E.G. Stone's Blog, page 5

Word Nerdery: The Things that Are Happening Now; The Rise of Present Tense in Fiction Writing

For many years, writing in past tense has been standard. Authors would tell a story about something that happened in the past, whether distantly or recently. People rode horses. They fired guns. They danced. They sang. This was so normal as to be very nearly ubiquitous, so common in fact that I rarely saw another method taught, even in my various English classes. However, in the last few years or so, it seems that many of the books I pick up to read are written in the present tense narrative style. Many of these are in the Young Adult, Fantasy, or Romance genres, but I see more and more present tense narration styles across all different genres.

(For the purposes of this article, I am going to refer to present tense and past tense, despite the fact that the official names for these tenses in English are actually quite different. See below on the twelve tenses.)

The thing is, this narration style was (and probably still is) quite divisive. Established readers who were familiar with the past tense style were suddenly faced with everything being told in active present tense. They sing. They dance. They ride horses. Stylistically, it’s not a massive change; things that were being done in the distant or recent past are now being done, well, now. But for someone so used to everything the way it was, such a shift is jarring.

Trade books that suddenly adopted this style were seen as selling out, pandering to the younger audience, using language that was difficult to understand and improperly written. And, yes, many of the books that use this style are directed towards a younger audience, but that doesn’t mean it is improper or difficult to understand, only different.

The first book I recall reading that was written in this style was Suzanne Collins The Hunger Games. The book was so much in the main character’s head, and everything was happening so quickly, so intensely, that present tense absolutely made sense. Stylistically, it brought the action right in front of the reader instead of potentially distancing them. Things were happening right now. There was no distance, no separation of time. The book, if you’ll recall, did quite well. Why? Because it hit, and it hit hard. 

Did some of that have to do with the narration style? 

Possibly. (Though I am not aware of scientific studies to this effect.)

These days, a lot of the books I read are written by independent, self-published authors. They’re often quite good, and wide-ranging in genre. Many of them are also written in present tense. Possibly because of the far reaching influence of The Hunger Games and others like it, but also possibly because the narration style is very much in your face, happening right this moment.

Grammatically speaking, it is slightly easier to write in present tense. Everything is very active, and things that did happen in the past can be easily differentiated by a tense change, rather than switching from the simple past (past tense for grammar nerds) to the continuous past. For example:

She looked around. (This is the simple past.) Everything was as it had been two days ago. (Continuous past into past perfect.) 

Versus:

She looks around. (Present simple.) Everything is as it was two days ago. (Present simple to simple past.)

Given that there are twelve (yes, twelve!) tenses in English, using a more simplified version makes writing a whole lot easier. (English is an annoyingly complicated language just in regards to word usage, spelling, and word order, without bringing twelve tenses into the mix. For those of you trying to learn this language, I do apologise. Even native speakers have a difficult time.) If writing in present tense is so much easier than dealing with the complexities of the past tense, then it makes sense for authors to use the style.

There will, I think, still always be a place for the past tense books. I, myself, write in past tense, partly because I grew up reading eighteenth century English literature, which is exclusively written in that style, and partly because I am so used to it now. Some readers have preferences for what tense they read, whether the action is in the now, or not. (Just as some readers prefer first person or third person point of view, which is a topic for an entirely different article. I digress.) 

Personally, I will read everything, regardless of what tense it’s written in. (Okay, no. I have no intention of reading a book written entirely in future tense. That might be my limit.) Most of the time, I don’t even note what tense is being used until halfway through a book when I actually start looking at the words instead of reading the story. 

Some people will claim that present tense is only for genres such as Romance, Young Adult, Fantasy and the like, that is to say, books that are “not serious.” (To people who think YA or Romance is not serious, I see you haven’t actually read any for quite a while. I’d be happy to recommend some titles!) I believe that any genre can be written in any style; it is dependent on how the author wishes to tell the story.

Present tense, past tense, either way, a good story is a good story. But, alas, much like the Oxford Comma debate, I have a feeling that the divide between past and present is going to remain wide. Unless, of course, you add time travel into the mix. Then, all tenses are going to fly out the window and we’ll be left wondering why there are suddenly dinosaurs in the back garden.

Frankly, I’d be more worried about dinosaurs than tenses.

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Word Nerdery: Deep Dive – The Eye of the World by Robert Jordan

For as much as I love fantasy, my introduction to the genre is not typical for someone who was born in the 90s. My dad read me Tolkien as a child, rather than many of the more accepted children’s books of the time. I fell in love with the book (and linguistics, but that’s an entirely different story) and started reading everything I could get my hands on with a voracious appetite. 

Oddly enough, most of the books I read were 19th century English literature. Yes, I read fantasy, but it was mostly Anne McCaffrey and Tamora Pierce, as well as the Harry Potter books, with very little else except English literature for a while. (From English literature, I graduated to murder mysteries, but that’s not really relevant to this discussion.)Then, I started reading Jim Butcher, and finally leapt into the fantasy genre full tilt by means of the indie author world. 

This non-standard start means that I was completely unaware of the big name fantasy books for years. The entire Brandon Sanderson catalogue? Still haven’t read. George R.R. Martin? I’ve read a couple, but not many. Robert Jordan? I hadn’t even heard of him until Amazon came out with their Wheel of Time television show. 

But, as with many things in my life, curiosity got the better of me. So I watched the television show, pulled my reading brain out of the world of indie fantasy (which I love), and read the first book of the Wheel of Time series, The Eye of the World. 

And I was intrigued.

In this deep dive, I thought I would explore that book as someone who has never read it before, examining what I think works well, and what doesn’t, and why it’s so popular. To begin with, though, a slight deviation into the history of fantasy is necessary. Namely: Tolkien.

The catalogue of Tolkien’s works really introduced the fantasy genre into the modern world, moving it from myths and legends and folklore into something more tangible to the mass audience. As is the way with pretty much any popular book trend, other authors then wanted to replicate the success of those books, so they wrote something very similar. 

From what I understand, a good portion of the big name fantasy books do their best to emulate Tolkien. (I cannot confirm this, as I haven’t read all that many big name authors, but other authors I know have told me this, and I believe them to be fairly trustworthy regarding book style.) That epic style, the battle of light and dark, the hero up against impossible odds, even the relative prose style that is signature to Tolkien, are all threaded throughout modern fantasy.

Certainly when I started to read The Eye of the World by Robert Jordan I could tell that the style was Tolkien-esque. It delved into the minutae as story devices, either for character development or plot points. It used a style of language that is not often found in such books as romance or murder mystery or anything but epic fantasy. And from the start, it used the fight between good and evil, light and dark, as the basis of the book.

Now, to analyse this story as something entirely separate from Tolkien’s works, I think that the story is fairly functional. There is certainly an epic journey and many perilous adventures along the way. The characters get themselves into many scrapes with the forces of the Dark One and scrape by due to the good graces of Moiraine Sedai and the Light, but they are forever changed. They discover that creatures and things they thought were legend are not, and their vision of the world expands.

This is all fairly typical plot for an epic fantasy these days, but given the book was published in 1990, it is still fairly novel. (Excepting Tolkien, of course.) And though it looks a lot like Tolkien, it is enough different that it shaped the fantasy genre almost as much.

Now, personally, I found that there were a few plot holes in this book that made comprehension a little more difficult than it needed to be. For one, there were aspects of the world that were never explained, or at least not to any degree of thoroughness, such as what the eye of the world actually was. (This was sort of explained at the very end of the book, but even then the information was imprecise.) Also, the reason why Rand, Perrin and Mat had to flee Two Rivers was never really explored, only that they were being sought and they needed to go. The whole book, the Dark One was after them, but no one ever really bothered to explain why. 

(This is one place where I think the television show did a much better job of story coherence. It certainly has its own issues, but it is a bit more coherent regarding story.)

There were several things like this that were theoretically small details never explained, but they were numerous enough to be a bit confusion. What an Ajah was, the gentling, etc. I knew these things because of the show, but as I haven’t read the next books in the series yet, I had to extrapolate based on my knowledge of the show alone. The book was not adequate for complete knowledge.

Now, all these details aside, I did like the book. I think the symbolism was a bit heavy-handed, but then that is often the case in epic fantasy. (Grimdark and dark fantasy, on the other hand, tend to be more subtle. As this book falls into straight up epic, or even noblebright, then it has a bit more starkness to its symbolism. If you want an exploration of all the fantasy genre subtypes, do let me know!) I liked the character variety, the adventures they experienced, and the general triumph over evil. (Though, I will say that the ending was less than coherent in its execution, partly because of all those details that were not explained earlier. The battle was not foreshadowed well at all.)

The interesting thing about this book, though, is why it, and the rest of the series, is so popular. Popular enough for Amazon to spend millions upon millions of dollars to make a television show. I haven’t read beyond the first book yet, so I cannot answer to the later series, especially the parts where Brandon Sanderson takes over the writing following Jordan’s death, but I do have some thoughts on the first book.

The first thing is that it is about a battle between good and evil. The world is an increasingly dark place; modern fiction tends to mirror that and a lot of dark stories are quite popular. However, I think that people still want to have a story where good triumphs, where the Dark One is vanquished and good wins the day. This book does that, through grit and hard times. The characters may be in mortal danger, but over and over the Light triumphs.

The second thing is that it is highly influenced by Tolkien. The language is similar (though not precisely. Tolkien tends to be a bit more poetic, while Jordan tends to be a bit more exacting). The stories are similar: a band of companions ventures forth to vanquish evil. I won’t go into the parallels I could draw between specific characters (Moiraine as Gandalf, for example) but they are most definitely there. And Tolkien really took the world by storm. People craved more of that, so Robert Jordan managed to fill a need and fill it well.

The fact of the matter is, though, that sometimes people just want a good story. And though I had my issues with the book (being a writer, reviewer, and editor I am particularly picky), I did think that it was a good story. I’m glad I read it. I’m going to read the rest of the series. 

I may, crazy as it sounds, even rewatch the television show, though we all know that it’s never quite the same. A good book indeed.

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Word Nerdery: The Rise of Science Fiction

These days, it can sometimes (often) feel like we’re living in a science fiction novel. The plague? Check. AI trying to take over things like art and writing and music? Check. Cryptocurrency falling apart? The downfall of social media? Check check.

But what exactly is sci-fi, and why do we feel like we’re living in a sci-fi novel? 

Science fiction is, according to the online Oxford Dictionary is, “fiction based on imagined future scientific or technological advances and major social or environmental changes, frequently portraying space of time travel and life on other planets.” As definitions go, that one is very non-specific. It doesn’t paint the entire picture of science fiction as a genre. Science fiction is a story that hinges on a technological, scientific, social, or environmental difference to our world. But more importantly, it is a story of what people do with that difference.

Science fiction, like many stories, is about people.

The first science fiction novel is widely considered to be Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus, wherein Victor Frankenstein plays God and creates a horrendous, intelligent monster, who hunts him down for the hubris of creating life. (Apologies if you haven’t read the book, I just spoiled the plot.) This book is absolutely a commentary on the sheer arrogance of humanity, believing that we are above divinity and can take absolute control of the world. The technology, in this instance, is artificial life. The book, though, only uses that as artifice for the comments about people.

From Frankenstein, we move on to Jules Verne and such titles as 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, and others; H.G. Wells and the many stories he produced; on into the twentieth century, where we get Isaac Asimov’s Robot series and Foundation series. George Orwell, author of 1984, is also in the sci-fi category, though his book falls into the subset of dystopian fiction, which is a very particular sort of science fiction. All of these early sci-fi authors focus on technology or science as the primary means of exploring their theme, that is, a discussion on humanity. Some extol our genius, others caution us against arrogance, but all are about people above everything.

Then, in the late 1950s and 60s, everything changed for science fiction. Why? 

The space race.

Suddenly, the prospect of getting off this strange little lump of rock was not just an imaginary concept, but possible, and the sheen of technology became the apple in just about everyone’s eye. The stories then produced absolutely still involved the human conundrum (what story doesn’t), but the focus on technology and science and possibility increased.

Along came the Star Trek franchise, which opened up our eyes to the possibility of fantastical new species and worlds, as well as our own place in those worlds. Then, Star Wars, which brought us back to the epics of old and explored the battle of good and evil, right and wrong. (Star Wars, interestingly, is actually classified as a space opera, a subset of sci-fi that is, in essence, a Western story set in space.) From these two franchises and epic stories, the entire universe opened up to the purveyors of science fiction.

Most every Phillip K. Dick book.

Douglas Adams and his Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

The Stargate television series.

Firefly.

Babylon 5.

A whole slew of zombie books and movies and television series. Explorations of space. Explorations of time travel. Exploration for the sake of exploration. Science fiction opened up entirely new possibilities for us, and did so in such a way that the technological and scientific (even societal) advances in those stories influenced us. 

For example, GPS was actually developed based off of an idea from a science fiction book. Artificial Intelligence, as demonstrated in Star Trek, helped to influence the way we go about advancing that technology. The original Star Trek series was also a forerunner of some social justice movements that are now prominent today. 

Science fiction has brought us into an age of advancement and enlightenment and potential.

But, what this beautiful, new, space age world can often hide is that the original science fiction stories, all the way back to Frankenstein, were about people. The human condition. Our triumphs and our failings. Because, no matter how advanced our society becomes, we are still human with human problems. We have the hubris to create life. We are relentless explorers. We are sometimes good. Sometimes not so much. All that technology? That scientific advancement? It is helping to pull us into the future, and that future can absolutely be beautiful.

If living in the 2020s has taught us anything, though, it is that this futuristic advancement can also be deadly. Dark. Dangerous.

Technology is both our saving grace, and our doom.

And science fiction? It’s not really about the science. It’s about us.

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Book Review: Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros

I have hEDS, so a lot of my “doing things” consists of reading books (given that I’ve been reading my whole life, long before my unstable joints became an issue, I am perfectly okay with this). However, as much as I love experiencing magical worlds (or this world, depending on genre) through the eyes of a story not my own, sometimes it is nice to be able to see myself in a character. And in Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros, I found that. Also, it was just a fantastic story, regardless of representation.

1. Thoughts on the plot

This book follows Violet Sorrengail, whose body is fragile (EDS representation). She grew up wanting to be a scribe, but her mother thrusts her into joining the dragon riders, where the death rate is prodigiously high, and the dragons aren’t likely to choose a weak rider. Worse than that, she keeps being thrown in the path of Xaden Riorson, son of a traitor, and a man who hates her whole family. Only, the more Violet trains and learns, the more she discovers that everything isn’t as it seems.

The plot of this book was…fun and fascinating. It starts out fairly straightforward, with Violet doing her best to survive while dealing with her particular issues and the number of people who hate her because of her family/her supposed weakness. But the further in, the more things felt like there was a conspiracy, a mystery. It was done with great subtlety; frankly, I expected a lot more potential conspiracy details to be thrown at me, as seems popular with most fantasy novels these days, but it wasn’t like that at all. I really liked the slow build up to the truth, and to the relationship between Xaden and Violet. I think that works really well for the first book in a series, and it is refreshing to see a story that progresses without having all the cards thrown onto the table at once.

2. Thoughts on the characters

Now, this is the sort of book where you should not get attached to your darlings. Excepting the main characters, everyone seems to be fair game for the ruthless world. In fact, a good number of characters are introduced and then killed pages later. That being said, I really liked the fact that all the characters that are introduced actually feel like people. They aren’t just caricatures or stereotypes (though, Jack does feel more that way, despite Violet’s reactions to him being anything other than stereotypical). I think the characters—all of them—were done really well.

3. Favourite part

It has to be the disability rep. I love the story and the characters, but this just made the book that much better. Why? Because I got to see myself in a character, but also, and this is the really important part, the disability wasn’t the main focus of the story. It was just another character trait that Violet had. It wasn’t magically cured. It wasn’t made a big deal of by Xaden when their relationship became more. It wasn’t the focus of her thoughts around her friends, it wasn’t the goal of the story to fix it, it just was. Like a character having blue hair, or being bad at dancing. The rep was perfect for me because it wasn’t something that dominated the story. Violet saw the problem, figured out what she had to do to accommodate it, and then moved on. That’s what things should be like, but so often I see disability the focus in a way that is so toxic. Oh, will anybody love my broken body. Or, I need a magical cure to regrow my hand. It’s frustrating. And this book was so much better.

4. Critique

It ended. I was bummed. I want more.

Overall, I would say that Fourth Wing was an excellent book, not just because of the hEDS rep (yay!) but also because of the story, the pacing, and the characters. Also, I desperately want a dragon, now.

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Book Review: Shadows of the Heart by SL Harby

Okay, I will admit that I was a little too eager to get into this book. The end of book one had me throwing the book at the wall (not really, as it was an ebook, and I didn’t want to break the technology) because I wanted to know what happened next. And you know what? This book did not disappoint at all.

1. Thoughts on the plot

This book follows Hollis after the, ah, situation with the Well in book one was resolved. He gets into some trouble in the Great Library, where he meets Asaege and her reflection Jillian stealing a book. Turns out that this book not only connects to the central religion, but also a familiar and unwelcome face. Now Hollis and Asaege are being charged with a crime they didn’t commit, accidentally (intentionally) starting a revolution, and facing off with villains from the past. 

If you haven’t read book one, you will have no idea what’s going on. If you have read book one, then this book plucks on all the important threads of the last book while also introducing new ones. Not only that, but it does this well. This author has a talent for anticipating any questions the reader might have and then not only answering them, but using them to head off in a different direction.

2. Thoughts on the characters

Most all of the characters in this book were familiar, excepting Asaege/Jillian. I think she was a great addition to the story, especially since her personality is both stubborn and caring, as one would expect of a teacher. I think she works great as a counterbalance for Hollis, and I like getting to see how she grows over the story. I was also pleased to have repeat characters, some nicer than others. I think Aristoi remains one of my favourite, and I am eager to see what the next story holds for her.

3. Favourite part

I…I don’t know if I can choose. Probably the language. Frankly, this book reads very smoothly, and the language just sort of rolls off the tongue (er, brain, as I wasn’t reading aloud). There were pieces of comedy woven throughout, but done so subtly that you barely notice it amidst the more serious passages. And the more serious passages just sort of punctuate the story with phrases and sentences that grab the mind. It’s easy to read and yet doesn’t treat the reader like an idiot, a favourite combination of mine.

4. Critique

I don’t really have one. Well, except, of course, that it ended and I want to know more. But that can hardly be a critique, now can it?

Overall, I would say that this book is one of the best sequels I’ve read in a while. I am eagerly awaiting the next book!

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Word Nerdery: What Exactly Is Literary Fiction?

Do you remember going to English class in school and having to read some frankly bizarre books? One of my least favourite was The Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison, a strange book where the narrator had no name, and I was entirely sure that there was not much going on at all. There were others, certainly, but that one sticks in my mind. These books, and others, are considered literature, or at the very least literary fiction (these are very slightly different, I’ll get into that in a moment), but the question is: what exactly is literary fiction?

In any bookstore, the shelves are generally divided into genres. Fiction, Romance, Mystery/Thriller, Sci-fi, Fantasy, Young Adult, Poetry, etc. Each genre has specific requirements for books to fit there, and are categorised so that people know what they’re getting into. Mysteries have a mystery to solve, usually involving a dead body. Science Fiction involves a scientific or technological feature upon which the book centres, be it in the future or the past. Fantasy generally has magic. All of this makes sense.

Literary fiction—and literature—however, is a broad, general topic that can fit anything from The Invisible Man to Wuthering Heights (another book I disliked, despite my fondness for gothic romances) to The Elegance of the Hedgehog (not an English class book, but one I enjoyed). There can be a mystery, or romance, or just people hanging out in a coffee shop and talking. I’ve even seen literary fiction that includes magic, though admittedly this is quite uncommon. 

When I’ve asked fellow authors to define the genre, though, I have received answers that are so far and wide-ranging as to be absolutely useless. Comments on the human condition (isn’t every book?). Fiction that doesn’t fit into any other genre. Stuff that you read to sound smart. None of this tells me what, exactly, is required to call a book literary fiction. 

So let’s dive in and see if we can’t figure this out.

According to Wikipedia, “Literary fiction, mainstream fiction, non-genre fiction or serious fiction is a label that, in the book trade, refers to market novels that do not fit neatly into an established genre (see genre fiction); or, otherwise, refers to novels that are character-driven rather than plot-driven, examine the human condition, use language in an experimental or poetic fashion, or are simply considered serious art.”

Right. That doesn’t necessarily tell me anything. A serious book? I’ve just read several books in the fantasy genre, the historical genre, the thriller genre, and more that are quite serious. A book that is character driven rather than plot driven? Same thing. Using language in an experimental or poetic fashion? I just worked with an editing client whose use of language is so poetical that I can’t even run it through a standard grammar checker, like I do to see if there’s anything I missed. His books are inherently understandable and definitely firmly in the fantasy genre. Considering a book serious art? What is considered art?

Literature, also looked up on Wikipedia, gives a similarly confusing result: “Literature is any collection of written work, but it is also used more narrowly for writings specifically considered to be an art form, especially prose fiction, drama, and poetry.” Art again, which is so subjective as to be meaningless.

(A small digression: Every English teacher I ever had mentioned Earnest Hemmingway at some point. Now, despite the adulation of many authors and teaches, I have never understood the appeal of his works. They consider his books literature. I would happily use them as doorstops instead. Whereas I would consider J.R.R. Tolkien’s works literature, and that usually falls into the fantasy genre.)

I ask again, then: what exactly is literature?

If you look up the 10 best books of 2022 on Time (or any other well-known publication), the entire list is comprised of books that do not have any markers of genre fiction, and therefore fall firmly into the literary fiction category. (This list here: https://time.com/6238663/best-fiction-books-2022/) I’ve never heard of any of these, and I am an independent author, book reviewer, editor, and am extremely fond of bookstores. The subjects of the books range from coming to terms with death (but not as a mystery) to campus politics at university to a diasporic community. The time periods and characters are wide ranging and varied. And, frankly, I’m not entirely sure what the books are about going by their descriptions.

I would absolutely agree that Shakespeare falls into the literature category, as does Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (which is often considered the first science fiction novel, by the way), and many others besides. But there are a lot of books that I would say are not literature that others would put into that category. Literature or literary fiction, serious works or art, I could not tell you.

So, what exactly is literary fiction?

I have no idea.

And maybe that’s the point.

“Literary Fiction.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 8 Nov. 2022, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Literar....

“Literature.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 17 Jan. 2023, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Literature.

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Word Nerdery: The Continuing Evolution of Slang

Slang is, frankly, one of the most consistent—and confusing—ways of acknowledging that life is changing all around us. The 2022 Oxford English Dictionary Word of the Year was “Goblin Mode,” which only goes to prove that a) I’m seriously out of touch with the state of modern English and; b) language is evolving to keep up with the rapid pace of change.

In general, slang tends to be adopted by the youth of the world, who come up with new ways of talking about things, new ways of thinking, or new technologies. However, slang can be created and talked about by everyone. Youth tend to be the instigators, which makes generational cross-communication especially difficult. As those people who use terms popular in the 90s versus those who use popular terms of today. 

Texting language—such as lol or brb—is an example of slang, one that is used by a particular set and largely ignored by the rest of the world. Until, that is, it becomes popular enough that it is widely adopted. Then, it is no longer slang and instead a true part of the language. As, apparently, “Goblin Mode” is. Even so, you will find that slang largely exists between a single generation, and that people outside of that generation who use the slang are considered uncool. They’re trying to fit in, trying to keep up, and yet it sounds strange to hear an octogenarian utter the word, “lol” in any form. Slang comes and it goes, a transient form of language that exists in a particular time or place, and is largely forgotten with the march of time. 

(My use of slang, by the way, is non-standard even for my generation. I read far too much nineteenth century English literature when I was in my formative school years, so adopted a style of speaking that was more in line with a time long past. Since then, it has adapted. Marginally. I’m still considered strangely formal in my writing, and when people comment on it, they’re shocked to learn that, yes, I talk like that, too. Yes, I’m weird. My brain is just widely baffled by slang in general, so I tend to avoid it.)

Slang is also cultural, with different terms belonging to different cultures and languages. You wouldn’t necessarily find an Australian English speaker using the same slang as someone who was an Indian English speaker. (By the way, I recently learned what  “budgie smuggler” was, and I am supremely confused by Australian English. Fascinated, but confused.) 

Regardless of all these things, there is one place where slang should be largely avoided: fiction writing.

Wait a minute, you may say, shouldn’t you absolutely use slang in fiction writing if you’re trying to convey a particular time or place or people?

Yes, you should. If you want to convey the exact image of 1980s Moscow, use the slang of the people there. If you want to tell us a story in 1930s Louisiana, the particular slang of those people will take care of the majority of your worldbuilding. You won’t need to tell us all about the factory on the river, or the plantlife, because with a few well-written slang terms, we will be right there.

Particular places and times notwithstanding, slang should generally be avoided in fiction writing. Why? Because it references particular places and times and people.

If I’m writing a space opera novel about people from the 24th century who are in the middle of being hijacked by space pirates, if I use the term, “Golly gee!” then suddenly we’re in a pantomime from the early twentieth century, not in space a few hundred years from now. Talking about phones and texting and such can easily date a novel to this time and place, no matter how timeless the story. 

Tolkien, for example, did not use slang in his books, at least none that is easily recognisable as being stuck in his time. He used more descriptive language than otherwise, certainly (a topic I shall discuss at a future date), but his books can be read in any time and still be considered classics. As with Isaac Asimov, and Anne McCaffrey, the books could be set in any time and still be understandable.

Now, if you’re writing contemporary romance, murder mysteries, or thrillers, there is a certain amount of language dating that you will have to do. The evolution of technology makes the Robert Ludlum novels very clearly set in the 1970s and 80s, despite the lack of slang. Or the various Star Trek series an obvious product of their times. That’s just what happens when technology and political, economic and social circumstances change; we cannot easily predict these changes, so have to stick with what we know.

However, the more you can avoid slang in fiction writing, the less likely you are to have a story that is perfectly popular and relatable at the time of publication, only to fall behind when times—and language—changes.

Now, I could also get into the argument of linguistic prescriptivism (language in a proper form) versus descriptivism (language as it is naturally), and which is more correct or problematic or anything, but then we’d get into a discussion on why we don’t all talk like Shakespeare anymore, and frankly, I can’t be bothered to tell people how to speak. What fun would that be?

So, write your stories, use your language, but know that language will change, and your story may be exactly where you left it in the interminable march of time: an immortal, unchangeable thing. Or, perhaps, the stories will evolve with us and become what we need them to be. Representatives of a different time, into which we can lose ourselves for a grand adventure.

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Book Review: 1000 Fun Facts for Immature Adults by Bryan Spektor

I will preface this review by saying: I love trivia. I love collecting weird facts to pull out when they might be relevant (or not relevant, as is more often the case). I like knowing things about the world that are probably useless in the long run, but are so interesting regardless. It’s just…fun. So when I got the chance to review this book, I was thrilled.

I think that the book was organised quite well, given that it can be difficult to categorise trivia, especially if it pertains to history, animals, and science within the same category. If you’re looking for specific facts on a general topic, this book does well. The individual pieces of trivia were a little less precisely organised, but it is rarely easy to jump from one piece of information to another without the use of non-sequiturs. In that regard, this book does pretty well at moving along coherently. 

As for the facts themselves, they were all quite interesting! I knew some of them (like I mentioned, I love trivia), but there were a fair few that I’d never heard of before. I don’t know where the information came from, as there were no references, but the trivia that I’d learned before rang true, so I will assume that the other facts are also accurate. Though, I will admit, I live in Missouri and I’ve never heard of cicadas as a pizza topping before.

The illustrations for this book work quite well, I think. They were cheeky and well executed, breaking up the constant flow of information just enough to make the information stick in my brain a bit more. I am not entirely sure why a donkey was chosen as the primary character for the illustrations, but I liked them. (I read the ebook version, and I have been informed that the print version is far more impressive as far as the illustrations go.)

Overall, I would say that this book is a fun collection of information. If you like knowing things to pull out at parties and parade about, this is definitely the book for you. Or, if you’re like me and you just like knowing things, then it’s still a worthwhile read. An excellent collection of facts.

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Word Nerdery: Constructed Languages and Fiction Writing – The Epitome of Nerdery

Surely, there is nothing quite so marvellously nerdy as learning a fictional language, or creating a fictional language and then shouting it to the world. Think of those brave Star Trek cosplayers who know Klingon or Romulan, or the Tolkien fans who can speak in the various dialects of Elvish. These are people who embrace a fictional world so fully that they even learn its languages. I am one of them, and I am stupidly pleased with my nerdery.

Of course, my nerdery is more to do with the fact that I analyse and deconstruct (and then reconstruct) languages of all sorts than the fact that I belong to any particular fandom. Don’t get me wrong, I am quite fond of Star Trek and Middle Earth, and various many other fictional worlds, but I have spent too much time reading and exploring so many worlds that language is my true constant. Basically, I like words. And constructed words are, to my mind, ridiculously fun.

(It should be noted that I wrote my undergraduate thesis on the presence and function of constructed languages in science fiction, so I may be biased.)

Even if you are not wildly keen on the vivid expression of being a nerd as one learning Klingon might entail, constructed languages are actually quite fascinating in of themselves. They often serve a more involved purpose in the expression of a (fictional) culture or world than do most natural languages. Their rules are often regular and less nuanced than natural languages, but that does not necessarily make them more complex. They, as much as the actual prose of a book, tell a story.

But what is a constructed language—or conlang, as it is most commonly known?

Natural languages are those that we speak and read and write everyday. English, German, Russian, Chinese, etc. are all natural languages; they are languages that have native speakers born into their midst. They are not borne of just one person, but an entire people. They evolve over time and can be learned, in full, without too much difficulty. (Though, to be fair, English is one of those languages that often baffles in its complexity, and it doesn’t even have as many grammatical cases as Finnish.)

Conlangs, on the other hand, are created with specific forms and vocabulary in mind, often by one person or a handful of people. There are no native speakers to these languages, and even if one attempts to learn them, they are often not complete. Quenya, one of Tolkien’s dialects of Elvish, is an example of such a language. It is more complete than, say, Newspeak (from George Orwell’s 1984), but still does not evolve over time to adapt to new technology and situations. Its creator is dead, and while the fandom can take the language and do what they like, it’s not considered official, or canon, and is therefore not widely applicable.

Most conlangs are created within the realm of science fiction or fantasy stories of various forms, to either give to a different culture, or to illustrate a part of the world that needs highlighting. For example, in !984, Newspeak is meant to highlight the struggle of the people to have individual thought, to dissent, and instead force them into Groupthink. 

(Oddly enough, Groupthink has become a fairly common phrase in offices and academic institutions, as a means of getting people to work together and think along the same lines to promote teamwork. Somehow, it seems fitting that the users of Groupthink don’t see the irony in borrowing this word from Orwell’s dystopian novel. But I digress.)

Klingon is an example of a conlang that has become well-known to the world at large, and has evolved beyond some of the normal parameters of typical conlangs. It originally had only a few words and phrases, but was expanded upon as the Star Trek series grew, with input from fans. The ultimate direction of this language’s growth lay in the hands of its creators, but there was wide input. It is even so popular now that you can learn it on Duolingo. I have done this (though I am barely a beginner) and found the course to be quite entertaining and complete. Klingon exists partly as a means to provide the Klingons with their own language, and thereby make Star Trek a little more realistic (generally speaking), but also as a means to illustrate the harsh, warrior-based culture of its people. It exists to illustrate a world, a culture, a people, rather than exist as a pivotal part of the story.

Other languages, such as the one presented in Babel-17 by Samuel R. Delaney, are not meant to be learned and spoken by people. They present a plot point, a grounds upon which the story is built and explored. They are either not complete, have no specific vocabulary, or aren’t even meant for humans at all. The whole purpose of the language is to illustrate a point in the story; the whole story hinges on this language, in fact.

Some other places that conlangs can be found include: the Game of Thrones television series, the Defiance television series, most all of the Star Trek franchises, the Star Wars franchises, the Lord of the Rings, and Hobbit books by J.R.R. Tolkien, A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess, 1984 by George Orwell, the Out of the Silent Planet trilogy by C.S. Lewis, and many, many others. Some are in popular media, some are obscure and vague. Some are pure entertainment, others are critical to plot. 

Why, though—apart from those of us who are perhaps a bit too keen on words—would anyone want to bother with creating a conlang? After all, learning natural languages is already a lot of work. There are so many pieces of language that have to be constructed: vocabulary, grammar, tense, gender, etc. It’s, frankly, a lot of work.

There is one particular case study of a conlang that took on a life of its own and became the closest thing to a natural language that can be, which I think may clarify the issue. That, of course, is Esperanto. 

Esperanto was created in 1887 by L.L. Zamenhof. It was intended to be an international auxiliary language; that is, it was meant to be a language that everyone could learn and communicate with easily, in order to provide a way for peaceful negotiations and business relations across the world. It has fairly straightforward rules of grammar, and many of the words have base forms that are similar to romance languages—Spanish, French, Italian—and are therefore recognisable. There have been several other attempts at an international auxiliary language, but Esperanto was the most popular. Alas, it never caught on in the way that Zamenhof hoped, but it did become very popular over the years. It has evolved to adapt to new technologies and situations, and there are people around the world today that speak Esperanto fluently. It is rumoured that there are even native speakers of Esperanto, though I don’t know if that can be verified. 

Esperanto, therefore, is a conlang that was not created for the purpose of storytelling—indeed, not all of them are—but which still remains quite popular today. It may never achieve its goal of being an IAL, and thereby providing a language that international audiences can learn and speak with ease, but it has grown and evolved and is a very close thing to a natural language.

In truth, creating a conlang is a lot of work. Most of the time, it’s done just for fun, to add an element of interest to a story or world. Sometimes, it grows and takes on a fandom of its own, such as with Quenya and Klingon. Other times, it is for personal use, or doesn’t even have any words. I, personally, have created Eloaech (eh-low-aye-ek) for use in my cyberpunk dystopian novel, Speaker of Words. There are perhaps a hundred words outside of the novel that I have made, and there is a relatively broad grammar, but it is by no means a complete language. It was made to serve a purpose in my novel, little more. I had massive amounts of fun creating it, though, and frankly I think that is all that’s required.

Language doesn’t always have to be a massive undertaking. Sometimes, it’s just fun. In the case of conlangs, most of the time you don’t even have to understand what is being said. So just let the words wash over you and enjoy them for what they are: expressions of joyous nerdery.

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Word Nerdery: The Art of Saying Hello – Greetings and Small Talk in Fiction

Pardon my beginning this article with an effusive declaration of how cool language is, but I couldn’t help myself. Language is vast. Really vast. There are so many different types of communication: non-verbal, kinesics, questions, statements, greetings, conversations, speeches, etc. Consider that in just English. Now, consider that there are hundreds of languages out there, and somehow we humans have managed to carve out a world with them.

Pretty cool, huh?

That statement, though, is only a diffuse colouring of what is a staggeringly complex assortment of pieces. Within language there are words — nouns, pronouns, articles, adjectives, more — as well as sentences, phrases, paragraphs, novels, all of which require structure in order to make sense to us. If you’ve ever gotten lost during an English class lecture on the various participles, then you have a smattering of an idea at how complex language is. (Though, to be fair, English is one of the more complicated and bizarre languages out there.)

Now, here’s the weird part: some of us like to spend our time reading these things called books, which are entire worlds made up of purely language. 

I know, I know, who would do that? (Guilty. In fact, I’m so guilty that I write books, too.)

The thing about books, though, is that the language there, and the language we use in every day communication, are not the same. Similar, yes. But not at all the same. 

Why?

Consider: The Greeting.

I’m going to get into some technical aspects of linguistics, or the science of language, for a minute. I hope that I’m not too convoluted in my explanation, but if ever any of this doesn’t make sense, just skip to the bit about Douglas Adams, because Douglas Adams is always fun. 

Anyways.

In communication, we have this concept of “small talk.” It’s the communication that you engage in to establish yourself with another person, or to fill in the gaps when you don’t know what to say. It’s the, “Hi, how are you?” and the “Fine, thanks.” and things like, “Gosh, don’t you just hate this weather?”

Everyone engages in this, but, oddly enough, it doesn’t actually mean anything.

This is called “phatic communication,” and in linguistics, it serves many different purposes, one of which is merely to maintain social ties. 

“Language is mainly used to communicate information or feelings, but it also has another function, which is that of establishing and maintaining social relations…used to establish social contact among people rather than conveying or seeking information.” (Fadhil, 62)

Phatic communication was first named by Bronislaw Malinowski, a renowned anthropologist, in 1923. It is derived from the Greek phátos, meaning “speech.” This phatic communication focuses less on the meaning of the language and more on the act of communication; that is, you are actively engaging with another person for a specific social purpose. It is a linguistic representation of a social act. There are many purposes that phatic communication fulfils, but none of them are really about what is being said.

According to the article Phatic Talk and Banter (studysmarter.us), there are twelve types of functions to phatic communication:

1. Starting a conversation

2. Breaking a silence

3. Making small talk

4. Gossiping

5. Keeping a conversation going

6. Expressing solidarity

7. Creating harmony

8. Creating comfort

9. Expressing empathy

10. Expressing friendships

11. Expressing respect

12. Expressing politeness

All of these acts are extremely common in every day life, provided, of course, that you interact with other people. (Which most of us do.) Some examples of phatic communication include such things as, “How are you,” which doesn’t actually ask how you’re doing, but merely acknowledges the other person, either in passing, or as a conversation starter. There are also lengthy discussions about the weather, which fill awkward silences or start conversations; as well as conversation enders such as, “good evening.”

(I will admit that, during my time in Great Britain, the conversations about the weather seemed to take on a more significant role than merely filling space. It was, in fact, a serious part of almost every conversation, as the weather was quite changeable. This is not applicable everywhere, though I did become rather invested in my weather conversations.)

For such an everyday occurrence, phatic communication holds great power. It helps regulate our social relationships with both friends and strangers, all with the use of a few words.

Interestingly enough, though, it rarely exists in fiction.

That’s right, small talk is hardly there in fiction.

At all.

If it’s so important, why don’t we see it in books? The answer is fairly straightforward: for all its social significance, phatic communication doesn’t actually mean anything, and in a world crafted entirely of words, having a section that means nothing is, in a word, pointless. In well-crafted stories, every word, every interaction between characters, has to either move the plot forwards, or be important for character development.

Phatic communication rarely does any of those.

More generally, to paraphrase Douglas Adams, all this small talk, all the little details that make up normal interactions, it’s all quite boring.

Those who are regular followers of the doings of Arthur Dent may have received an impression of his character and habits which…falls somewhat short, in its composition, of the whole truth in all its glorious aspects.

And the reasons for this are obvious: editing, selection, the need to balance that which is interesting with that which is relevant and cut out all the tedious happenstance.

Like this for instance: “Arthur Dent went to bed. He went up the stairs, all fifteen of them, opened the door, went into his room, took off his shoes and socks…At four he got up and went to the bathroom again. He opened the door to the bathroom…” and so on.

It’s guff. It doesn’t advance the action. It makes for nice fat books such as the American market thrives on, but it doesn’t actually get you anywhere. You don’t, in short, want to know. (Adams, 569)

If it’s boring, and doesn’t move the plot along or help in character development, then what do authors use instead of small talk? Because we can’t just have characters leaping into every scene with a statement that’s straight to the point, can we?

Actually, that is in fact what most people use. In Dead Romantics, a romantic comedy novel by Ashley Poston, the author primarily starts character interactions with comments about a character’s traits, or about a specific action that’s being taken. Essentially, leaping right beyond small talk and landing in relevant, meaning-laden conversation.

Thunder rumbled across the hills of the cemetery.

“A bit early for one of those moonwalks, isn’t it?” asked a familiar voice to my left. I glanced over, and there was Ben, his hands in his pockets, looking a little worse for wear… (Dead Romantics, 143)

Most genres follow this trend, leaping right into the meat of a scene rather than adding small talk. Romance novels usually feature more character-driven interactions, as the primary focus of the story is usually the characters. Mysteries, on the other hand, will often focus on plot: a piece of evidence, a key statement from a witness, even actions that need to be taken to solve the murder. Really, though, there is a range of ways to start interactions that have little to do with performing purely social acts. 

The characters in these books don’t need phatic communication, because they don’t need to maintain social relationships in the way that we do. They exist to tell a story, and politeness, awkward silences, and random greetings of strangers are rarely necessary to stories. If they are necessary, then I can almost guarantee that they will be present. But it doesn’t happen often.

Honestly, I am one of those sorts of people that is baffled by these linguistic acts that don’t really mean what they say. I like things to mean exactly what they say, and phatic communication is truly contrary to this mindset. I much prefer my social relationships to appear like they do in books. That is, dive right in.

Citations:

Adams, Douglas. The More than Complete Hitchhiker’s Guide. Wing Books, 1994.

Fadhil, Zahraa Adnan. “The Function of Phatic Communication in the English Language.” English Language, Literature & Culture, Science Publishing Group, 27 June 2022, https://www.sciencepublishinggroup.co....

Nordquist, Richard. “Phatic Communication Definition and Examples.” ThoughtCo, Aug. 25, 2020, thoughtco.com/phatic-communication-16....

“Phatic Talk and Banter.” StudySmarter US, https://www.studysmarter.us/explanati....

Poston, Ashley. The Dead Romantics. HQ, 2022.

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