Souldancer Revision Log

It's taken twelve years of intermittent work to write a version of Souldancer conforming to the norms of contemporary novel format. I'd like to share a few insights on the process.

I composed the first draft of the novel ten years ago after a long, collaborative world building project. I figure it took me about two and a half years to finish that draft. Being my first attempt at a novel manuscript, the first version teemed with amateur mistakes. Bloated by redundant exposition on every page, reams of purple prose, and only the faintest hint of a story structure, the original MS weighed in at 300,000 words (1135 typed pages).

I still can't believe I found stalwart souls willing to beta read that monster, but I did; and I'm forever grateful for their efforts.

I attempted sporadic revisions from 2005 until 2010, when Nick inspired me to get serious about writing. Looking at what I'd written confronted me with another rookie mistake: I'd started backwards. Or rather in the middle. My extensive world building had yielded four books' worth of notes, and Souldancer actually comes second in the planned continuity.

I resolved to start over and began work on Nethereal, the first volume in the cycle. Two years and three revisions later, I'd refined the story into a satisfactory form. Building on this foundation I revisited the Souldancer project. The futility of a line edit soon became clear, and I decided to redraft the MS.

Starting from scratch gave me the chance to correct structural flaws and clean up the prose. My chief working principles were (in no particular order):

• Narrative flow and economy.
• Logical story structure informed by theme.
• Believable, organic character development and motivation.
• Maintaining conflict, tension, and tight pacing.

Again drafting one chapter at a time, I gradually became aware that the book's page count was shrinking. Soon I noticed that this phenomenon had become truly dramatic (I was writing action on page 50 that occurred on page 100 in the original draft). Not until I compiled each chapter into the new MS did I learn just how effective my streamlining had been.

• Original Souldancer MS (second revision): 300,000 words, 1135 pages.
• Current Souldancer MS: 88,000 words, 370 pages.

What amazes me is that, besides a few tangents and extraneous subplots, I cut very few scenes from the original version. The current MS covers the same principal action in almost exactly one-third of the space. Even better, I don't think the narrative feels rushed; just faster paced.

I'll let you know what the beta readers say.

Share My Joy

I just finished the latest full Souldancer draft.

This manuscript, which I consider the beta for version 2.2, is at present the most refined form of a story I've been working hard to tell for twelve years. It is my greatest achievement to date, not because it's objectively the best writing I've produced (I leave that judgment to my readers), but because enshrining this tale in written form has always been a labor of love.

My undying thanks to all the friends who've helped me realize and share this story. I eagerly await the beta readers' verdict. If you'd like to join them, I'm considering applicants via email and the comment box.

Ocean at the End of the Lane

Neil Gaiman's new book is out. Here's Benjamin Percy's review. It's a tale of childhood reminiscence uncovering forgotten wonders and horrors.

I shouldn't have to say anything else. Go read it.

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.

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.

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.

Souldancer Deleted Scene: Forging the White Sword

            The sun was falling below the Edge of the World when a vision appeared to Aber Lico. The blacksmith sat on his doorstep looking east toward town and watched as a strange figure walked out of a heat haze a few hundred yards away.

            More details surfaced as the stranger approached. He wore a black shirt under a ragged tan jacket with matching pants. A mane of shock white hair crowned his head.

            Lico stood and gripped one of the rough porch beams. “I’m closed for the night,” he called out.

            The stranger either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He steadily advanced to stand at the foot of the stairs. His skin was ashen; almost grey, and his eyes were an odd yellow-green.

“I need a forge,” he said in a rigid, unfamiliar accent.

            “I told you,” Lico said. “Shop’s closed.”

            The grey man stared into the house that also held Lico’s workshop. “This is where the blade was Worked,” he said. Then he walked past the blacksmith and into his home.

            “Wait!” Lico shouted over his family’s startled cries. “I make pins and hinges; not swords!” The smith followed his unwelcome visitor through his house to the forge, besieging him with curses.

With his wife and children huddled in the doorway, Lico seized a stout hammer and approached the man who’d invaded his home.

            “I don’t know where you’re from,” the blacksmith said, “but you’d best return there.”

            Ignoring his unwilling host, the stranger set about stoking the coals.

            “Stop him, Aber,” urged the blacksmith’s wife. “He’s like to burn the house down!”

            Gritting his teeth, Lico hefted the hammer and brought it down upon the stranger’s back. He felt the impact running up the shaft and heard a sickening crunch. The intruder fell to his knees but started crawling toward the forge.

            The smith swung again with far less reluctance. The blow knocked the stranger flat, but he dragged himself along the plank floor.

            Lico brought the hammer up again and let it fall with a savage cry. He swung again and again, only stopping when the broken and bloody form on his floor lay still.

            The considered informing the city guard. Instead he dragged the body to the Edge of the World and cast it over the smoking precipice.

 

            It was pitch black when Lico woke, panting and soaked with sweat, to the sound of ringing metal.

He started when his wife grabbed his arm.

“What is that?” she whispered.

            “It’s coming from the shop,” the blacksmith said. The rhythmic sound of metal striking metal continued for several moments before Lico found the courage to rise from bed. Lighting a lamp, he crept toward the workshop.

            The orange-red light of live coals bent and magnified ordinary objects into hellish shadows. A lone figure stood at the forge. His right hand rose and fell in a familiar motion that turned Lico’s stomach. The small silversmith’s hammer sounded clear, chiming notes.

            “What are you doing?” asked the smith, his voice trembling. “Who are you?”

            The delicate hammer rang once more and stopped. The figure turned, revealing a bloody ruin of a face, and gazed at Lico with one yellow-green eye.

            The blacksmith ran to his children and found that his screams had already woken them. Hastily loading his family into their wagon, he raced through the night toward Highwater.

 

            When Lico returned after dawn with the city guard, the stranger was gone. All that remained to mark his presence were a few lumps of slag. Boasting a mirrored sheen, the impossibly light metal cast purple reflections in its white surface.

The Endgame

Despite receiving multiple recommendations from friends and family for years, I delayed reading Ender's Game until just last week. I really wish I'd taken their advice sooner.

Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card is one of those rare books that leaves a deep impression long after the reader turns the last page. While reading it I kept flashing back to my junior year of high school when I developed a voracious sci-fi habit. Back then I mostly turned to Frank Herbert, Timothy Zahn, and Kevin J. Anderson for a fix. I can't help thinking that Ender's Game would have found an honored place on my book shelf.

People who've read my work say it has noticeable Dune influences. I heartily concur. Herbert had the most enduring impact on my storytelling sensibilities during that formative period. I can only speculate about how Card's magnum opus might have shaped my adolescent view of science fiction.

That's not to say that it won't have an effect now. In the last fifteen years I've learned to consciously mine the works of better writers for new techniques. Card's additions to my literary arsenal remain to be seen, but I doubt they'll be negligible.

Have you read Ender's Game? Are you looking forward to (or dreading) the film version? Let us know.

Nethereal Update

It's been a while since I could report movement on the Nethereal project. All the while I've been busy doing my homework and sending out query letters to those literary agents whom I deem best able to represent the book.

All of my queries were met with form rejections or silence (except for one which offered some encouragement). This pattern of responses isn't unusual. Most folks in the publishing industry are so swamped that they don't have time for individualized feedback.

The pattern of rejection was interrupted yesterday when I got a request for sample pages of my manuscript. The agent asking for a look at my material was the first to receive a query letter I'd drafted using a new approach. Correlation isn't necessarily causality, but it's quite a coincidence. I'm inclined to think that my previous query letters didn't sufficiently entice agents to read the manuscript, but that's how we learn.

I'll keep you updated as new information becomes available.

And if the aforesaid agent pops in, thank you for giving me a chance. Thanks also to anyone who's read my work, even if you couldn't make it past page one.

Doubting Thomas

I finished reading Odd Thomas over the weekend. It's taken me far too long to start reading Dean Koontz. I'll definitely be back for more.

Being a mystery story, a spoiler-free review would be unintelligible. Instead I'll comment on Koontz's stated intent to chronicle the title character's journey toward perfect humility in light of the first novel's action and themes.

Humility is nothing more or less than self-honesty. It fulfills the ancient exhortation to "know thyself". Humble people understand their own strengths and weaknesses. Bearing all people's inherent worth in mind, they don't compare their gifts, faults, or accomplishments to others'.

How well does Odd meet these conditions? One character trait that the novel really drives home is the protagonist's simplicity. He lives above a nice old lady's garage with interior design by the Salvation Army. Eschewing automobile ownership, he walks to work and borrows friends' cars for trips farther afield. Having worked as a short-order cook since high school, he dreams of a future in tire or shoe sales but is content to nurse his plans slowly.

Such a frugal, unassuming life could result from humility. It could also signify a lack of magnanimity. The novel repeatedly speculates that its main character may be neurotic or even psychotic. His modesty could be the product of a traumatic, imagination-killing childhood.

The best evidence that Odd practices genuine humility is the insight Koontz gives us into his interior life, especially when he deals with others. The author conjures a motley cast of flawed characters to serve as foils. There's the rootless materialistic father, the spoiled and arrogant gold-digger, the irredeemable sociopath. Even when he encounters truly reprehensible people, Odd never uses his own conduct as a standard by which to judge them.

There are a few signs of residual pride operating within Odd's psyche. His willingness to endanger himself for what he sees as the cosmic mandate of his psychic gift clearly exceeds altruism. Garden variety rashness may explain it, but a subtle form of pride underlies his penchant for taking matters into his own hands because the cops are too slow/wouldn't understand/might accuse him. These rationalizations for bypassing the proper channels of justice boil down to the fact that Odd knows he's gifted and the police aren't.

Still, Koontz wants to portray a character on his way to perfect humility. That moral arc would be redundant if Odd started out perfectly humble. I'm interested to see where the road leads.

I Don't Need Your Life Story

A common mistake among  beginning novelists is to front-load the narrative with the main character's back story. I've been guilty of this rookie error myself.

There's a sort of flawed logic behind a new writer's tendency to deliver the protagonist's full personality profile, family background, and job history up front. These details are foremost in an author's mind when writing about any character (or they should be). Thus, withholding this information takes considerable discipline.

Some writers are adamant about making formal introductions right away. They worry that readers will have difficulty relating to the characters if their back stories are withheld. This fear is largely unfounded because it projects the author's inverted character priorities onto the reader.

Authors grow attached to their characters' personal histories because they spend copious amounts of time intricately constructing those characters' imaginary lives. Readers, on the other hand, engage with characters based on their responses to conflict.

One might object that foreknowledge of a character's past is required for truly gripping conflict since that's what determines how a character deals with challenges. I reply that this objection is, again, backwards. Detailed background isn't needed to enhance conflict. Conflict reveals background. Dumping half a page of character exposition into the narrative dilutes conflict and diverts reader interest.

When should character background be revealed? Later. After the story's central conflict has clearly emerged, authors can address the cast's back stories at leisure--preferably spread out over the rest of the novel like seed in a tilled field.

I learned that I'd fallen into this trap when several Nethereal beta readers reported difficulty getting past chapter two. When questioned they all agreed that the book's opening was strong, but the second chapter read like a text book. I looked again and saw that they were right. The narrative was bogged down with background minutiae that fascinated me but distracted my readers. Since I was establishing the first novel in a series I couldn't cut all of the exposition, but I did minimize it to the point of readability.

Any other thoughts on handling character background?

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.

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.

            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.

Nethereal Final

I'm pleased to say that the final version of my Nethereal manuscript is done. The final draft is far leaner and smoother than the others, weighing in at 541 pages (compare that figure to 720 for the original). That's without deleting any chapters or scenes; just making smarter word choices and using more concise phrasing. The shift to third person variable perspective also helped to weed out excessive description and exposition while adding dialogue.

I don't plan on making any further changes unless a professional editor orders them, so the next step is to start querying agents. I'll keep everyone apprised of how my search goes.