Chuck Wendig's Blog, page 201

Ten Questions About Codex Born, By Jim C. Hines

Jim Hines is one of those authors who just gets it all right. He’s got a great online presence. He’s a nice, smart, savvy guy. And best of all, the dude’s a slam-bang writer — uh, hello, Libriomancer? In fact, here’s Jim to talk about the follow-up to that book, Codex Born:

Tell Us About Yourself: Who The Hell Are You?

Hell if I know. I write fantasy books, mess around with amateur space photography, practice karate, work for the State of Michigan (because insurance, ya know?), blog about SF/F and sexism and LEGOs and whatever else catches my attention, and spend time with my wife and two kids. I’m a relatively new Doctor Who fan, and I would have been dead fifteen years now if not for Doctor Frederick Banting and Charles Best.

Give Us The 140-Character Story Pitch:

Magic-wielding librarian vs 500-year-old book ghosts, plus wendigos, old werewolves, flaming spider, clockwork bugs, and Johannes Gutenberg.

Where Does This Story Come From?

Codex Born is the sequel to Libriomancer, which introduced Isaac Vainio, a librarian living in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, who can pull things out of books. We also met the Porters, a secret society of magic-users founded by Gutenberg.

I find the secret magical society trope rather troubling on a number of levels, and having introduced the Porters, now I want to explore some of the implications of their history and existence. I also wanted to look at other possibilities of book magic, and how that magic might have developed differently in other cultures.

It also comes from the fact that librarians are awesome.

How Is This A Story Only You Could’ve Written?

I’d say it’s the combination of the level of humor and snark, along with some of the thematic issues I try to explore. The character of Lena Greenwood, a rather sexy kick-ass dryad, has let me get a little deeper with a number of things that are important to me, from the objectification and sexualization of women to issues of race and body shape. She’s a problematic character in many ways, and I know she hasn’t worked for everyone. That said, she’s supposed to be problematic. If you’re not at least a little troubled by her, especially after reading this book, then I’ve failed as a writer.

Also, I don’t know anyone else who could write Smudge the fire-spider.

What Was The Hardest Thing About Writing Codex Born?

This series has been the most ambitious writing project I’ve ever done. I spent most of my time in book one laying the groundwork, but I’ve got a storyline that’s going to take at least four books, and the scope of the conflict, as well as the things I’m planning to do to these characters and their world…there’s a lot for me to keep track of. I spent a lot of time worrying that my brain would collapse from the weight of the overarching story.

Also, this is the fifth book I’ve written with Smudge, and it’s always a challenge coming up with new things for him to do, but I’m rather pleased with his big scene near the end of this one.

What Did You Learn Writing Codex Born?

Thanks to the help (and tremendous patience) of author Margaret Yang, I came away from this book with a better understanding of Mandarin and how the language is transcribed. I can’t speak or understand it, but I’m hopeful that I reached a point where my characters could speak the language without causing native speakers to read the dialogue and either laugh or stare baffled at the page, trying to understand what I meant to write.

What Do You Love About Codex Born?

I invented a gun that shoots variably-powered lightning bolts for Isaac. It’s awesome.

What Would You Do Differently Next Time?

Probably give more time to the character of Deifilia. There’s a lot I wanted to do with her, but it didn’t fit with the point of view and the focus of the story. (I’d tell you who Defilia is, but that would spoil things.)

Give Us Your Favorite Paragraph From The Story:

I don’t know that this is my favorite, but I tried to keep this PG, and to avoid any major spoilers:

As a general rule, it was safe to assume werewolves were faster and stronger, with sharper senses than any human. And of course, depending on his genetics, Jeff might have anywhere from two to eight nipples under that shirt. Not that I had ever gotten up the nerve to ask. He would have been happy to show me, I’m sure. Werewolves were notoriously open about physical matters.

What’s Next For You As A Storyteller?

I’ve got a pair of short stories to do, and then I’ll be working on the third book of the Magic ex Libris series, which is tentatively called Unbound.

Jim C. Hines: Website / @jimchines

Codex Born: Amazon / B&N / Indiebound

 

Are You A Real Writer? A Handy (And Hasty) Flowchart!

(For your reference: HWA article by Lisa Morton: “Ten Questions To Know If You’re A Pro.” This flowchart is my answer to the sentiments posed there.)

Yes, Virginia, You Can Totally Force Art

“You can’t force art.”

Google that phrase, you’ll get over 20,000 hits.

Many of them seem to agree with the notion that, indeed, you can’t force art.

Can’t do it. Can’t force art, creativity, innovation, invention.

To which I say a strongly-worded:

POPPYCOCK!

BALDERDASH.

HORSESHIT IN A 7-11 64 OUNCE THIRST ABORTER SODA CUP.

I’ll posit that not only can you force art, but you in fact must force art.

Because art is not a magical power. Art is a result. It is a consequence of our actions, and the very nature of an action is that it is something we forced ourselves to do.

(One wonders if this is where the notion of a hack comes from. I quite like that verb, actually – to hack. Hacking through underbrush. Hacking apart a chair. Hacking up a hairball!)

Now, this phrase, this notion, this bewildering admonishment – “you can’t force art” — seems to share two possible meanings depending on the intent of the phrase-utterer.

The one utterance seems to mean, “Well, of course you make art, but when it feels like you’re really forcing it — you know, like, trying to cram a shoe into a pasta-maker or a goat into an elephant or a barrel cactus up your own ass — then you’re not likely to create art at all.”

The apparent definition of the second utterance is a far less reasonable: “ART JUST HAPPENS. We are all connected by a mystical muse-based frequency and sometimes the metal fillings in our teeth tune us into that radio station of raw inspiration and that’s how art happens — we are giant open orifices waiting for the voodoo ejaculation of the Muse’s artful seed.”

Let’s tackle each of these in turn.

The first notion makes sense. It sounds right. Every author and surely every artist hits a point during the act of creation where it feels like the torch is guttering. The campfire’s gone dark for the night. So, you think, “I could just quit for the day. Go have a Pepsi and some animal crackers and watch some TV, wash some dishes, masturbate to the 2014 Ikea catalog (nggh Gronkulla!), go to bed and recharge these here art batteries.” And this is generally sensible because obviously you have to quit the day’s work at some point. Working for 12 hours straight on a single thing may lead to art, but it’s just as likely it’ll lead to you inking a baffling manifesto on your skin in your own waste (“MY BODY IS THE TEXT BEHOLD MY SKINRIDER’S EPIPHANY”).

But there’s also a thing that happens where you might, using this reasonable-sounding excuse of not forcing it, quit your day a bit early. Before your minimum efforts are even complete. Example: just the other day I was crawling through my word count the way a starving man crawls through a muddy ditch to get to a Dorito he imagined at the end. It was just a boggy fucking slog. Most days for me are a fairly nice clip to 2000 words, and then the next 1000 take more time and require more teeth-gritting and sphincter-clenching, but this day just felt like I was trapped, like each sentence written was the drag of a rusty cheese grater across my wrist to free the hand pinned underneath a fallen soda machine.

I got to 1500 hundred words and I said, FUCK THIS NOISE, then I may have yelled YOLO and violently cleared everything off the top of my desk. And the thought that went through my head was, basically, don’t force it. The other days have been good. Ease off the stick, Earnhardt, Jr, tomorrow will be better. The story will be waiting.

But also this little pokey pointy stick kept jabbing my brain-kitten, thus making said kitten hiss and spit. So I stopped and said, okay, I always always always get my 2000 words — it’s a point of fucking pride here so I’ll squeeze the blood from this brick and see if I can’t wring out another fuck-smeared shit-box full of a likely-worthless 500 words. Words I figured I’d throw away.

And I did it. Miserably. Five hundred words is usually easy for me to write (this post is already over that). This felt like proctology with a pair of soup ladles.

I knew I’d probably scrap those words.

But I went back and read them. And you know what?

They don’t read like they were the result of exploratory rectal surgery.

They don’t read as if they were the peed-out kidney stones they felt like at the time.

They are, in fact, pretty damn solid.

As solid — if not moreso — than the words that seemed to fall out of me on “good” writing days.

I forced it. It hurt. And yet, those words still work.

Now, to the second idea, that art is a lightbulb in our heads connected to a switch that we do not control, well. You can probably guess my response. It probably involves the word “poop” and “noise” placed adjacent to one another and possibly yelled whilst flailing.

What happens in the dark of your mind — that sudden surge of inspiration! — is not actually art in the same way that a struck match is not actually a bonfire. You have to do something with it. You have to have agency. You must claim a course of action. You gotta throw the match, motherfucker. Creativity is worthless without the act of creation that follows it: otherwise all you’re doing is daydreaming into the void, giving a gift of inspiration to whatever mad elder gods roil and coil in the deepest darkest basket of far-flung ultradimensional space.

Art doesn’t just happen.

Art is made.

We are makers! We are doers!

So go make! Go do!

Embrace the desire to create. Give life and love and opportunity to the ephemeral shapes and shadows your imagination has gifted to your mind.

Art is surgery. It is extracting the phantoms of your imagination and packing them with meat and bone and blood so that they get up from the slab that is the screen of your word processor or your notebook — or your canvas or your stage or your camera lens.

You can’t force art?

Bullshit. Can too.

Sometimes, you gotta.

If you think that makes me a hack and not an artist, fuck it. I’m a hack.

But I’m a hack who’s making art, and you’re just an artist who can’t hack it.

*drops mic*

*is trampled by a startled elephant with a goat hanging out of its butt*

(More wallpapers below:)

Under The Empyrean Sky: Publishers Weekly Review!

New review for UtES just came in from Publisher’s Weekly!

“Adult author Wendig (The Blue Blazes) launches the dystopian Heartland trilogy featuring a group of teenage scavengers at odds with an oppressive government that dwells in luxury up in the sky. Cael McAvoy, leader of the Big Sky Scavengers, is dealt a severe setback when a rival crew led by the mayor’s son sabotages his land-boat, which he needs to safely navigate the hostile fields of genetically modified corn that hold the Heartland in a stranglehold. When he discovers a secret garden of illegal fruits and vegetables, he sees a chance to get ahead by harvesting and selling them. Instead, he and his friends are drawn into a bloody fight for survival, which turns into open rebellion. Wendig conjures up an atmospheric and brutal world full of pollen storms, aggressive plants, and terrifying tumors, and populates it with memorable characters, while withholding enough information about the Empyreans to maintain intrigue. This strong first installment rises above the usual dystopian fare thanks to Wendig’s knack for disturbing imagery and scorching prose. Ages 12–up. Agent: Stacia Decker, Donald Maass Literary Agency. (July)”

I’m told the book has been showing up as an advertisement on folks’ Kindles, too — as both a lock screen and a screensaver feature, so that’s pretty rad. The book is doing very well, as I understand it — it’s been bouncing around the Top 10 at Amazon for Science-Fiction Adventure and Dystopian (YA), putting the book in really wonderful company. So, thanks to everyone who has been supporting the book and picking it up and telling others about it.

Exciting times, giving me a nice boost when I’m about to go into editing the second book in the series, BLIGHTBORN. (That book is nearly twice as book and thrice as crazy as the first.)

Oh, and if you want to see my “big idea” behind the book — I’m over at Scalzi’s Whatever this week chatting about the book, its origins (as a joke!) and how food politics relates to teens.

Crowdsourcing The Essentials: Horror Novels

Last week, we crowdsourced your favorite dystopian reads.

This week, let’s talk horror.

We’ll keep it broad this time around — no subgenres, just the entire blanket category of what you consider “horror fiction.” Poll the choir of brain cells and ask yourself: what are your top three horror reads? Books that are not only favorites but also what you could consider the essentials –?

Drop them in the comments, if you don’t mind.

On a quick administrative note, a few of you have asked when I’ll compile the results of these lists — I will be doing that, but I need that pesky thing called “time.” (If anyone out there in the crowd feels they have the time and inclination to crunch the data, I wouldn’t say no.) So, I’ll probably reserve the compiling time to do in batches. The response to these has been pretty interesting, revealing a very fascinating fluidity in what people understand about certain genres and subgenres. I suspect it’ll continue with this week regarding people’s definition of “horror.”

Flash Fiction Challenge: Somethingpunk

Last week’s challenge: “Four Random Items.”

I wrote this book. It’s out now, and for a subgenre, I sometimes laughingly call it “cornpunk.”

This week, I’m over at Scalzi’s Whatever talking about the Big Idea behind the book, screaming a bit about corn and GMOs and Monsanto and marriage equality and raising a child and — well, hell, just go read it. Point is, I talk a little about the origins of “cornpunk.”

And now, this week’s challenge, I want you to come up with your own something-punk.

Preferably something that hasn’t been done before (cyber- steam- diesel- bug- etc.).

You’ve got 1000 words.

Due in one week’s time: August 9th, noon EST.

I’ll pick three random participants to get signed copies of Under the Empyrean Sky (if you’re in the US; I can send internationally if you want to pony up the shipping).

Go forth and write, ‘punkers.

TEN QUESTIONS ABOUT THE DARWIN ELEVATOR BY JASON M. HOUGH

This is one of those books that has what I believe to be known as “buzz.” Which means either it’s filled with wasps or people are talking about it. One or the other. Whatever the definition, I hear nothing but awesome about this book, so let’s sit in a circle and listen to what Jason has to say about it:

TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF: WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?

At the moment, an author and a father.  It’s about as simple as that.  My boys are 3.5 and 1.5, which means they aren’t shuffled off to school day-in-day-out yet, and thus require a lot of time.  Which I gotta say, I love.  They’re my life right now, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything with the possible exception of a 2013 Aston Martin Virage in British racing green with a tan interior.

But who the hell am I? What makes me me? I can think of a handful of moments that shaped Jason of today.  Seeing Star Wars on the big screen when I was six gave me an early love of sci-fi and a paralyzing fear of being choked to death by telepathy.  Winning five hours of free play at an arcade when I was eleven cemented my already gigantic obsession with video games.  Inheriting a box of comic books when I was thirteen led me not only to discover that art form, but also caused me to meet the other comic book geeks at my school.  They’re still friends of mine today, by the way.  Seeing Pixar’s “Tin Toy” at an animation festival spurred an obsession with 3D graphics and animation that led to a career, years later, in the video game business.  I like to credit MTV’s spiral into non-music programming for my sense of humor, since one of the first non-music things they aired was Monty Python’s Flying Circus.  I was fifteen or so, and stayed up until midnight to watch that when I should have been doing homework, or, you know, sleeping.

I didn’t start writing with any seriousness until 2007 in an attempt to fill the creative void in my life caused by leaving the game business.  So far so good, I guess!

GIVE US THE 140-CHARACTER STORY PITCH.

A ragtag group must unravel the mystery of failing alien space elevator that is the only thing keeping the remnants of the human race alive.

WHERE DOES THIS STORY COME FROM?

I became fascinated with space elevators since reading “Childhood’s End” by Arthur C. Clarke.  One thing I heard frequently afterwards was that such a device would never get built because the materials required were simply too difficult to conceive, much less manufacture.  The contrarian in me thought, “Who says we’re the ones who will build it?”

As I started to think more about an alien-gifted space elevator, I came to really like the idea that some kind of apocalyptic event on the ground would turn it into a literal thread tying two very different societies together. Survival both on the ground and above would be impossible unless both sides learned to share and trade along this incredibly narrow trade route.  Plus, the game designer in me saw great opportunity in the natural choke points such a situation would have.  It all just seemed rife for politics, intrigue, and genuine terror, all piled on top of a first-contact story.

HOW IS THIS STORY ONLY YOU COULD’VE WRITTEN?

I’d love to be able to say I’m a space elevator scientist or an expert on pandemic diseases or, hell, someone who’s actually been to Darwin Australia where the story is set, but I’m none of those things.  I’m just a guy who thought up a story to tell, and I think the only thing that separates me from others is that I put in the effort to do it.  The research, the writing, the titanic battles with self-doubt.

I think it’s a mistake for new writers to walk away from a good idea because it doesn’t fall into the “write what you know” mantra.  Someone once told me the full quote is really “write what you know to be emotionally true”.  Everything else is research.  I believe that.

WHAT WAS THE HARDEST THING ABOUT WRITING THE DARWIN ELEVATOR ?

Doing the work.  The actual task of writing.  It’s incredibly time consuming, and during the process I became a father twice in addition to carrying a full time job.  I really do have to credit everything to my amazing wife.  She supported this from day one and sacrificed sleeping in for years to give me the time I needed to write.

WHAT DID YOU LEARN WRITING THE DARWIN ELEVATOR ?

Where to start!  My research for the book included a whole laundry list of things: Darwin (weather, geography, flora and fauna), tandem parachuting, firearms, explosives, Dutch air force, physics, sewer construction, water purification.  I could go on.  By the way, the first person excluding friends and family to tweet the word slipstream to me gets a signed copy of the book.  Let’s see who read this far.

From a writing standpoint, I learned that I’m an outliner.  I’m mortified of writing myself into a plot hole from which there is no escape except to delete chapter after chapter.  I’d rather do that kind of thing when each chapter is only a sentence.  I also learned that having a deadline, even a self-imposed one, really spurs creativity.

WHAT DO YOU LOVE ABOUT THE DARWIN ELEVATOR ?

Much to my editor’s chagrin, I love the setting.  I say that because from very early on he was very focused on the characters.  I love the characters, too, but I’ve always been rather proud of the world they run around in.  I think it’s certainly the most unique aspect of the book.  We battled (I use that word lightly) on the cover design in this regard.  I wanted a scenery painting; they wanted the main character front and center.  In the end I think they were right, but that doesn’t lessen my love for the setting.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO DIFFERENTLY NEXT TIME?

In the future I’ll probably spend more time up front fleshing out my characters.  I let most of their personality and background details emerge from my brain as I wrote, and I think this ends up making some of them feel a bit more shallow than I’d like.  That being said, I was going for a “Die Hard in space” vibe, accessible sci-fi in the same vain as my hero Scalzi, so I don’t think this does a terrible disservice to the book.  It’s an area I hope to improve in, though.

GIVE US YOUR FAVORITE PARAGRAPH FROM THE STORY:

Almost five years after the Elevator arrived, the disease appeared and spread across the globe. Why the Elevator negated it, or even how, remained a mystery. The two were linked, that much was obvious, but in that time of worldwide panic only one thing mattered: Get to Darwin. Darwin is safe. The city as it was collapsed under the onslaught of refugees, Skyler among them. Memory of that journey made him shiver even now. Amazing what humans could do to one another when their survival instinct kicked in.

WHAT’S NEXT FOR YOU AS A STORYTELLER?

Wouldn’t I like to know!  Much rides on how well these three books do.  In an ideal world, I’ll sell another Dire Earth trilogy to Del Rey and start working on them as soon as possible.

Right now I’m writing short stories that will be used as companion pieces to the release of DARWIN and its sequels.  After that, until there’s a clearer picture of what happens next, I’m going to start on a fantasy idea I’ve been anxious to write for over five years.

Jason Hough: Website / @jasonmhough

Darwin Elevator: Amazon / B&N / Indiebound

Ten Thoughts On Story

Starting now, in no meaningful order:

Our Toddler Just Learned The Essence Of Storytelling

The other day, B-Dub (recently turned two) was noodling around the edge of our bed with his teddy bear. He was making Teddy flop about on his belly like some kind of fish, smashing his face into the bed and making eating sounds – chomp chomp chomp.

And B-Dub said to everyone and no one:

“Seeds. Eat seeds.”

I said, “Teddy is eating seeds?”

“Yeah.”

“Does Teddy like eating seeds?” I asked, because I didn’t know teddy bears liked eating seeds and I’m always looking out for those imaginary pro-tips I can use to placate the wild wolverine tornado that is the toddler mind (“LOOK STOP CRYING TEDDY IS NOW EATING SEEDS SEE — CHOMPY CHOMPY CHOMPY — IT’S ALL FINE NOW HA HA STOP CRYING PLEASE”).

“Yeah.”

And he went on smashing Teddy into this trail of imaginary seeds.

But then B-Dub said, “Oh no! No more seeds.” And then Teddy kept flumping about, but gone were the chomp chomp chomp noises.

B-Dub went on like this for 30 more seconds, until finally he said, “Buy more seeds. No seeds. Buy seeds.” And then Teddy was once more about to chow down on some non-existent seeds.

My initial thought was, “Oh, great, yeah, problem-solving.” But then my immediate second thought was, “Oh, holy shit, he just told a story.” I mean, okay, it was a fucking shitty story. No one’s gonna be giving him the Booker Prize for that one. (OR ARE THEY?) You know, I don’t care about this bear. I’m not invested in whether or not the bear gets his seeds. I don’t even know that I buy the authenticity of a bear eating seeds, so, c’mon.

But seriously, he discovered the core of storytelling: a character you like (Teddy) wants something (seeds) but can’t have them (oh shit, no seeds) and goes on a quest to answer that interrupted desire (gotta go buy some seeds).

This was the first time he complicated the life of his protagonist (in this case, Teddy).

B-Dub just told his first story.

The Three C’s

The three C’s in a story are, I think: complication, conflict, and consequence.

I’d make the (admittedly somewhat arbitrary) separation between complication and conflict by saying that complication is when a character’s “quest” is made more difficult, and the conflict happens more at the character level — so, complications tend to be external, conflicts tend to be internal (though can be manifested and often solved externally).

A complication is John McClane having to run across broken glass.

But the conflict is John McClane versus Hans Gruber and his terrorists. Another conflict is John McClane “versus” his own wife — you might argue that Holly moving to LA while John remains in NYC offers the complication of distance which puts their marriage in conflict.

In this way, complications and conflicts can crash into and spawn one another: a complication can lead to a conflict which can create more complications. The complication of distance leads to the McClanes in conflict which leads to the complication of John having to leave his comfort zone (on a plane, to LA, to a high-rise tower of executives) which amplifies the conflict between him and Holly — he hopes this conflict will resolve in a change of state between the two of them but then their relationship and reunion is again complicated by Gruber and his terrorists which puts McClane in conflict  with them so he can save Holly, himself, and by proxy, their marriage.

(By the way, I choose Die Hard a lot in my examples because it’s an easy go-to example — almost everyone I know has seen it and it offers pretty great storytelling, so it works as a touchstone for most readers. And by the way, if you haven’t seen Die Hard, please let me strap you into this chair and superglue your eyelids to your hairline so that you MAY BE INDOCTRINATED YIPPIE KAY AY HYPNOFUCKER.)

The third C – consequence — are the events that ensue from choices made in response to complications and conflicts. Consequences can be good or bad and can also spawn new conflicts and/or complications. Until the end of a story consequences are frequently both good and bad in equal measure. Some story ends see consequences lean strongly toward one or the other (win or fail) though again, you can do both — a Pyrrhic Victory where the victory is made at perhaps too high a cost.

Not About “What Happens Next?”

Asking what happens next? is usually an invocation of external occurrence: “And then a fire breaks out. And then an army of rabid baboons appears. AND THEN ROBO-BEES AND SHIT BLIZZARDS AND EELVALANCHES.” That’s not to say you can’t have external events occur — any zombie story has that in the initial, “Oh, shit, look at all these fucking zombies.” That’s usually an inciting incident, though — a single external problem that complicates the lives of characters and throws them into conflict with one another.

The problem with external events is that they’re, well, external — they’re the equivalent of being handed a random card from the middle of the deck in a board game. “Go back three steps NO I DON’T KNOW WHY JUST DO IT.” In external events we get no character agency, no sense of ownership or entanglement, no function of character consequence.

More meaningful questions are: What do the characters do next? What is are the consequences? The goal isn’t to make something that’s event-driven.

I have in the past suggested that a plot is a the sequence of events as revealed to the audience, which remains true, to a point, but it might be better stated as (oh shit, complicated definition incoming): the actions of many characters hoping to gain what they desire and avoid what they fear and the complications and conflicts that result from those actions. A character-driven story rather than one driven by events.

The Little Story Is More Important Than The Bigger Story

At the end of the day, the big story is subservient to the little one. The Empire and Rebellion are just set dressing for the core conflict of Luke, Leia, and their father. Or the loyalty of Han. Or the illicit BDSM romance between Chewbacca and Chirpa, chieftain of the Ewoks. (Slashfic combo powers: CHIRPBACCA. Or CHIEF CHEWBY.)

Motive Is Everything

If you don’t understand why a character does something, you don’t understand the character.

The character doesn’t have to understand it. But you damn sure better.

Money? Love? Revenge? Approval of estranged father? High score on rip-off arcade game, Donkey Dong? Motivation is king. It moves the characters through the dangerous world you’ve put before them. It forces them to act when it’s easier not to. It gives them great agency.

Empathy, Not Sympathy (Or Sociopathy)

Never cross the line to sympathy. You’re not trying to preach of a character’s virtue. You’re not trying to convince us to like them. This isn’t church. This isn’t you knocking on doors asking if we’ve seen the Good Word and the Light of Steve the Accountant. It’s about understanding characters, not feeling for them. You should understand the hero. You should understand the villain. You should understand every character in between.

You’re not there to judge. No evil for evil’s sake. No good for goodness’ sake.

Everyone’s got a reason. Everyone’s the hero of their own tale.

Empathy. Don’t be distant. But don’t get too close, either.

Battling Convenience

I can smell convenience in a story like a hobo with a steamy load in his dungarees. Convenience is when things are too easy. When coincidence rules, when serendipity and sweet fortune conspire to grant the character a gift. You can have convenience, but convenience must come counterbalanced by equal (or heavier) inconvenience — sure, the character can find the key to the padlock right there on the carpet but not before accidentally upending a coffee cup full of cockroaches onto her head. Make things difficult. The path may seem easy – hey, look, there’s the finish line! so close! – but every step is fraught with the broken glass and caltrops of your choosing.

Care On The First Page

The goal and the challenge: how to make someone care from the very first page about a character and their predicament? (First, you gotta have a character and a predicament, one supposes: I’ve read stories where the first page is all setting or exposition, and that makes me just clench up and pee a stream of napalm in my man-diapers.)

But seriously, how? How do you do it? You’ve gotta give us something to hang our hats on. Some trait, some moment of history, some way to draw a line between the reader and the character. And then you’ve gotta instantly thrust this character that we care about into conflict — it’s like fishing. The character is the bait. The conflict is the hook. The reader swims along – gobblechomp–  and then you yank back on the rod (get your mind out of the gutter, weirdo) and you’ve got them.

The hell of it is, you don’t have long.

One page. Maaaaybe on the strength of writing or worldbuilding, one chapter.

Plot Is Line, Story Is Architecture

Plot and story are not the same.

The story is the apple. The plot is the arrow through it.

The story is the body. The plot is the skeleton in the meat.

The story is a whole building full of unfollowed hallways and unopened doors and secret rooms and people we only glimpse but never know, and the plot is the elevator up through that architecture, one floor after the next.

Imagine Your Audience Is Right In Front Of You

Tell a story to people. Real people. Standing in front of you.

It can be a story about anything. The hook-hand man. A dream you had. The time you had sex — sorry, “made love” — to that person off Craigslist who dressed like a bighorn sheep during the act. Hell, maybe it’s a comedy routine. Or even a single joke.

Tell the tale to one group, then the next, then the next.

See how they react. See where you might lose them.

Practice the telling. Sharpen it. Lose needless details. Amp up those parts to which they respond strongly. Now take all of that and see how it applies to a day’s writing — from a single sentence all the way to the whole script or game or novel. Imagine the reader there in front of you, reading. Imagine when they’ll put it down. Look for those places where they’ll be all, nah fuck it I got a frozen burrito with my name on it no I mean literally I wrote my name on it in Sharpie. Look for the parts where they’re pumping their fists and clenching their rosebuds and saying fuck yeah this is what I’m talking about more of this please, I can eat that stupid fucking burrito later.

Picture them right there.

Right here.

And tell the story to them.

 

Reporting From Whiskey Bunker

The day is done.

Under the Empyean Sky — a book that took me two months to write and another year to edit — is now out and in the world. And it’s doing very well, as I understand –

And that is thanks to you.

So, thanks.

High-five each and every one of you.

Writing books is weird. Getting ‘em published is even weirder.

So it’s nice to have readers to join me on this really weird journey.

I’ll politely note that the book remains on sale at Amazon ($3.99 for Kindle, under $11 for hardcover). Regardless, I appreciate you checking this book out and telling folks and I JUST WANT TO HUG YOU ALL AND RUB MY BEARD MUSK UPON YOUR BROW. Ahem.

Go Ahead, Ask Me Anything

To celebrate the release of Under the Empyrean Sky, I’m gonna just leave this post here today for you to ask me anything you want. Ask me about the book. About young adult fiction. About my other books or my future books or whiskey preferences or toddler-wrangling techniques.

Anything.

Anything at all.

I’ll swing by here around noon EST and answer the first volley.

Then I’ll pop by come evening and answer more.

BECAUSE I’M FUNKY LIKE THAT.

Further! I’ll toss some swag and free books and such to my favorite five questions.

What kind of swag? Hell, I dunno. FREE STUFF. Mmmm. Free.

I am very excited and also very nervous about this book release (I got seven other books out now with publishers and each time I still get that “I might vomit up a cloud of nervous moths at any moment” feeling on release day). I am maybe a leetle teeny weeny bit more nervous this time because this book was a riskier story for me. It’s young adult, more worldbuildy, more sci-fi-flavored, and so forth. Plus it’s got stuff about sons and fathers, about food and agriculture and my memories of farm-life. It tries to be exciting and yet say something at the same time — yet also say something without being preachy about it and aaaaaaah *head asplodes*

What I’m saying is:

It was a tricky book to write and I hope it paid off.

And so, my plea: I only get to keep doing this if you tell folks and those folks maybe check out the book? I live and die by the grace of goodly readers such as yourselves — and, more to the point, this website lives or dies in much the same way. My writing helps fund this website (and monthly costs are no longer cheap, sadly), and so it’s folks buying my books and talking about those books that keeps this whole set of plates spinning.

So, again:

Check out the book.

Tell folks.

If you’re so inclined to leave a review somewhere: yay.

I appreciate it.

This website appreciates it.

My two-year-old appreciates it.

High-five to each and every one of you.

Now ask me some questions, willya?