Chuck Wendig's Blog, page 63

Sean Grigsby: Pulp With A Purpose

Pulp. Grindhouse. Exploitation.

These words conjure images of explosions, gritty streets, and events that defy the laws of logic and physics. One might pass an eye over the covers of books and films in this style and immediately assume that they are mindless forms of entertainment at best and absolute trash at worst.

I’m here to tell you this assumption is dead wrong. Of course, exploitation has its bad apples that really are just guts and sex and nothing else, but, when done right, when focused to a righteous point, exploitation can change the world… and have a hell of a lot of fun along the way.

When I wrote my book, Daughters of Forgotten Light, I was angry, furious at the way society treats those who don’t fit into a prescribed box. They are ostracized and treated as outcasts, and a majority of them are women. In my book, a new ice age forces the government to do a little population control, giving parents the power to sell their children to the military, or send the women who don’t make the cut to a prison city in space.

But I didn’t want to be didactic. I wanted to entertain readers while I fumed about the injustices of the world. And that’s where I brought in laser-wheeled motorcycles, boomerangs made of light, and a gritty vibe that’s been described as Bitch Planet meets Escape from New York.  I added tips of the hat to women-in-prison films, cannibal movies, and outlaw motorcycle flicks, while giving all the power to the women.

There’s this idea out there that you can either write fiction that delves into the human condition, espousing justice for those trampled on by society, or you can write about space lesbians that blow shit up.

Allow me to step up to the pulpit and declare through the megaphone: you can do both.

We first screen all information with the “hot cognition” area of our minds, also known as the crocodile brain. Swear words, acts of violence, and sex all give us that tiny shock to keep our attention and receive the message with open ears and stunned expressions.

It’s the difference between a boring school lecture you forgot as soon as you walked out the door and the holy-shit-this-has-changed-my-life-forever book or movie you took in over a weekend, and have probably told someone else about every day since.

Stories are meant to entertain and give us a different perspective on the world. Exploitation tells stories in a way that “serious fiction” can’t. It makes you face things in full, visceral detail, titillating you while addressing issues you might not have even thought about before. This style isn’t just about cheap thrills. At its finest, it reveals the best and worst in us, expands our world view for the dirty reality it is, and I say that’s what good art is for.

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Sean Grigsby is a professional firefighter in central Arkansas, where he writes about lasers, aliens, and guitar battles with the Devil when he’s not fighting dragons. He hosts the Cosmic Dragon podcast and grew up on Goosebumps books in Memphis, TN.

Sean Grigsby: Website

Daughters of Forgotten Light: Indiebound | Amazon | B&N | Kobo | BAM

A floating prison is home to Earth’s unwanted people, where they are forgotten… but not yet dead, in this wild science fiction adventure

Deep space penal colony Oubliette, population: scum. Lena “Horror” Horowitz leads the Daughters of Forgotten Light, one of three vicious gangs fighting for survival on Oubliette. Their fragile truce is shaken when a new shipment arrives from Earth carrying a fresh batch of prisoners and supplies to squabble over. But the delivery includes two new surprises: a drone, and a baby. Earth Senator Linda Dolfuse wants evidence of the bloodthirsty gangs to justify the government finally eradicating the wasters dumped on Oubliette. There’s only one problem: the baby in the drone’s video may be hers.

Jessica McDonald: Five Things I Learned Writing Born To Be Magic

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It’s like Law & Order, but with witchcraft.

Rachel Collins isn’t sure sarcasm is an actual method of self-defense, but she keeps testing the theory. On paper, she’s an agent for the Colorado Bureau of Investigation, but in reality, she’s a ley witch, and as a deputy working for the High Council of Witches, it’s her job to keep the supernatural in line and protect humanity from the things they don’t know exist. It’s dangerous, and not just because a Walking Dead reject might eat her face. If she uses too much power, she could become a monster herself. 

It’s all magical forensics and arresting perps for dealing with demons until Rachel’s brother disappears, kidnapped by someone sending her a very particular message. Defying the Council’s order to stay off her brother’s case, Rachel hides her witchy identity from the demon hunter Sean—which definitely has nothing to do with how hot he is—and strikes a deal to save her brother. Unfortunately, their plan risks corrupting Rachel’s soul, a grievous offense in the eyes of the Council. Now she’ll have to prove she’s not hellbound — or suffer the same brand of justice she used to serve. 

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Diversity isn’t a default

You either nodded or rolled your eyes right now, but hang with me here. We need diverse books. We need them because we have diverse readers, and those readers deserve to see themselves represented in media. I’m a big believer in this, to the point of being an activist. I’ve spoken on it at conferences. I wrote an essay for Invisible 2 [link https://www.amazon.com/Invisible-Pers...], edited by Jim C. Hines, on representation of Native Americans in sci-fi and fantasy. I put my dollars toward diverse media as much as I can.

My first couple passes of BORN were very white, very straight, and very male—despite having a female protagonist.

Even for me, the default of straight white male had wormed its way into my writing. What’s worse is that I didn’t notice until I did a fun little exercise where I cast my novel—I picked actors and actresses that I would like to see play all the different characters and put their pictures in a Word doc. When I looked at it—whoo boy. I ended up doing a lot of gender- and race-swapping to make the book more balanced.

It made me think about my writing more critically, to think about the experiences of marginalized people and how those experiences shape characters, and how we as authors can authentically reflect those experiences. It made me think even more critically about media I consumed and how it affected me. It made me put more effort into the characters I created. I learned an uncomfortable truth about myself: That even with all my attention toward diversity, I’d still been so subconsciously influenced that my novel reflected dominant cultural norms. It surprised me, and it’s made me pay more attention in novels I’ve written since then.

Just keep writing—but edit ruthlessly

When I was but a wee research assistant at a trade association in Washington, DC, my boss, the chief economist, was fond of the phrase, “Don’t let the best become the enemy of the good.” Never has this been more relatable than in my writing. As authors, we’re all intimately familiar with self-doubt and insecurity. They’re the dragons that threaten to slay our dreams. We want polished, publishable work done on a first draft, which is pure fantasy. But we want it, and when we write less-than-perfectly, it can intimidate us. Sometimes, it becomes so intimidating that the writing wheels grind to a halt, and that, my friends, is how you get a hundred people telling you, “I wanted to write a novel, but I only got a few chapters in…”

I wrote the first draft of BORN in under two weeks. People asked me how. I said I used the “Dory [link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Hkn-...] method”—just keep writing, just keep writing. I even jokingly wrote a blog post [link: http://coloradojessica.tumblr.com/pos...] about my writing process in which Stage 1 was WRITE WRITE WRITE JUST KEEP WRITING IS THAT EVEN ENGLISH WHO CARES.

I have written sentences like, “I watched my watch.”

“Eyes like chips of eyes.”

“Sean looked thought he had not mulling it over.” (Actual line from an early version of BORN.)

Friends, I have written sentences that even I didn’t know what the hell they meant upon revision.

But I kept writing, and by continuing to write, I finished BORN. I finished three sequels to BORN. I finished a YA novel and am a quarter of the way through a crime thriller. Graduate school first taught me this. You can’t wait for the inspiration or muse: you publish or perish. You write or die. (Maybe not literally, but trust me, in grad school it feels literal.) This lesson flourished as I wrote BORN. I learned to write even when I thought it was trash, even when the words came torturously slow, even when all my doubt and insecurity screamed at me like ten thousand cicadas at a metal concert.

I kept writing. And I learned that I could write not just one, but multiple novels.

Now, I’m clearly a pantser [link: https://thewritepractice.com/plotters...], and I also learned a follow-up to this: Revisions are where your story becomes a story instead of merely a collection of words. I learned to be ruthless in my edits. I’d heard to kill my darlings, and I didn’t only slash paragraphs, I axed chapters. If it wasn’t moving the plot, if it wasn’t revelatory about a character, if it wasn’t contributing to the story, it hit the circular file. I also learned it’s a lot easier to kill your darlings if you cut and paste them into a separate Word file. I have fantasies that maybe one day I’ll release “deleted scenes” like on DVDs. But I learned to be cold-hearted when it came to revisions, and I learned that multiple revisions—sometimes multiple structural revisions—were necessary. I hated doing them (see this blog post [link: http://coloradojessica.tumblr.com/pos...]) but I learned they made my story more complete and created an overall better novel.

Hone your skills in unexpected places

So I’m going to get super nerdy here. I told you to keep writing. Sometimes, though, you simply can’t muster the wherewithal to write on your novel. Writing is a practiced art form, one that you must do to perfect. You must do it relentlessly. When I got stuck, or more often as a warm up, I’d do side projects. I’d rewrite episodes of TV shows to tell the story from a different angle, or to insert my characters into that world. I did a 30 Days of Writing challenge. I did writing prompts. Sometimes the results were long, sometimes only a few paragraphs, but it flexed my writing muscles and got me geared up for novel work.

I also learned that my roleplaying hobby could be an important way to improve my writing. I don’t mean tabletop RPG (although I do that too), but online roleplaying, which is cooperative storytelling. It’s prevalent on Tumblr (you can see my nerdiness in all its glory here [link: http://soulbranded.tumblr.com]) although it’s been around for ages. I used to do it as a teenager, along with writing fanfiction, which I will defend to the death as an important form of creative expression.

Roleplaying works like this: You play a character, and you have a thread—a cooperative story—with another person writing their character. You make a post describing your character’s actions, and your partner will reply with their character’s response. Sometimes there’s a loose plot, sometimes it’s on the fly. What I learned is that people threw things at me I never before considered about my protagonist, and that made me a better writer.

I learned to flesh out things about my characters and my world that I hadn’t thought of before. I learned to write better dialogue. I learned to be better at showing instead of telling. Because you’re writing with the same person, you can’t repeat lines like, “he smiled” or “her eyes shined” if you want to be a good roleplayer. You have to be creative with language. Roleplaying was a way that I practiced writing when I wasn’t writing on the novel, and it made me develop strong habits in description, character, setting, and voice. Not everyone is going to be a roleplayer, but I learned that unique activities like those side projects and roleplaying polished my craft in surprising ways.

It’s how you tell the story

There’s a lot of discussion over whether there are any “new” stories left. I worried about this constantly while writing BORN, where I felt that my plot wasn’t the sparkling unique unicorn required to stand out. I thought I’d better make strong characters, because I was weak on plot. But as my novel went through critiques and beta readers, as I got feedback from agents and editors, not one person mentioned that the plot was unoriginal. In fact, they praised it. Now, let me tell you that when I started BORN, here was my concept: There was a witch and her brother went missing. That was it. I had to figure the rest out along the way. Eventually, I worked something out: it wasn’t about the plot, it was how I was telling it.

Some of our most beloved stories are fairly pedestrian in their plots. There’s the old canard about every story being about either a journey or a murder. There’s the hero’s journey, which we all recognize in Star Wars. The trick, and where good stories stand out, is to take the recognizable and give it a twist. Tell the story in a way that only you can tell it. I learned this could come through characters, but it also comes through in the reason you’re writing this story in the first place. Everyone has that Reason—why this story, why this way. I wanted to tell a story about identity and dealing with something inside you that both gives you power and poses great danger. As a mixed-race person with chronic illness, both of those themes are near and dear to my heart. So my plot—my series of events—was told through that lens, and that lens is what matters most.

I also learned that to make that lens complete, you have to tell the story from every angle. I don’t mean you have to write a book for every character, but sketch out notes. I told myself the plot from the perspective of the villain, the male lead, the protagonist’s brother, the human cop that’s sniffing too close to the protagonist’s supernatural case. This made my world more robust, and made the story more whole. I learned that it takes a village of viewpoints to build a strong story.

People will help you in amazing ways

Other blog posts have mentioned the importance of finding your writer tribe, and I’m going to mention it too, because it’s probably the most important thing you can have as an author. Writing is a solitary endeavor. You feel like Gollum holed up with your precioussssss laptop. There may or may not be weeping in the corner. It’s hard. When I first wrote BORN, I didn’t have a critique group or a tribe of other writers. I had a few friends that I sent it to for fun. Most didn’t respond; one in particular (shout out to Pherin!) became my biggest supporter. She has read every version of BORN, and there’ve been approximately 243,934 of them. She’s talked through plot points with me. She’s been an editor and a cheerleader and a therapist and someone who believed in my novel and me even when I didn’t.

It took me a while to find a good critique group (shout out to Highlands Ranch Fiction Writers!) They also became so much more than critique partners. They are commiserating shoulders to cry on. They are motivational speakers and coaches and comrades-in-arms in this battle against insecurity and doubt. They’ve all helped me in amazing ways, whether it was to read the novel or buy a copy or publicize my Kickstarter or give advice. And that’s what I learned—people will do amazing things for you if you simply ask.

I hate to seem like I’m imposing on others, so asking for help isn’t something I’m good at. But I learned that writers, we stick together. We help each other and we lift each other up and if we can lend a hand, we do. And not only writers, either—friends and family and people you met through work conferences. People are incredible beings with great capacity for giving. All you have to do is ask. This blog post is here because Chuck is an awesome dude and was willing to help me. Jim Hines publicized my Kickstarter because he’s also an awesome dude and was happy to help. A colleague I met several years ago not only pushed my Kickstarter out to his network but also became a backer.

Trust that people believe in you and want you to succeed, and will help you if they can. Trust in the good, kind nature of people. That’s a lesson not just for writing, but for life.

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Writer, speaker, geek. Jessica writes urban fantasy and YA, and is a purveyor of real-life magic. Powered by caffeine, ridiculousness, and charm. Proud indigenous.

A two-time Zebulon Award winner, she is currently working on my sixth novel, a Diné-inspired YA paranormal called SKY MARKED. She belongs to Pikes Peak Writers and Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, as well as the crucial-to-her-success critique group, Highlands Ranch Fiction Writers.

Jessica McDonald: Twitter | Blog

Born To Be Magic: Kickstarter

Amber Fallon: Just As Vicious As The Boys

Amber Fallon has edited a new all-women-author anthology, and here she talks about the impetus for where it comes from: 

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Gather round, humans and nonhuman entities. For I want to tell you all a tale. A tale of how much it can suck sometimes to be a woman, especially one trying to make a name for herself in a male dominated arena.

While my humble beginnings are a bit, shall we say murky? I’ve been writing professionally (meaning, getting paid in exchange for my words) for about five years or so. That is both an eternity and a drop in the bucket… but it’s also more than enough time to grapple with some serious sexism in the industry. And so begins our story:

I was tabling at one of my very first conventions. It may have been *the* first, I don’t recall, I’ve done so many… but it was early enough on in my career that I didn’t say anything to anyone when this whole thing went down. At that point, I was too nervous, too worried about making waves or ruffling feathers, or any other euphemisms for pissing people off, so I did nothing. If something like this happens to you, I highly advise you to go speak with the organizers or event staff ASAP. I wish I had.

If you’ve never been to a convention before, or if you’ve only gone as an attendee, allow me to set the pre-con scene for you: Big old mostly empty building with row upon row of tables. Celebrities, guests, and vendors who had purchased table space, like myself, are allowed in early on the first day of the show to set up. It’s nice, in a weird ghost town kind of way, all echoey and quiet… it’s also a great time to network. After you’ve set your own table up, go around and introduce yourself. See if anyone else needs a hand with their frustrating banners, or maybe some extra tape or a cheap plastic bowl to hold candy. I’m always prepared with that kind of thing and being helpful is just sort of in my nature.

So, me being me, I set up my own table with a bunch of fun Halloween decorations and a few homemade banners, and then I went to say hi to new faces and see who I could help out.

There were two young guys at the table next to me. I didn’t recognize either of them, so I went and said hello, noticing that their table was bare save for the con-provided black tablecloths.

“Do you need any help setting up?” I asked politely.

“Nah, we can handle it,” the taller one said. I smiled and offered candy or tape if they needed it. Then I went and took pictures of my table for social media.

Right before the floor opened to the attendees, I looked over and noticed that all my neighbors had done was stack some books on their otherwise bare table. Huh. Was I overdoing it? Was this a newbie mistake? I looked back at my table and wondered, doubting myself.

But I didn’t have time to change anything. People started streaming in and I was determined to get my face out there and sell some books.

Was I a bit overzealous? Maybe. But I hardly spent any time behind the table. Instead, I stood out in front of it, handing out candy and bookmarks in the shape of toe tags with my name on them. I forced myself out of my comfort zone and talked to as many people as I could, about anything. If they had a shirt on from a property I recognized, I commented on it. If they were in costume, I appreciated it, if they bought books elsewhere, I talked up the authors I knew. I was doing my best to get face time.

I had a lot of people coming up to me. Most of them didn’t buy books, but that was OK. They chatted and took bookmarks and candy.

A few times during the morning, I glanced over at those two guys sitting next to me. Their table was still bare. Their books sat untouched. They were, from what I observed, mostly playing with their phones behind the table. Shrug. Not my problem. Until it was.

About halfway through the first day of the convention, I guess my neighbors noticed how many people I had at my table. I don’t think they liked that, and I don’t think they thought about the fact that I had put in the work. I decorated my table. I left my phone in the car. I was up and actively engaging congoers. They weren’t.

So they took matters into their own hands and came over.

“You don’t want to read her stuff,” one of them told a gentleman in a Metallica shirt in line for candy at my table, “she doesn’t write real horror.”

Had I really just heard what I thought I heard? Maybe I was just imagining things. Maybe the Metallica fan was my vendor neighbor’s friend or something and they were joking around.

No. They pulled that act multiple times. Again and again they told people at or near my table not to bother with me, that I was “just a girl” and that I “couldn’t write anything scary”.

Again, I was pretty new at the time, so it was HIGHLY unlikely that either of them knew me. They just saw a woman and made an assumption.

And it’s an assumption that a surprising amount of people make. Regularly.

In addition to this travesty of human interaction, I once had an agent, a supposed professional, tell me that he loved my pitch and the sample chapter I’d sent him, and that he’d love to represent me if only I could “improve the marketability of my image,” something he assured me I could do by losing some weight and dressing more provocatively.

I had a dude at a convention loudly and emphatically arguing with me that I didn’t write horror, it was “paranormal romance, sweetheart!” Funny, seeing as how there is next to no romance in anything I’ve ever written.

I attended an event with my husband and had some rando insist that it wasn’t me that wrote my stuff, it was actually my husband, who for some reason just allowed me to put my name on it.

Fairly recently, I was chased off social media after posting my displeasure about an all male TOC in a non gender specific, big name anthology. In this day and age, I just don’t think that’s acceptable. If the book is looking for specific contributors (say, single fathers for instance) sure. But just a regular old anthology? No. That’s where I draw the line.

So I posted about it. I wanted to dispel the undying zombie myths that women writers just aren’t good enough, or they don’t submit enough, or any other bullshit excuse for sexism in the industry. As a result, I was attacked, harassed, and threatened until just the buzzing of notifications on my phone sent me into a panic.

I’ve been told that I’m a fad, that the only reason I’ve seen any success at all is because of “diversity,” that if “If I were a man, I’d never have been published at all!” and I’ve heard rumors that I’ve exchanged sexual favors for publication.

All of this, while not okay by a LONG stretch, is completely fucking normal. Go ahead, ask a woman author. I’ll wait.

Yeah, see? We ALL have these stories. Because despite progress, despite 2018, despite awareness… sexism is like a vast stinking river that only gets deeper and wider the more you try to stem the flow.

So what can we do about it?

I edited Fright into Flight, an anthology of all women authors, eagerly putting my money (so to speak) where my mouth is in an effort to show the world we can write fiction just as dark, brutal, biting, and vicious as the boys.

You?

You can read books and stories by female authors. Share the ones you love. Talk about them. And if you hear someone spreading that “women can’t write anything truly horrific” garbage? Set them straight. And it’s not just horror, either. Women writers I’ve talked to from other genres also experience this kind of garbage all the time. We can be better. We can read better.

Need some suggestions? There are lots and lots of talented women writing these days, so this list is by no means inclusive… but here are a few of my favorites. Google them or look up their stuff on Amazon and enjoy:

Delilah S. Dawson

Alyssa Wong

Chesya Burke

Somer Canon

Jessica McHugh

Hillary Monahan

Michelle Garza and Melissa Lason (writing as The Sisters of Slaughter)

Mary SanGiovanni

Kelli Owen

Kristi DeMeester

Livia Llewellyn

Gemma Files

Molly Tanzer

Seanan McGuire

Christine Morgan

Tiffany Scandal

The list goes on and on.

Go forth and read. Share. Spread the message. More diverse readers will help pave the way for more diverse writers, and that benefits everyone!

I hope you’ll consider picking up Fright into Flight, from Word Horde, or some other fiction by or including women. We have such sights to show you.

Fright Into Flight: Amazon | B&N | WordHorde

 

 

Trust In The Process

I have been writing novels professionally now for, what, seven years? Eight? Over twenty books? And here is a thing that happens to me every fucking time I start a new book —

I’ve think:

a) I’ve lost it

and

b) I am lost

Translation: I had a map, and now it’s gone.

And now I don’t know where I am.

I think: I can’t do this, I don’t know what I’m doing, this book is bad, what was I thinking, it’s too slow, or too fast, or too confusing, or too much this, or not enough that, or is this even in English, do I speak English, are these words or just doodles of dongs, oh my god am I just writing page after page of dong doogles like some kind of puerile pornographic Jack Torrance, oh no.

It’s not even Impostor Syndrome — that is a related-but-separate repeating phenomenon — it’s just the feeling that I’ve gone and fucked up the book already. In the first 5,000 words, I’m sure I’m going to have to scrap it and kick it into the sewer grates where the sewer clowns can have it.

(At least down there it’ll float.)

This feeling feels new every time.

It also happens every time.

Which means: yeah, it isn’t new. It’s just some shit I have to go through, and I have to remind myself this is the way it is.

And it might be that way for you, too, and so I’m here to offer some emotional advice to get through it:

Cultivate patience and trust in the process.

What I mean is this:

Your process is not my process, but I’m going to assume that we at least share the common bond of writing a first draft, and then having to write subsequent drafts. Some books demand robust re-drafting, others require gentler tweaks, but at the end of the day, there’s bare minimum a first draft and a second draft, right? If you’re the type who writes only one draft for every book, you are either a genius, or a delusional fool. (And the line between those two is a lot blurrier than you think.)

Me, I gotta do the work.

But here’s the trick: that process is in place for a reason.

And that process will save you.

Let’s switch gears a little.

AWOOGA AWOOGA FOOD-AND-COOKING METAPHOR ALERT

I FUCKING LOVE FOOD-AND-COOKING METAPHORS

I’M SORRY IN ADVANCE

INCOMING

Okay, so, when you cook a meal, how does that work?

You get out your ingredients. You prep them however you must — you chop the vegetables, you debone the fish, you pummel the turnip, you grind your foe’s bones in a mortar-and-pestle which is itself the skull of another former foe, yadda yadda.

Point is, you gotta get your mise en place together (which is French for “I NEED DIS STUF”) and then you… put it wherever it needs to go. In a pot, in a casserole dish, in a hot skillet.

That’s your first draft of the meal.

It’s just the elements revealed and arranged.

But cooking is a factor of time and heat — okay, it’s not just that, but those are two critical factors to cooking. To cook a dish, you need to apply heat in a variety of ways, and you need time. Sometimes the heat is high and the time is short, sometimes it’s a long time with low heat. Sometimes, a mix: start high heat to sear, then break down slowly with minimal heat over several hours. There can be agitation involved. There are adjustments made for flavor. You can add thickeners, you can add and then take away a bay leaf, or a herb bundle, or a wizard’s fingerbone. (So zesty!) Point is, chucking a bunch of food in a pot is not the meal. The meal is more than those first stages.

The meal is more than the first draft.

To switch Metaphor Horses midstream —

You wanna put together a puzzle, you first put all the pieces on the table.

I have to remember this every fucking time I write.

The first draft — and in particular the first 5-10k of that first draft — is just me chopping vegetables. It’s prep. It’s learning the recipe. It’s dumping out the puzzle pieces. It’s wandering through a new house in the dark, learning its layout, its topography, and how not to break my pinky toe on the fucking coffee table.

I have to remind myself, this is normal.

I’ll get through it.

It’s like turbulence on a plane, or an anxiety attack — I have to take myself out of the reaction I’m having and recognize, this has come before, and it will come again, and it always goes the same way. That way is: I’ll get through it. I have to cultivate patience in myself and the work. If I don’t remember this, then panic unspools. I feel like I can’t control this, that it’s new, that I’ve done well before but this time, this time, I’ve really gone and fucked it up in an irrevocable way. But if I remember the legacy of this reaction — that it is as regular as clockwork — I rob it of its power, and it can no longer feed on itself. It’s not controlled, exactly, but it is held distant, so I can examine it for what it is.

I have to trust the process I have laid before me. I have as many drafts as I need to get it right. And if I care enough about the story, no part of it is unfixable. Further, my own judgment on a story is the literal worst as I am writing it — I love parts that will need to get cut, I hate parts that are already amazing and I just can’t recognize it. My self-estimation is a mess; it’s just static and broken signal.

So, that’s my message to myself, this morning, and to you, should you require it:

Cultivate patience.

Trust in the process.

Cooking takes time and heat.

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DAMN FINE STORY: Mastering the Tools of a Powerful Narrative

What do Luke Skywalker, John McClane, and a lonely dog on Ho’okipa Beach have in common? Simply put, we care about them.

Great storytelling is making readers care about your characters, the choices they make, and what happens to them. It’s making your audience feel the tension and emotion of a situation right alongside your protagonist. And to tell a damn fine story, you need to understand why and how that caring happens.

Whether you’re writing a novel, screenplay, video game, or comic, this funny and informative guide is chock-full of examples about the art and craft of storytelling–and how to write a damn fine story of your own.

Indiebound  /  Amazon  /  B&N

Macro Monday Has A Very Cool Thing To Show You

The featured image — which I think you only get if you are visiting the site here, not if you subscribe, do I have that right? — is a squirrel chomping down on some random berries. It’s an imperfect shot; I wish the squirrel had been just a bit more into the frame, but it was not to be, sadly. Still, I like the little fucker’s expression.

Anyway! The really cool thing I have to show you is this:

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That is the Chinese edition cover of The Raptor & The Wren from Beijing White Horse Time. They’re the Chinese publisher of the Miriam Black series, and you can see the other four covers here:

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So pretty. Not sure who the artist is, though I will try to find out. Note too that Beijing White Horse Time will also publish Vultures.

Speaking of which, Vultures is now up for pre-order — and that cover, if you haven’t seen it, is easily my favorite of the whole series thus far:

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Adam Doyle nailed that one. Really, just — *swoon*

A casual reminder that The Raptor & The Wren is out now —

Print | eBook

And Vultures comes out in January —

Preorder Print | Preorder eBook

So, yeah.

Six books, and in January, Miriam’s journey is over.

Not much else going on, so here’s a couple more macro photos to tickle your primary visual cortex — please to enjoy. (Oh, and yes, that red-spotted purple butterfly does seem like she’s about to hoover up some kind of other bug’s poop. Ahh, nature. So precious!)

Michael J. Martinez: What To Do About Fan Service

Mike Martinez is a good dude and a damn fine writer and he wanted to pop by today to talk about a conundrum he had writing his latest book — how much does a writer need to consider the wants and service of the fans of the previous books? What’s the balance there? Mike has thoughts.

* * *

I’m gonna talk about fan service and creativity today, and because many of you know my host from his work on Star Wars, I’ll start there. Buckle up.

When The Force Awakens came out in late 2015, well…it was a simpler time. American democracy remained relatively intact, for starters, and we were just happy to get any Star Wars whatsoever. What we got was comfortable – a very familiar story with some new characters, loaded with the tropes we remembered from the original trilogy and updated with the best movie magic tech around.

Fans were served. There was general rejoicing. Star Wars was back! Yes, there were some who complained that The Force Awakens felt like a re-tread. Totally valid, because it was. There was a certain faith that had to be reestablished with fans, and some reminding to do as to why Star Wars as a whole was awesome. The Force Awakens did what it was supposed to do.

Fast-forward two years, and oh my. The Last Jedi was just so very different from what came before, and treated iconic characters in unexpected ways. It took me a few viewings to really grok what Rian Johnson was trying to do, and when I did, I was deeply appreciative.

Of course, certain segments of fandom were…less appreciative. But it’s a credit to Rian and others who made The Last Jedi that they stood by their choices in the face of (insane, over-the-top, toxic, stupid) criticism. Because in the end, The Last Jedi served Star Wars fans just as much as The Force Awakens did – but this time, by turning it on its head.

“Fan service” is kind of a dirty word when it comes to creators – whether it’s books or movies or whatever. There’s a sense in there that the creator is pandering to fans, serving up the same reheated stuff like grandma’s mac-n-cheez because they know they’ll eat it and love it. And you know what? That’s fine! Eat up. Grandma’s got more.

There are times, for both creative and business reasons, where you want to give ‘em what they’re asking for. Heck, it’s safe and, usually, profitable to do so. And if you’re establishing something new or you want to reaffirm your audience’s faith in what you’re doing, give them what they love. This isn’t a sin. If that’s where the creator feels the story should go, it should go there. We want people to buy into what we’re doing, after all.

But we’re creators, man. We’re not slaving away in a story factory, wearing gray coveralls and churning out canned story meats all the time. Sometimes, we want to wreck the machine and throw the meats against the wall and puzzle out new plots from the splatter patterns.

And you know what? That’s serving fans just as much, if not moreso.

We all want our comfort food. But when the creator makes a left turn and blows stuff up, think of the passion that generates. How many people were furious with George R.R. Martin after the Red Wedding? They got over it, of course, though let’s face it – George had already established his murderous intent early on in his work. (RIP, Ned.) But still, he was willing to upend the narrative and blow people away with his choices. The fans were upset – but ultimately, George got far more fans than he lost.

So when do you blow up that narrative? When do you serve the fans by potentially pissing them off?

There’s no easy answer to that, of course. I wrapped the last book in my MAJESTIC-12 series, the aptly-named MJ-12: Endgame, with some head-turning changes. Friends were foes, heroes died, people changed sides. I mean, it’s a spy thriller, so if you don’t go in expecting that stuff, shame on you, right?

I figured I might lose a fan or two with some of the character choices I made. Someone could be angry that a certain character lived or died, or that someone else was hiding a major secret. So be it. I was happy with it. That’s because my primary approach was that of a fan. I am indeed a fan of my own work! And why not? I WROTE IT. IT’S MINE. I should like it. If I didn’t like it, I’d change it or just stop writing it.

So that, to me, is the simple-yet-infinitely-complex solution to serving your audience and writing for fans – be a fan of your own work. Make the decision to change the narrative based on the story you want to tell, because you’ve lived with the story and those characters more than anybody else on the planet could. If you want to write something comforting, then by all means, go for it. If you want to blow shit up, have at it!

Not everyone will like it. But it’s the most honest way to go.

***

Michael J. Martinez is the author of MJ-12: Endgame, the final volume in his MAJESTIC-12 series of spy-fi novels, due out Sept. 4. He’s also written other stuff and will continue to do so until someone stops him. He recently relocated to California, where the sun beats down unrelentingly but somehow, the people remain super friendly. It’s annoying all around, but he’s adapting.

Michael J. Martinez: Blog | Twitter | Facebook

MJ-12: Endgame: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Indie Bound

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Sometimes It’s Okay To Quit Writing The Thing You’re Writing

I talk a good game.

I say the right words, the right motivational words. I say, don’t quit! I say, keep writing that story, finish your shit, end what you begin, you can do it, and then I shake my pom-poms (which may or may not be the nickname I have given to my buttcheeks), and rah-rah-rah.

And it’s not bad advice, in the general sense. Of course you have to finish your shit. If you start writing a story, you’re best also trying to end that story. And that’s for a lot of reasons: it’s because we need to know that we are capable of ending what we begin, it’s because the ending of a story is a vital component to learn, it’s because so many writers never finish what they start, it’s because we need that little dopamine hit of stumbling drunkenly over the finish line.

It is, as a rule, a pretty hard and fast one. Most of writing is not given over to rules carved into the schist and bedrock, but this one? It’s pretty damn close, right?

Finish.

Your.

Shit.

Except.

Wait, what? Except what? What the fuck, Chuck? Didn’t you just say this was a hard and fast rule? Carved into schist, whatever the fuck schist is? What is schist, anyway? Is it poop? Rock poop? “Oh no, I schist myself,” the boulder said, ejecting a rattle of little pebbles out of its craggy crevice. Or is it crevasse? Is any of this important? Are you talking to yourself, Chuck? Am I talking to myself?

Who am I?

Who are you?

Man, this post has already gone way off the rails.

Let’s refocus:

Sure, finish your shit.

Except, sometimes, you have to quit.

Now, I don’t mean in the larger scheme of things — I don’t mean, QUIT WRITING, YOU SUCK. You may! Suck, that is. I certainly did, once upon a time — and I may yet still. I think the reason to quit writing overall is that you don’t really like it very much, but it’s damn sure not because you aren’t good at it, because not being good at a thing is the precursor to getting good at the thing.

No, I mean, sometimes you have to abandon a story.

You gotta cut bait and let the fish have the worm.

It’s okay.

Here’s why you quit a story, I think —

a) You’re just not ready. Or it’s not ready. Point is? Something’s off. The stories we write aren’t all surface — the writing of a tale is rarely the sum total of the work that goes into it, and very early on in my life and career I hadn’t figured this out. I’d get an idea and I’d instantly run to the page and scribble scribble scribble and then be mad at myself because what was on the page was half-formed drivel. Shallower than a thimble of spit. What goes into a story is often a whole lot of foundational thinking and feeling and internal arguing — a kind of quality assurance testing, a weird narrative Thunderdome-of-Ideas. Like brownies, a story needs time to bake. Pull them out too early and it’s just goop. (Though: maybe delicious goop.) If you’re building a house, so much of that architecture is about establishing a strong, unshakeable foundation — even though that foundation is something the homeowners will never see. It’s hidden beneath the dirt, but without it, the walls tumble, the roof falls, the house crumbles. Sometimes you just haven’t laid the foundation of the story.

b) It’s just not any good. Now, this one is tricky as hell, because we remain the worst judges of our own work, especially when we’re in the thick of it. I routinely am certain that the thing I am writing is APOCALYPTICALLY BAD, and then the next day I feel like it’s THE BEST THING I’VE EVER WRITTEN, BY GOSH AND BY GOLLY, and sometimes I feel those two contradictory feelings multiple times in the span of a single hour. But! As you develop a good writing habit and a steady instinct for this stuff (an instinct sharpened largely against the whetstone of practice), you start to get a gut check for this stuff. And if you go days, weeks, 200 pages and you still think, this really isn’t coming together, then it’s time for a strategic retreat from the work.

c) You’re not having fun. This one, too, is tricky, because writing isn’t always an act of eating cotton candy while happy puppies squirm at your feet. Some days are purely reserved for shoveling earth. Some days are like pulling bad teeth. That’s normal. It isn’t always fun. Hell, it isn’t often fun. But there’s also an evaluation you might make — again, after some time with it — where you realize, you’re just not enjoying this. It holds no surprises for you. It feels rote and routine, and if it feels that way to you, it may very well feel that way to a reader. Once again, a strategic retreat is called upon.

d) Something better comes along. I don’t just mean a shinier idea — no, shinier ideas are the norm. They will constantly parade themselves before you. As I am wont to say, the question we ask writers shouldn’t be, “Where do you get your ideas?” but rather, “HOW DO YOU MAKE THEM STOP OH GOD THEY WON’T LEAVE ME ALONE PLEASE ARE THERE DRUGS TO HELP ME OR DO YOU HAVE A HAMMER I CAN HIT MYSELF WITH OH GOD I AM A CONSTANT IMAGINATION ANTENNA it’s so noisy please send cotton candy and puppies.” What I’m talking about is a confirmed, paying gig — like, I’ve quit one project because it was an uncertain thing, and I took the sure thing gig. But but but, the caveat to this is, do the mental calculus. Don’t just take a paying gig because it’s a paying gig if you’re not immediately desperate for the work or the cash. Sometimes it’s best to hunker down over the thing you care about instead of the thing that pays.

All of this adds up to an understanding of a sunk cost fallacy — just because you spent time writing something doesn’t mean you have to spend time finishing it. Yes, it’s good practice. Yes, there are myriad reasons to do so. But sometimes, you gotta give it the heave-ho and move onto something that feels better, feels stronger, something that sits on a more robust foundation.

Now, to tell a brief story —

I started a novel maybe… three, four years ago. I loved the idea, but halfway through it, it just wasn’t coming together. It didn’t feel right. And so I did what I am loathe to do: I abandoned that shit on the side of the road like a colicky baby. (Please do not abandon actual babies, by the way.) I hated it. I felt bad. But it felt like the only way — writing the story wasn’t just digging ditches, it felt like digging ditches to nowhere, for no purpose, just reshuffling dirt molecules for the sake of doing so.

And I sat on that broken, dead story for the last three years.

Thing is, it wasn’t dead after all.

Some grave, grotesque stirring of life still lurked inside it, and now here I am, about to re-start the story all over again. Because I figured it out. Years of having this goddamn seed stuck in my teeth, I finally tongued it hard and worked it out, and now I’ve got my hands around it.

It will be a proper novel still.

Now, the rest of my writing life is one where I wrote five novels before I ever began and have abandoned a few finished novels since getting published. And if we’re talking straight-up unfinished-as-fuck quit-ass novels, oh, man, I am like a serial killer of novels. I have left behind me a wake of story corpses, chopped in half before they ever lived a full life. So, I’ve quit many stories, and here I am, still writing. It didn’t kill me. It didn’t kill my work.

I quit shit, and yet onward I go.

Because even though I quit some stories, I still didn’t quit writing stories.

And that’s my message to you —

Sometimes, you have to quit writing a thing.

As long as you don’t quit writing all the things.

* * *

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DAMN FINE STORY: Mastering the Tools of a Powerful Narrative

What do Luke Skywalker, John McClane, and a lonely dog on Ho’okipa Beach have in common? Simply put, we care about them.

Great storytelling is making readers care about your characters, the choices they make, and what happens to them. It’s making your audience feel the tension and emotion of a situation right alongside your protagonist. And to tell a damn fine story, you need to understand why and how that caring happens.

Whether you’re writing a novel, screenplay, video game, or comic, this funny and informative guide is chock-full of examples about the art and craft of storytelling–and how to write a damn fine story of your own.

Indiebound  /  Amazon  /  B&N

Why Writing A Series (Especially As A New Author) Is Really Goddamn Hard

You may have heard of, or even experienced this scenario:

*inserts VHS tape into player*

*ancient afterschool special begins to play*

I wrote a book!

An agent took me on.

A publisher is interested…

Oh, holy shit, they’re going to make an offer! Ha ha! This is it! This is the dream.

The agent emailed me the offer.

It’s a —

Whoa.

WHOA.

It’s a three-book deal!

They say my book needs to be a series, a trilogy, and they want to buy the whole motherfucking trilogy, oh fucking yes, I am the GOD OF WRITING, this is amazing, I am amazing, my agent is amazing, the publisher is amazing.

*fast forward VHS tape*

Oh, this is great, my first book is coming out this week. I AM SO EXCITED I AM PISSING GLITTER. Plus, the publisher has put in a little time and money, and they’ve asked that I really develop my platform and my brand and we’re doing some Goodreads giveaways and — all while I’m writing the second book! Which comes out in the next 6-12 months! This is so cool!

*fast forwards some more*

Oh.

Well. Um. The book came out!

That’s good. But it… I mean, it didn’t do slambang numbers, and not sure if I’ll earn out. Maybe over time. That’ll be fine. Meanwhile, I’ll just… I’ll just keep plugging away on this second book.

Though, I need to admit, it’s… hard. It’s a little harder writing this second book knowing that the first wasn’t a big deal. Just emotionally it’s a lot, but hey — fuck that. I’m an author. I’ve got a three-book-deal, and I know for sure that the publisher believes in me and that the second book will get a nice extra push and —

*fast forwards*

I just got an email and the publisher isn’t really entirely behind the second book. They love it! They’re happy. But they’re also not… committing my attention to it because they feel like the money and time they gave to the first book should be enough but how are people going to find the second book if they haven’t found the first book? Is it magic? Are we relying on magic? Are there wizards? And it’s not like the second book can somehow sell more copies than the first, probably…

Well, that’s okay. Each book has a long tail and they’ll generate attention for one another and just having them on bookstore shelves will be a win!

*fast forwards*

Okay, sooooo, ha ha ha, turns out, bookstores set their orders based on the sales of the last book, and in fact they often cut those orders by 25-50%, so the first book not doing so hot means they haven’t ordered as many copies of the second book annnnnd

I’m sorta writing the third book now, a year later

or I’m trying to write the third book

and

it’s hard, it’s really hard

I’m writing this book

this third book

and I worry it’s just going to go kerplunk into the publishing toilet

but without the splash

just a flush

and then the void

and what about when I go to get my next book deal

and they look at the sales of this series, my first

what will happen

is this over just as it’s beginning?

*pops out VHS tape*

*spins chair around, sits on it in uncool Captain America-style*

So, here’s the thing.

The above scenario is a little pessimistic — and even if it happens, it’s important to recognize that it’s not the end-all be-all situation. You’re published, and though no book is guaranteed, your foot is in the door and I’ve found that publishers are not overly punitive regarding the sales of a first series. They’re not operating in bewildered isolation; they know the score. They know it’s hard. And if the next idea is a good one, they’ll offer again.

Though, they’ll probably offer with another series.

And here’s my caution —

Committing to a series, especially for a debut or new-ish author, is tough.

It’s tough for a lot of reasons.

a) It’s tough because of the spiraling situation above. Sales of a first book are no guarantee, and now you’re in for three books long before you know how the first has done. You will likely be in the middle of writing a second or third book by the time you figure out the first has done… you know, not that great. It’s not necessarily that your publisher won’t support that first book — they may, they may not. But they probably won’t throw much support behind the second or third book, on the hopes that the attention investment they put into the first book will carry it. If they don’t have an innovative strategy to grow the series — and some publishers do! — that series is, well, literally a series of diminishing returns. Which, yes, might mean cut orders from bookstores, or higher remainders, or whatever.

b) This feeds a secondary situation — some readers are growing gun-shy when it comes to investing in and keeping up with book series. They prefer not to buy a series until it’s complete — they’ve been burned before, you see. By authors who haven’t finished the series, or by a bookstore that stopped carrying the books, or by a publisher that ended a series early. And ironically, this situation in return re-feeds the first problem: if readers don’t commit to buying a series book by book along the way, then it’s even likelier that a bookstore will stop carrying it, that a publisher will stop publishing it, that the writer will keep writing it. This is the PUBLISHING OUROBOROS, a snake biting its own tail, slurping up its own body like a serpentine noodle.

c) Writing a series is… actually hard. Here you’re a debut writer and you’re tasked not just with one book, but three — and not just three books, but one story split thrice, a trilogy. I don’t to say this is advanced story math, exactly, but it’s also not basic shit. This is at least an intermediate level-up (ding), and I’m tempted to say it’s a swim forward or drown scenario, which is true, but it has the added complication that the success or failure of a book is not entirely reliant on you, the other. What I mean is, there are so many other factors that go into making a book leap into people’s hands or die on the shelf — marketing, promotion, cover design, placement, bookstore love, librarian mojo, zeitgeist, simple fucking luck — that now you’re forced to do this dance with three books, not one. It’s vital to realize this is a commitment on your part — like getting a new job and being told you can’t just quit if it doesn’t work out. “Welcome to Dave’s Churro Repair, new employee, please sign this contract confirming you work for us for at least two years!”

d) The commit to write a series or trilogy or whatever the configuration is a commitment often made before you’ve done it. That’s okay, and certainly there’s a certain pleasure to writing on spec — here’s the idea (which is nearly always in part a lie!) and now I am paid money to write it. But again, for a new author unused to the trials and tribulations of a writing schedule with a theoretically tight deadline, this can actually be pretty fucking tough. Again, this is thrown into the deep end stuff — HEY THANKS FOR THE BOOK, the publisher says, NOW WRITE TWO MORE IN THE NEXT 9-12 MONTHS. Which is phenomenal if you’re practiced and ready; less awesome if you have no idea what the fiddly fuck you’re doing and you’ve got kids and a day job and a weird habit of showing up in people’s houses with a chair and a VHS tape in order to lecture at them. Also, you’re dressed as Captain America. Freak. But also it’s kinda sexy? Shut up.

So, what do you do?

Well, I have no idea.

If you’re in SFF or, really, any kind of genre, it’s probably gonna come up. And when it does, you just need to be prepared for how to deal with it.

You could —

Talk to your agent. (And/or, the editor.) If the book isn’t something you want for a series, you need to own that up front. Be clear. It’s okay to not write or pitch a series, and it’s okay to be clear that this is a standalone. Wanderers (out July 2019!) is a book that is for me, very distinctly a standalone. Admittedly, a huge standalone (280k), but it’s one book. I had people ask if I could turn it into a duology or a trilogy — and yes, I could have, but no, I sure as fuck didn’t. The publisher believes in it as one book, and honestly, the pressure that alleviates is astounding. I don’t have to worry about 2-3 years worth of book releases in one story — it’s one and done, baby. And the second book in the deal is also a standalone, which is a new chance to succeed or fail rather than several books staple-gunned together into a giant authorial raft.

Plan for a series only if it merits a series. Again, worth talking to your agent and editor with the idea that the first book stands alone but has series potential — in other words, if it does well, you will commit to a series. If it doesn’t? Then you’re not on the hook for a few years of writing, editing, and promo. Note that a series benefits a publisher more than it benefits a writer, often, so, go in with clear-eyes and firm demands.

Self-publish. Self-published series do well — and self-publishing one book also gives you a reflexive ability to see if more books are demanded or if it’s time to cut bait and run. No publisher will demand you write more of a failing series because, drum roll please, you’re the publisher. Of course, that’s also the downside: you’re the publisher, not just the writer. Considerably more work on your part, but if you’re good at that kind of work or know how to pay the right people — go for it.

Write all the books first. Write the series first. If it’s a trilogy, write the trilogy before trying to publish. If it’s a longer series, write the first three books, at least. Or, bare minimum, plot the books robustly, so that when the contract comes in you’re not rushing to figure out the story beats on a longer series.

Suck it up and enjoy the ride. Hey, getting books published is awesome, and fuck it, you can just roll with whatever punches this industry throws at you. At least you know they’re coming, right?

p.s. Pissing Glitter is my CIA code name, don’t @ me

* * *

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THE RAPTOR & THE WREN: Miriam Black, Book 5

Miriam Black, in lockstep with death, continues on her quest to control her own fate!  Having been desperate to rid herself of her psychic powers, Miriam now finds herself armed with the solution — a seemingly impossible one. But Miriam’s past is catching up to her, just as she’s trying to leave it behind. A copy-cat killer has caught the public’s attention. An old nemesis is back from the dead. And Louis, the ex she still loves, will commit an unforgivable act if she doesn’t change the future. 

Miriam knows that only a great sacrifice is enough to counter fate. Can she save Louis, stop the killer, and survive? 

Hunted and haunted, Miriam is coming to a crossroads, and nothing is going to stand in her way, not even the Trespasser.

Indiebound  |  Amazon  |  B&N

Macro Monday Chases The Spotted Lanternfly With A Hammer

This motherfucker here is the spotted lanternfly.

On the plus side, it’s kind of pretty. The gray, stained-glass, fingerprint wings — and underneath them, which this does not show, you’d find a vicious splash of red, which at least makes them easy to identify at a distance. For when they fly, that red really pops. The fire of little lanterns.

On the minus side, they’re an invasive species making a fast, fast foray into Pennsylvania. They have a hunger for another invasive — the assy-smelling Tree of Heaven, which is a weedy tree that pops up like unwanted backhair — and if that’s all it were, it would also fall neatly into the plus column. Sure, jerk bug, eat the jerk tree, huzzah. But they also hanker for grape vines, apple trees, peach trees, I think walnuts trees, too? Last year, I’d seen a few of them here and there. This year I’ve seen ten times that amount, and last week we went to the wildlife conservancy to hike and look for butterflies, and while there, we probably saw… 50? 60? All in just a couple hours.

So, they’re here, and we crush them whenever possible. I’ve heard tell from Twitter pal Rebecca Seidel that maybe a little diluted Dawn dish soap with water can kill them. Worth a shot.

(Thanks, Rebecca!)

And of course, all this is happening as slowly-but-surely we lose a ton of wonderful ash trees thanks to the emerald ash borer. We’re inoculating some of our nicest trees because the cost of inoculation per tree per year has come down from $1000 to $100, but it’s also no guarantee.

Good job, mankind. Spreading invasive species, like a jerk.

I suppose this is where I do the thing where I’m like HEY HEY HEY I WROTE A BOOK CALLED INVASIVE and it’s sorta about invasive species, if by “invasive species” you mean “Frankensteinian man-made skin-harvesting ants who take over the island of Kauai.” Anyway, blah blah blah, buy Invasive, in print or ebook or audio, please and thank you.

Also, looks like Damn Fine Story on e-book is down a bit in price ($8.49).

Anyway.

If you want another buggy macro, here is the head, or maybe the butt? of an io moth caterpillar, replete with a waterdrop cradled in the spines. Those spines, by the way, will give you a nasty passive sting. They blend in perfectly with our redbud tree, and so it’s easy to brush along one and get stung. I haven’t, as yet, though our tree guy got a sting — some say it’s equivalent to a bee sting, others claim it’s far worse? DO NOT HUG THE CATERPILLAR.

Or, if you’d rather a caterpillar who is a wee smidgen friendlier, here is the caterpillar of the snowberry clearwing hummingbird moth, a cool moth whose wings are, well, literally transparent in places. This one is an adorable little sushi roll, and was very delicious HA HA what no I didn’t eat the caterpillar YOU ate the caterpillar shut up

Here, this caterpillar you can hug. I mean, gently. Or maybe you should just let the caterpillar hug you, I mean, what with those ADORABLE WIDDLE CATTYPILLOW PAWS OMFG.

Ahem.

Anyway, I guess that’s it for now.

BE GOOD, HOOMANS

*vanishes in an ostentatious display of pixels*

Michael Pogach: Five Things I Learned Writing Dystopias in the Age of Trump

[image error]In tomorrow’s America, belief is the new enemy. Faith in anything other than the State is outlawed. Rafael Ward has nothing else to believe in anyway. He’s content to teach the revised, government-approved narrative of history and collect his paycheck.

Ward’s life changes when an outlaw Believer named MacKenzie shows up at his door demanding his help. She insists he’s the key to finding the fabled Vase of Soissons, a Dark Age relic prophesized to return faith to the world. Or destroy it. Only when they are within reach of their goal, however, do they discover that the Vase is not at all what they thought.

The Spider in the Laurel, Book One in the Rafael Ward series, is available in paperback, ebook, and audiobook.

The Long Oblivion, Book Two in the Rafael Ward series, is now available in paperback and ebook.

* * *

TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION

“…because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; truth isn’t,” Mark Twain concluded in his famous quote. Truth is insane. Nobody predicted the 2016 election results. Nobody predicted a world in which it’s better to deny a tape exists of you doing something horrible than it is to simply deny doing that horrible thing. Yet here we are. You remember the meme, don’t you? “I wasn’t expecting the park rangers to lead the resistance; none of the dystopian novels I read prepared me for this.”

Truth is wacky. It’s stunning. And when it snowballs into the shit show of conscienceless asshats running things in Washington these days, it can be downright paralyzing. That’s where fiction comes in. Because fiction does have to stick to possibilities, it is our great release and our great inspiration. It gives us Frodo and Samwise. It tells us Rey can be the daughter of nobodies rather than another damn Skywalker. Reality is oppression and denying science and internment camps. Fiction is dystopias. And dystopias can be toppled. They can be redeemed. The first thing I’ve learned writing dystopias in the age of Trump is to not be afraid of reality. Yes, reality is dark and foreboding, but that’s what makes it the perfect crucible for inventing the hero we need.

PLAY ‘WORST CASE SCENARIO,’ NO MATTER HOW SCARY

Think of writing a novel like making a movie sequel. Reality is Part 1. Your book is Part 2. Are you going to up the ante Michael Bay style and make bigger explosions and add robot dinosaurs? Are you going to do it like Aliens and scare the shit out of Bill Paxton till he’s babbling “game over” like a college freshman during finals week? Your job as the author is to imagine the worst-case scenario for your ragtag band of plucky heroes. Part 1 is a political party saying they want to cut spending. Part 2 is you imagining life after the elimination of all healthcare, welfare, and public works. Part 1 is a little man screaming about living space. Part 2 is George Lucas putting the Nazis into space and giving them the Death Star.

Things can always get worse. An author’s job is to imagine what that “worse” is. What if, I suppose in my Rafael Ward series, it’s not a tyrant oppressing the people? What if it’s the people themselves begging for oppression? What if they rise up after a terrorist attack by and demand the government keep them safe by volunteering to have all their freedoms stripped away?

The second thing I’ve learned writing dystopias in the age of Trump? Be brutal. Be Machiavellian. Kick your hero in the teeth with the worst reality can offer. Don’t worry; they can take it. And so can we.

FICTION IS MORE DANGEROUS THAN TRUTH

Would we have had flip phones if it weren’t for Star Trek? Would we have the Taser if not for Thomas A. Swift’s Electric Rifle? Better yet: Would Trump be able to deny saying things he’d literally tweeted days earlier if not for Orwell’s Ministry of Truth?

Control the narrative, and you control the truth. Control the truth, and you control reality itself. The common thread in the first three things I’ve learned writing dystopias in the age of Trump is simple and terrifying. Truth and fiction feed on each other like Jörmungandr, the Midgard Serpent, eating its own tail, until it’s impossible to know where one ends and the other begins. When you can no more trust reality than you can the reliability of a Paula Hawkins narrator, you’ve got a dystopian regime.

KEEP YOUR SENSE OF HUMOR

If ever there was a time to keep up our sense of humor in America, it’s now. Make a screen saver of all those Joe Biden memes. Or watch a good comedy like Nicolas Cage’s The Wicker Man (what do you mean it’s not a comedy?!). Point is we have to laugh. It really is the best medicine. And who knows how long we’ll be able to afford this particular prescription with the way our government treats health care as the second greatest threat to national security behind immigrants (breaking news: North Korea has fallen in this week’s POTUS-approved power rankings of worst threats to America down to #83; meanwhile Russia remains dead last for the 72nd straight week).

Comedy reminds us of our humanity. It makes us vulnerable, and in doing so it connects us with others. That connection is imperative for an author. It doesn’t have to be a series of fart jokes in your grimdark novel. But readers can feel it when we write without that tiny, ironic glint in the eye. They know something’s missing when we forget that life is ridiculous and so is blowing your nose then putting the handkerchief back in your pocket. And, damn it, it just feels good to laugh, especially when you don’t want to. Don’t forget this as authors, as readers, and as human beings.

DON’T QUIT

The final thing I’ve learned writing dystopias in the age of Trump is that no matter how much the news or social media or your Uncle Floyd in his MAGA hat worry, scare, or depress you, you have to push on. Take a break if you need to. Shut off the television or place your phone on silent or tell Uncle Floyd you can’t make it to his annual Bowling and Funyuns Bash. But don’t let politics, school shootings, internment camps or whatever else stop you from doing what you need to do. Protest. Donate. Call your state rep. Go for a run. Paint. Write. Hug your kids. Go to the movies. Resist, big or small. Stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves. Be the inspiration for the hero you want to write or read about. Because if no one resists, they win. If no one resists, it’s not a dystopia at all.

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Michael Pogach is the author of the Rafael Ward series — The Spider in the Laurel and The Long Oblivion. He lives in Pennsylvania with his wife and daughter and has an empty space in his garage for his next motorcycle project.

Michael Pogach: Website | Twitter

The Long Oblivion: Amazon | B&N