have followed that theme to its logical conclusion.

Story Structure

As a followup to yesterday's discussion of outlining vs. organic writing, basic story structure deserves a few words. The relationship is fundamental. If you're a planning writer, the act of outlining your story gives it structure by default. Even if you write organically your narrative will have to adopt some logical order so readers can relate to it.

What are a writer's options for structuring a story? Here are some of the most common options.

Three act structure organizes the story into three sections. Generally act one deals with introductions and setup. Act two confronts the protagonist with challenges. Act three shows how these obstacles are overcome. Western literature and cinema strongly emphasize raising and resolving tension in a conflict bell curve.

The original Star Wars trilogy represents the epitome of three act structure.

The Hero's Journey is often cited as a structural template for storytelling. It's actually an observation by Professor Joseph Campbell about recurring plots points, characters, and themes in western myths. I'm discussing Campbell's monomyth here to caution writers against following it too slavishly. The hero's journey isn't a one size fits all story mold. It's a set of norms against which a story can be measured after it's written (i.e. it's an interpretive tool, not a composition tool).

Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy finds girl again is the basic plot of almost every romance novel and romantic comedy film. However, invoking TV trope rule zero, Shakespeare did it first. Boy meets girl, etc. is also called the idiot plot due to how often it's used to drive characters instead of the characters driving the plot. As the Bard of Avon proves, it can be done well as long as characterization isn't neglected.

Other types of plot structure exist, and all are capable of framing successful narratives. The most important caveat to using established plot structures is to regard them as guidelines; not laws. Choose the structure that will best fit your story. Don't contort your story to fit a specific mold.

Organic vs. Outline

There are two general approaches to starting the writing process: outlining and organic writing. Both methods have advantages and flaws. Many writers use some combination of both. Which is best? The answer largely depends on the writer, but this brief overview should help.

Outlining
The writer undertakes extensive world building and planning before drafting begins. The overall story structure; plus major characters, themes, and plot twists, are outlined.

Advantages

• Reduces the likelihood of omitting important characters/scenes/plot points, etc.
• Gives the writer a road map to fall back on if the story goes astray.
• Theoretically speeds up the actual writing process, which can become as simple as filling in the outline.
• Minimizes the risk of wasting time and effort by becoming disenchanted with the story after writing several chapters.

Flaws

• Can delay the start of writing by encouraging endless world building.
• Promotes excessive exposition on background concepts like magic systems, fantasy world history, character origin stories, etc.
• Runs the risk of turning the art of writing into a sterile, paint-by-numbers exercise.

Popular outline writer: Brandon Sanderson

Organic/Discovery Writing
The author gets an idea and just starts writing about it, letting the story develop organically.

Advantages

• Minimal risk of writer's block due to incessant world building.
• Easier to make changes rather than scrapping a whole story.
• Greater freedom to "follow characters" who take the plot in unexpected directions.
• Lowers the risk of scenes/characters/plot twists feeling forced.

Flaws

• No reference to fall back on. "Working without a safety net".
• Easier to forget important concepts/plot points.
• Increased risk of writer's block from lack of direction.
• Greater chance of a meandering, bloated narrative.
• Avoiding flow/pacing problems takes strong self-discipline.
• Higher risk of continuity errors.

Popular discovery writer: Stephen King

For a more in-depth treatment of this subject, Writing Excuses has an excellent discussion on discovery writing and several on outlining.

Faith in Fantasy

Religion is one inevitable aspect of world building that is perilously easy to get wrong. Readers are culturally and historically conditioned to expect that faith will play a significant role (implicitly if not explicitly) in any fantasy universe. This convention is no less true of science fiction, though it more often operates in the subtext.

I find that fantasy religions are most often mishandled when authors invoke the cliche of transporting primary world religions into their fictional settings with only minor linguistic and aesthetic tweaks. Unless logical reasons are given for how a belief system whose cult, code, and creed exactly mirrors that of a real-world faith developed, this approach strains suspension of disbelief.

Worse, the temptation to make a fictionalized version of an actual religion into a straw man embodying an author's pet grievances can be hard to resist. This offense is sometimes committed knowingly, but more often it results from a lack of diligent research.

Not that designing fantasy religions from whole cloth is the only--or even the best--way to create credible, organic-feeling faiths. Fabricating belief systems utterly alien to the reader's experience likewise inhibits immersion and suspension of disbelief. It's important to provide theological and cultural touchstones with which readers are familiar.

Therefore, the best advice I can give to writers crafting a fictional religion is to study primary world faiths. Choose your sources carefully. Avoid histories written by obvious detractors of a particular creed who likely have axes to grind. Give preference to primary sources within the faith's tradition written by members in good standing.

As for creating fantasy religions, a brief overview of the basic categories into which nearly all real-world creeds can be grouped should be helpful.

• Philosophical/Civil: straddling the line between religion as such and ethical and juridical systems, these traditions can be effectively agnostic while accruing ceremonial trappings. Examples include Confucianism, Taoism, and some Aristotelian and Platonic schools.
• Deist: deism acknowledges a creator, but one so transcendent as to rule out communion with humans. The Deist God is a "watchmaker" who sets creation in motion and walks away to let history play itself out. Many influential Enlightenment figures held this view.
• Pantheist: almost a negative image of deism. Pantheism denies God's transcendence, locating divinity in all things. In this view, The universe itself is the supreme being, and all its constituents share in the divine. The pantheist cannot truly speak of creation, since nothing exists that is not God. Pantheist thought can add an interesting angle to a story's morality since it sees good and evil as equally valid aspects of the same reality. Shinto and some aspects of Hinduism are pantheistic.
• Polytheist: though it also denies the transcendence of divinity, polytheism doesn't divinize the whole. Members of classical polytheistic pantheons are portrayed as the offspring of natural forces, so they aren't eternal and usually aren't said to have created the cosmos. Such gods differ from men in degree of perfection more than order of being. Polytheistic faiths are fantasy mainstays but require care to avoid being portrayed as caricatures.
• Dualist: dualism posits the existence of two supreme beings: almost always one good and one evil. Dualist theology usually develops as an attempt to address theodicy, or the problem of evil. In this case, all good things are credited to the benevolent God, while all evils are ascribed to the malevolent one. Manicheism is a notable dualistic faith. Dualism is also wildly popular in fantasy settings, e.g. George R. R. Martin's R'hllor/Great Other.
• Monotheist: the belief in one, eternal, transcendent, and immanent supreme being. Though deism professes a single Creator, it is a dependent offshoot of the Abrahamic faiths which view God as transcending creation while remaining active in it. Though often epitomizing evil in a Satan/Adversary, monotheism differs from dualism in that this evil agent is not a god, but a corrupted creature. Also common in fantasy settings, monotheistic faiths are especially at risk of distortion since their real world prominence leads some authors to take incomplete or false understandings of their creeds for granted.

The Hand of Vance

Genre fiction recently lost Jack Vance, one its most underappreciated grand masters. A baroque visionary who penned his first tales aboard a merchant marine freighter in the South Pacific during World War II, Vance never quite managed to overcome the anti-genre bias of more respectable literary circles. What he did was successfully inspire generations of zealous fans.

Gamers owe particular homage to Vance. The First Edition Dungeon Master's Guide gives him an honored place on the acknowledgements page, and with good reason. He invented--among other D&D staples--ioun stones and the game's magic system (notorious for compelling mages to re-memorize forgotten spells each night).

If you're an avid gamer, or even a fan of classic genre fiction, I highly recommend checking out Vance's Dying Earth stories. Perhaps he, like Howard and Lovecraft, will receive in death the due honor he was denied in life.

Faustian Bargaining

"Magic"--like "love", "decimation", and "freedom"--is a term that popular use has greatly corrupted. Nowhere is the misapprehension of magic more prevalent than in contemporary speculative fiction. Many authors, without fear of contradiction or ridicule,  slap the "magic" label onto any ability exceeding the norm. This practice is inaccurate and objectively misleading.

In their episode on magic systems, the Writing Excuses podcast filed everything from the Force to mutant powers under the aegis of "magic". Allowances must be made for the hosts' need of a convenient term to frame their discussion, not to mention their fifteen minute time limit. However, I found it interesting that they mentioned several species of fantastic power but not actual magic.

I'll stop begging the question and define actual magic, that is to say magic as it has been historically understood and practiced in western culture. Though western magical traditions differ, certain common threads run through all of them:

• Magic is preternatural, i.e. not among the natural powers proper to humans.
• Magic does not involve the direct manipulation of cosmic or spiritual energies ("spiritual energy" being an oxymoron).
• Following from the first two points, the magician's role is to invoke the aid of spiritual beings, to whom levitating objects, forecasting future events, etc. comes naturally (thus magic can't be called supernatural either).
• These beings' services are never contracted without cost.

In no authentic source I know did actual magicians claim the power to weave strands of earth and air or to shoot coherent light beams from their eyes. I realize that novelists deal with magic in the context of fiction, but words are a writer's tools, and words have meanings. The classification of every freak, prodigy, and curiosity as "magic" is a result of our modern linguistic laziness and aversion to metaphysics.

It could be argued that the usefulness of a general term describing the sundry paranormal goings-on in popular fantasy and science fiction trumps the importance of linguistic accuracy. In that respect, I don't begrudge such usage as long as the terms are defined beforehand. However, I find that a proper understanding of magic as it was known to our ancestors can add authenticity and depth to one's writing. John C. Wright makes a persuasive case for this approach.

Another question implied by this line of reasoning is, "How should the various "magic" systems used in contemporary fiction be classified?" I'll attempt an answer.

• Extranormal abilities arising from genetic mutation (natural or induced), alien ancestry, enhanced anatomy, or wonder drugs fit most comfortably into the category of superpowers.
• Effects that seem paranormal to readers, but which result from the conscious manipulation of ambient energy fields, chi, manna, etc. are really just technologies, although they draw on power sources that are unknown or disputed in the primary world.
• Techniques that exploit physical laws absent in the real world are likewise technologies.
• Combinations of the above, e.g. a gene that predisposes one to psychic powers.

You're probably thinking of Clarke's Third Law right now. In my defense, Clarke meant "magic" in the broad sense of "anything scientifically inexplicable". Also, the Third Law affirms an intrinsic difference between technology and magic and even relies on that difference for its intelligibility.

My own science fiction-fantasy novel Nethereal provides examples of each category. Jaren and Nakvin possess certain superior physical traits thanks to nonhuman parentage. These are superpowers. The Guild's Workings and glamers, Gennish Mysteries, and even the Malefactions of xanthotics are technologies that harness fictitious forms of energy. Only in the ancient schools of divination and necromancy--with their fool's bargains and horrific costs--do we find real magic.

The whole exercise in fantastical nit-picking aside, Sanderson and Wright are unarguably correct that a practical supernormal power system should adhere to rules; especially the rule that all power comes at a price. Mutants are feared and hated by those they fight to protect. Channelers risk madness and death to use their gift. Sorcerers barter their eternal souls for power and influence. As long as the cost fits the effect, it's not cheating.

Obstacles: Internal and External

I finally started listening to Writing Excuses. In season 1, episode 6 Brandon, Howard, and Dan discussed character flaws and handicaps. I loved the episode and thought of a few comments that I'd like to share here.

The hosts of Writing Excuses defined a flaw as an internal fault that a character must overcome. They cited Han Solo's initial greed and selfishness from Star Wars Episode IV. In contrast they defined a handicap as external circumstances that impede a character's progress, e.g. Luke Skywalker's overprotective uncle and remote desert upbringing.

I can't take issue with either definition, except for one host's assertion that handicaps can't be overcome by the character (Luke in fact does when he leaves Tattooine with Han, Chewie, and Ben). In fairness, I think he was trying to differentiate between the internal struggle involved in overcoming a flaw and the positive actions needed to remove a handicap.

One fascinating question that came up was how to balance character flaws and likability (i.e. how to give a character flaws without alienating readers). I agree that making the flawed character the protagonist wins half the reader sympathy battle. One powerful tool overlooked by Writing Excuses but recommended by my friend and fellow writer Nick Enlowe is remorse. A character earns a lot of points with readers by expressing sorrow for his sins. Striking the right balance of depravity and virtue is still delicate work (I'm grappling with this process in the book I'm writing now), but at the end of the day most readers want characters to have flaws and want them to overcome those flaws.

Who are your favorite flawed characters? Why do they resonate with you despite (or because of) their faults? What do you think is the ideal balance of virtue to vice?