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.

Count to a Trillion

I just finished John C. Wright's science fiction novel Count to a Trillion. Having wished to read The Hermetic Millennia, I was advised to pick up the preceding novel first. I'm glad I did.

Count to a Trillion introduces Menelaus Illation Montrose, a lawyer specializing in "out of court settlements" based on Spanish dueling traditions revived by beleaguered landowners to circumvent confiscatory twenty-third century property laws.

Montrose's mathematical genius allows him to thrive in a Texas--devastated by germ warfare, depopulation, and governmental collapse--where duels are decided by the sophistication of each duelist's pre-programmed bullets. (Wright describes the evolutionary weapons escalation that produced his future setting's nine-pound, foot long pistols in highly creative detail.)

Fate seemingly intervenes when Montrose is approached by the organizers of mankind's first voyage to another star. The protagonist, who grew up idolizing (to him) ancient Star Trek cartoons, becomes obsessed with deciphering the (to humans) unintelligible glyphs covering the alien monument found in orbit around an antimatter star. To this end, he takes matters into his own hands by injecting himself with an experimental drug based in part on the monument's own undeciphered calculus. The process increases Montrose's intelligence to superhuman levels but also plunges him into raving, finger-biting depths of madness.

And then the story starts.

Combining a grand vision of human destiny reminiscent of Frank Herbert's Dune and technological savvy to rival William Gibson (plus rustic humor and truly sympathetic characters often missing from both), Count to a Trillion comes highly recommended.

Touring the Sorcerer's House

The Sorcerer's House by Gene Wolfe comes highly reviewed by both Neil Gaiman and John C. Wright, so there's little I can add of any critical merit. I will say that I deeply enjoyed the book.

Wolfe makes the bold and unorthodox choice to structure his novel in epistolary form (a series of letters between protagonist Bax Dunn and his colorful cast of family and friends). Since The Sorcerer's House is, among other things, a mystery, this approach serves the narrative well; causing enough chronological uncertainty and giving the author good reason to omit enough information to keep readers on their toes.

The symbolism is thick and rich here: especially the theme of objects, events, and people coming in twos. I dimly suspected that the whole book has a dualistic structure on my first reading, but I'll have to read it again to be sure.

All is certainly not as it seems. The main character immediately establishes himself as an unreliable narrator: a con man recently released from prison who nonetheless holds multiple advanced degrees and conducts himself in a cordial, erudite manner.

The novel's tone is generally tongue-in-cheek and understated, though there are certainly moments of genuine pathos and surreal horror. The Sorcerer's House is urban fantasy/gothic mystery with a heart. Don't go in expecting a parable on contemporary issues or a hero dispensing justice. This tale is told for its own sake--the best reason of all.

How About a Magic Trick?

Is every masterpiece a deliberate result of its creator's intent? A discussion resulting from Friday's post grappled with this question. I think it presents what catechists call a "teachable moment".

Where do groundbreaking works get their emotional power? Opinions on this subject fall into two broad categories. Fans of auteur theory credit all of a story's emotive resonance to the storyteller. In this view crafting a compelling game, novel, or film is a matter of talent and skill.

The concept of developer/author/director as a work's primary interpretive key was challenged by Roland Barthes' essay "Death of the Author". Barthes argued that an author's intent and background are totally insignificant to a work's meaning and emotional impact. According to this theory one could say that no creative expression is ever singular. Instead, each work exists simultaneously in three forms: the story in the author's mind, the story as it exists in writing (or as data or on film), and the story as it takes form in the audience's mind.

In effect, there are far more than three versions of every story because a new one springs into being with each new audience member. How often have you seen the film version of a favorite book and said, "That's not how I pictured that character/setting/prop"? Everyone who saw the movie after reading the book probably felt the same way because each reader invests the story with his own experience and preconceptions.

Personally I don't fully buy into either auteur theory or post-structuralism. The fatal flaw of each is a tendency to be too reductive. John C. Wright charts a sensible middle course between both extremes, likening a story to a magic trick. An author is like a magician who fools the reader into accepting a fiction that would prove absurd under the least bit of scrutiny. Like prestidigitation, lulling someone into full suspension of disbelief takes skill honed by practice.

But all the sleight of hand in the world is wasted if the story behind the smoke and mirrors doesn't emotionally resonate with the audience. Striking an emotional chord is the quality most associated with breakthrough fiction. Yet it is the audience who supplies the required sensibilities and life experience.

There are ways to maximize a story's chance of resonating with its audience, such as constantly escalating conflict built around widely-shared themes. However, aligning a story so as to evoke that dizzying "car with no brakes" feeling often happens through blind luck.

I'm sure you have a favorite game, book, or movie that no one else likes. On the other hand, I bet there's a universally lauded work that you can't stand. In either case, please share.

Epistemic Closure in Genre Fiction

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.

December Update

Just a bit of necessary blog maintenance:

-Agents queried: 4
-Replies to queries: 2
-Rejected queries: 2
-Form rejections: 2

Also, I've submitted a pitch/synopsis/first 40 pages to Tor. With any luck, my submission packet is in their slush pile as I write this sentence.

This week the agent hunt continues, as does my ongoing revision of Souldancer. As of this writing, I'm on chapter ten.

In closing, here is sage advice from John C. Wright.