Chris Chelser's Blog, page 12
June 3, 2016
May 31, 2016
Writer’s Woes: Accents and languages
Once a month I permit myself to discuss the dark side of being a (self-published) author.
In this month’s post rants about…
Accents and languages
A friend of mine recently sent me this marvellous article:
Aristocratic Villains And English-Speaking Nazis: Why Hollywood Loves Clichéd Accents
And it isn’t just Hollywood. The effect is most noticeable on screen, where we see and hear the characters talk, but accents and foreign languages feature in books, too. How to treat them is a different cup of tea, if only because there are various ways to go.
Some writers drive home a character’s accent by spelling it out. Phonetically: “Ah had a feelin’ yous be comin’ ’round t’day.”
The result may be accurate, but it’s painful on the eyes. A more accomplished (or less ‘edgy’) writer will limit the phonetics to the occasional dropped letter and colloqial but well-known contrations, like “I dunno” instead of “I don’t know”.
Alternatively, a certain choice of words and the removal of even the most common contractions can be used to suggest the written equivalent of BBC English.
But what about a completely different language?
First of all, writer and reader tend to be well aware that the language of a book’s narrative is not necessarily the language that the characters are speaking. The simplest example is translation: just because I have read the Dutch version of Richard Bach’s One or the English version of Les Misérables, does not change the fact that the characters of these stories speak English and French respectively – if not one of many local dialects.
As a writer, how much of the characters’ language(s) do you show?
You could insert long, possibly incomprehensible quotes (like Tolkien’s Elvish songs) to add atmosphere to the story. As long as those quotes are not essential to the reader’s understanding of the events or characters, you can get away with this.
Words and phrases in the dialogue could be translated in the storyline, the context of the conversation or in the narrative. If the story doesn’t lend itself to one of those solutions and the use of the foreign word or phrase is essential, there is always the option of adding a footnote at the bottom of the page – the printed equivalent of subtitles.
However, the rules change if the difference in language is a plotpoint. Then all words foreign to the language of the narrative must show up in the dialogue and or narrative WITHOUT in-context explanation, unless there is a character who can act as an interpreter. The foreign lines may look alien to the reader, but that is exactly what such a scene needs to convey: alienation because characters cannot understand each other.
This is what I did in a short story in the Kalbrandt Institute universe, where I ended up moving back and forth between five(!) different dictionaries to piece together the dialogue and triple-check the result, because Catalan is not Spanish, Occitane is not French, Occitane and Catalan are similar but not the same, and the narrative was in English, and apart from a tiny bit of French (and English, obviously), I don’t speak any of the other languages… I loved that story!
In conclusion, stories that require more than one language – or at least acknowledge the existence of multiple languages besides that of the narrative – are a challenge.
It is a rewarding challenge, though. One that lends a great amount of authenticity to the characters’ and the story’s world!
What do you think is a great example of different languages in a story? Leave your suggestions in the comments below!
The Insecure Writer’s Support Group
A safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!
May 26, 2016
“Res Arcana” available for pre-order!
It is official: the paperback and the ebook of Res Arcana: The Advent of Choice will be released on
JUNE 30th, 2016!
Preorder links to various online webshops will be posted in the next few weeks, but right now you can pre-order your paperback edition here.
Paperback: € 8,99
Ebook: € 1,99
Question: How does The Advent of Choice differ from the other Res Arcana booklets?
Answer:
While The Advent of Choice does contain the 20 stories originally published in the 4 booklets, these stories were tweaked and put in a new order that creates a complete overall story arc.
This includes 7 new stories, written specifically for The Advent.
On top of that, The Advent is also comes in illustrated editions (Paperback and PDF only), in which each story is accompanied by the tarot card that inspired it. Like these:
For more information and exclusive previews, click here:
May 25, 2016
Ask the Author: Influences
Every last week of the month, I’m answering readers’ questions.
Want to ask me something? Click here.
“Which writers have influenced you?”
I am a huge fan of Terry Pratchett’s cynical humour and gritty realism about society and human nature. Neil Gaiman has a beautiful and unique style that is dripping with realism despite the fact that his stories are often quite surreal. Other authors who influenced my writing are Michael Crichton, Eoin Colfer, Richard Bach, Frédéric Delzant and Victor Hugo, each in their own way.
Until next time.
Cheers,
Have a question you want me to answer? Click here.
May 22, 2016
Horror movies, Japan-style!
What I love about Japanese movies, anime and stories in general is the fact that they explore concepts and follow storytelling rules that are ‘fresh’ compared to Hollywood standards and mainstream books/movies/etc.
So, for your entertainment:
May 20, 2016
May 18, 2016
Story Mechanics Course!
The introduction of my upcoming course is live!
Watch the video below, or go to www.storymechanicscourse.com and download the course description, too.
May 15, 2016
Superior horror makeup
Not CGI, but old-fashioned gory make-up. And how!
May 10, 2016
Short Story: “Directions”
From my book Res Arcana: The Advent of Choice.
“Directions”
The saturated soil squelched under his feet and mosquitoes buzzed around his head. He tried to ignore them and focused on the nigh on invisible path instead. These marshes were treacherous under the best of circumstances. What had possessed him to cross them with less than a full day’s light ahead and after heavy rains, he couldn’t say, but he cursed himself for it.
Before every step he prodded the swamp ahead with his long walking stick, searching for the next bank of solid ground. More often than not, however, the tip of the stick sank so deeply under its own weight that he dared not use it for support, even when he was about to lose his balance. If he fell, he might not be able to get up again.
His salvation so far had been his familiarity with this kind of terrain on the one hand, and the lantern fixed on the knob of his walking stick on the other. The descending night drank the lantern’s weak light, but it was enough to tell the difference between murky yet bottomless pools and the tufts of grass where the ground was firmer. Even so, he couldn’t stop for more than a brief rest without getting sucked into the mud. So he pushed on.
The moon was on the rise when he happened on the chance of a reprieve: a fallen tree on a dry bank provided a rare measure of solidity in the quagmire. He wedged the stick with the lantern into the crook of a broken branch and sat down on the rotting trunk. Somewhere in the trees above, an owl hooted.
He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. Normally, solitude was his preferred companion, but in this dreary, wet darkness, the comfort of silence was mere illusion. Still he didn’t regret turning his back on human company. He found the presence of others disturbing, painful and unnatural. It fought the flame of his passion to exceed himself, much like the wind might blow out the flame in his lantern. Panes of glass shielded the flame; solitude shielded him.
A shrill screech swooped directly over his head. He started, ducking instinctively before realising it was likely the owl he had heard before. He tried to detect the bird in the darkness beyond his lantern, but to no avail. All he saw were two pairs of glowing eyes.
He froze. These eyes were watching him. He blinked a few times, praying that his mind was playing tricks on him. But the glaring eyes stared back. A low growl belied his hopes of ever leaving these marshes alive.
One of the animals stepped into the faint circle of light. Too scared to move, he had no other presence of mind but to stare at the sleek canine. Short, tan-coloured fur, floppy ears, a blunt snout. All this perplexed him, but it was the collar around the animal’s neck that broke his stupor.
“How did you get here?” he muttered. “Is someone else nearby? Are you their pet?”
Another growl replied, but it wasn’t the dog. The threatening noise emanated from the shadows, where the other eyes still lurked. As they, too, came closer, he recognised the rugged shape of a massive black wolf.
While the dog bestowed no fear in him, the feral snarls of the wolf chilled him to the bone. Without making any sudden moves, he slowly retrieved his stick and inched back along the tree trunk. Dirty water soaked his fur boots more and more as he reached the edge of the dry bank. The animals followed, their paws silent despite the water. Perhaps he could run? He certainly couldn’t stay! Only a bit further. Just a bit…
His foot caught on a root; the dog bared its teeth and the wolf howled. A startled jerk and he fell backwards, into the mud. He had extended his arm on instinct to catch himself, but the swamp immediately sucked him in up to his elbow and then dragged at his legs and hips, too. Only his face, his knees and one hand were still free. But not for long. If he let go of the stick to grab the tree roots, the lantern would fall and go out. If he waited, he would sink. Unless those animals would spare him such a cruel fate and kill him first.
He was almost relieved when the dog leapt, jowl open. Still, he cried as sharp teeth pierced his forearm. Excruciating pain shot through his limb and into his chest. His heart pounded as the dog bit down harder, trying to tear off his arm at the shoulder. His muscles tensed, as if his body attempted to thus keep itself together.
A tug of war ensued, the marshes claiming him on one end, and the ravenous dog at the other. The pull of both was terrible. The mire had the patience of the unconscious, but the dog was determined to have its share. Very determined…
Inch by inch, he felt his left arm slip from the bog. His right arm bled as the dog’s teeth tore through his flesh. He had no breath to scream, but despite his dread, he found that the pain was no longer as bad as before. The dog growled and yanked at him as if he was a dead bone already. Its destructive tenacity paid off: his left arm escaped the suction of the mud and with it the rest of him. The dog wasted no time to drag him back to the tree trunk to feast.
Yet when the jaws let go, they didn’t clamp down elsewhere. Perhaps it was waiting for the wolf to eat first?
Indeed the wolf approached, but rather than salivating with hunger, it was…whimpering? The black muzzle held his walking stick, the lantern by some miracle still intact and alight. Whining softly, the large animal manoeuvred the stick to prop it against the tree trunk, but shied away as soon as it could and retreated to a safe distance. The dog followed, leaving the astonished human to gauge the unfathomable.
“What—what madness is this?” he whispered hoarsely. “The pet of mankind attacks me only to save me, while the ferocious predator cowers in fear before a weak flame that its paws could stamp out with ease? The world is upside down!”
These last words, he shouted. At the sound, the animals turned abruptly and ran. They left not even the smallest ripple on the surface of the pools as they disappeared into the marshlands, in opposite directions. Within heartbeats, he was alone again.
Quivering from an unknown shock he inspected his injured arm by the light of the lantern. Streaks of blood ran down his skin, but there were no wounds and he felt no pain. Only a lingering sting which told him that the dog and the wolf had not fled at random.
Following the dog’s trail, he would find the safety of a village, where the humans he so detested might help and care for him. Following the wolf, he would find freedom in another wilderness, alone and feared by every living creature, until the internal fire of his passion consumed him utterly. Failing to do either, the swamp would claim him eventually as soon as the flickering flame in the lantern burnt up.
Such were the only ways out of this drowned labyrinth.
He cradled his arm against his mud-soaked chest, and sobbed.
The End
May 8, 2016
Historically Accurate Movies
Well, more or less historically accurate movies. The jury is still out on some, but several of these are particularly good. Personally, Das Boot is my absolute favourite of this top 10:
