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.

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

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.

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.

Music Makers and Dreamers of Dreams

Last time I discussed the thematic stagnation of genre fiction. Since proper criticism balances the bad by pointing to the good, I offer the following examples of vivid counter cultural fiction. These gems don't reside where one might expect. In fact, I had to look far from the print fiction best seller lists to find them.

Today's prophets and social critics don't ply their trade through books at all. They send their messages through video games.

I said before that I'm hard-pressed to name a popular genre novel published within the last decade that transgressed convention to devastating effect. I can think of three video games released within the last couple of years that masterfully achieve this feat.

The first landmark game is Spec Ops: The Line. The genius of this title lies in its myriad layers of meaning. Superficially resembling a staid infantry combat simulator, Spec Ops: The Line achieves thematic heights to shame its more profitable brethren. The plot roughly follows Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. But by transporting the story to the current day Middle East, the narrative attains a high degree of originality. Even more intriguing is the developer's subtle use of character, dialogue, camera angles, and game mechanics to mount a scathing rebuke of turning war into a game.

Journey by That Game Company readily fills my fantasy quota. Though far more subdued than Spec Ops: The Line, Journey makes a more immediate and deeper emotional impact by stripping the classical quest down to its basic structure. Despite having no dialogue and minimal aesthetics, Journey evokes a stronger level of attachment to its setting and characters than many far more lavish games. Though grounded squarely in fantasy, Journey features a grave warning about what happens when technological development outpaces moral maturity.

Finally we come to Bioshock Infinite. As a first-person shooter, it's the most conventional title on this list in many ways. It is also the most convention-smashing game in years. Contradictions define Bioshock Infinite. The setting emulates the past but includes technology far beyond our own. Its themes condemn religious zealotry while warning against unchecked nationalism. The dehumanizing tendencies of capitalism are skewered, as are populism's brutal excesses.

Even the characters are signs of contradiction. The oft-despised buddy character trope is central to the game mechanics, but in a way that no one expected. For perhaps the first time, the AI-controlled partner isn't a burden that mucks up combat or necessitates frequent checkpoint resets by dying at the worst times. In fact, this mechanic works so well that one gets a creeping sense of role reversal. At times, the faceless main protagonist seems suspiciously like an appendage of the supposed helper character. This arrangement feels oddly satisfying.

These are the examples of challenging non-print genre fiction that stand out most in my mind. Any other suggestions?

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.

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?

The Last of the Giants

Ray Bradbury died on Tuesday night. I'm not documenting his death as just another celebrity obituary. This is a real, tangible loss for society as a whole. Bradbury was far more than just a great science fiction writer (he always claimed to have written only one science fiction book). He was the last connection in our time to the golden age of adventure serials, pulp comics, and classic radio dramas.

Bradbury worked alongside towering figures like Lovecraft, Howard, and Clarke who built upon the legacy of Rice Burroughs, Wells, and Verne. More than any of his peers (and not solely due to his longevity), Bradbury shaped contemporary perceptions of genre fiction. Even more, he attained the culture-making status achieved by an elite few writers. Bradbury's fiction affected how our shared conceptions of space exploration, dictatorship, and individuality developed.

Ray Bradbury lived through some of the most definitive moments of American publishing history, including our own time when the industry's future hangs in the balance. Considering the general direction of these changes, it is doubtful that any author in the years to come will enjoy a career as illustrious and visionary as his.

Throw a Dart

In light of Kaze's response to my post on genre, I've been examining various subtypes of sci-fi and fantasy to identify the best fit for Nethereal. This process has proven more difficult than I'd expected. However, I think I can narrow it down.

Kaze's favored answer was sword and planet. I agree that this science fantasy subgenre is a good fit, or at least a major influence. The only catch is that really only one character in the "mundane" world uses blades as his weapon of choice. Otherwise, firearms are very prevalent. Also, straight-out magic is widely accepted as real. However, one could invoke Arthur C. Clarke's rule about any sufficiently advanced technology being de facto magic since Workings are based on well-established natural laws that essentially make them another fundamental physical force like gravity, electromagnetism, etc.

The Guild is another aspect of the setting that argues both for and against a clear sword and planet definition. While they do possess some antedated trappings, the Brotherhood's outlook is basically skeptical, rationalist, and pragmatic.

I decided to take a step back and consider the classification of my novel from the other end of the spectrum. Exploring fantasy subgenres, I found a few that seem to inform my story. Magic realism seems to dominate, but there are traces of lost world and even imaginary voyage fiction.

Hell, my stated intention for writing the book was as an experiment in philosophical fiction. The strong vein of paranormal horror isn't to be dismissed, either.

It seems that what we've got here is a story that's straddling the line between genres, or in this case several lines--like that geographic point where the corners of four states meet. Or, to put it back in terms of fiction, it's reminiscent of Star Wars--not to compare myself with the series' early genius or later dissolution.

I think that the real difficulty here is the inherently subjective nature of genre labels. All of the definitions above presuppose a rationalist, decidedly Western worldview. A New Yorker's paranormal horror could be realism in Hong Kong. Unfortunately, effective marketing relies on such transitory labels. So I'll have to stick with sword and planet/magical realism used to frame a philosophical discourse.

Vin Diesel Working for Scale in Third Riddick Installment

For the second week in a row, I have movie news that should interest Mick. Honestly, I didn't even know that a third movie in the Chronicles of Riddick franchise was in production until Total Film reported this story on the star's pay cut.

It seems that in order to avoid a repeat of the furor over the second movie's PG-13 rating, director David Twohy has promised to make the third film a solid R. For some reason, doing so means that Vin Diesel must work for scale.

Regarding the movie itself, it's planned to begin shooting this summer and will feature a reduction in scope from its predecessor's epic scale to focus on more traditional horror elements.