Sunyi Dean's Blog, page 8

Don’t tell me to “just self-publish”

Seriously, don’t. Especially if we’re strangers, but even if we’re friends. If I want to revisit self-pub in future, I will let all and sundry know, and seek fresh advice appropriately.

(Shout-out to my critique group who are predominantly self-pub oriented and have never done this. And also the vast, VAST majority of self pubbers I know who have likewise never done this.  It is appreciated, for reals. Disclaimer: the post below is all a matter of opinion, reflecting on no one but me, and my various experiences of changing tracks from intending to self-pub, to attempting the trade route.) 

The source of this complaint: Not a day goes by in the various writing-related FB groups where some poor soul naively asks for advice on the trade publishing process (usually querying), or worse, wants to bemoan the difficulties they’re encountering in the hopes of commiseration. And inevitably, such posts attract the attention of at least one self pub evangelical, galloping forth on a metaphorical white horse with cries of Just self publish! 

Inb4 people telling me it’s only advice, it’s a well-meaning comment, get over it, take it for what it is. All the NOPE for that one. If you’re a writer, you should be among the first people to recognise how dire “well-meaning” advice can be, and sometimes even hurtful.

Humor me for a moment. Imagine if the above thread was, instead, about a self-pub author struggling to get sales or struggling with marketing (another common topic of discussion) when suddenly, a trade-oriented author appeared over the horizon with the cry of Just query agents! Can you imagine how frustrating, hurtful, and irritating that would be? Same deal for the querying author above.

It’s in the exact same category as mothers asking for breast-feeding advice, and being told to bottlefeed. Or parents asking for sleep advice, and being told to leave their kids to cry. Or adults asking for relationship advice, and being told to simply leave. And a thousand other examples.

As a general rule, people don’t ask for advice because they are totally unaware of their other options. They ask for advice because they’ve chosen a path and are trying to make it work. (This is so utterly and patently obvious that I can’t believe it needs explaining, and yet it’s the most reoccuring, facepalm conversation of adulthood, in various forms.)

It’s condescending to assume that if someone’s choices don’t align with yours, they haven’t considered their options enough. But that’s exactly what that advice implies. (And yes, this can apply to SO many other topics… but we’ll stick with writing for now.)

If someone is trying to query, chances are they’ve done a fair amount of research to even get to that point, because you don’t usually stumble onto querying by chance. That means they probably have reasons specific to them for wanting to try trade publishing, and *to them* the charge of just self-pub is often akin to someone saying just give up.

This is not a reflection of self-publishing as a whole. This is not a statement that self-pub is simply a failure of the “traditional” route. It is simply an acknowledgment that these decisions are hugely personal and dependent on circumstance, book, author, etc. There are hundreds of different reasons why someone might choose one path over another, without any of those reasons being a condemnation of other options.

Here’s one other thing about advice threads: a lot people are really asking for encouragement, and simply saying “do something else” is… pretty much the exact opposite of encouraging.

I should add that this goes both ways, that trade authors should not be commenting on the choices of self-pub authors. However, I do feel compelled to add that I don’t think I have ever seen anyone say, in an online writing community, “just query agents” as advice. Partly this is because there is no guarantee of results that way so it doesn’t make sense–whereas in self pub, you can guarantee hitting the publish button, and guarantee self-marketing–and partly, I think, because trade-oriented authors are vastly outnumbered these days. So the outlier fringe who are evangelical about it tend to be already published (moving in different circles) or an even smaller subset of an already small (comparatively) group.

But I think there is another reason as well; many trade-oriented authors are not confident in their decision. There are so many steps and hoops to conquer, and you can get stuck at every stage; much of publishing process involves acclimating to continuous failure and disappointment.

Speaking for myself, I could never in good faith recommend that someone attempt the trade publishing route. I would encourage anyone to write, and will share what little I know if they ask or seem interested, but it seems a peculiar form of cruelty to urge an unsuspecting soul into the querying trenches unless I am dead certain they’re a sucker for punishment.

In fact, I wonder if that shouldn’t be the community attitude full stop. Should you write? Definitely! Should you try and publish (either self OR trade)? Only if you’re a sucker for misery.

 

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The rest of this post is an overview on why I don’t want to pursue self-publishing at this time. It’s not something I really talk about much, and I didn’t want to skew the conversation above or complicate it by throwing in my own narrative, so I’ve included it as a separate section here.

Self publishing was my first choice. (And this is my number one reason why the advice to JUST SELF PUBLISH drives me up the wall; been there, done that, seen the goods, rejected the sale.)

My overriding goal is to be a career writer because I don’t have any other skills and would prefer work that fits around caring for my youngest, who has special needs. Yes, I know that might be out of my control, and yes I might not achieve that. But that’s why it’s a goal, not a guarantee. I’m explaining this to give context to what I’ve written below.

I write weird fantasy with (hopefully) a literary edge. There’s not a huge market for this in trade, but there’s even less in self pub. Yes, there are exceptions, but counting on being an exception is not a good business move. In general, the more literary a book is, the more you’ll struggle to market it in the self-pub world. Other categories of books that are also hard: picture books and middle grade fiction, for example, are tough sells in self pub. It is very, very difficult for indie authors to match trade presses re picture books on a cost for quality basis.

Counter-intuitively, trade presses are often better at pushing unusual books, because they have the reach and marketing to make it work. A good example of the kind of book I mean is Ada Palmer’s “Too Like the Lightning” for which she did the research and eventually came to the same conclusion: if her highly unusual scifi novel was to have any chance at all, she needed the Big 5 with their money and their expert marketing departments to get it off the ground.  The belief that self-pub is inherently better for unusual fiction does not hold up well on closer examination, imo.

But please, whatever type of fiction you write… if you self pub, DO take it seriously. Research. Invest. Work hard. Listen to advice. Listen to feedback. If someone says your covers suck, don’t get defensive. If someone says your book needs editing, don’t get defensive. Generally, the self pub community want you to succeed and their advice is mean to be honest.

Anyways, where were we. Okay. This is not to say a writer of niche fiction or kidlit shouldn’t try the self pub route. If it’s what you want, go for it. But I personally am already apathetic to the idea of self-marketing; doing it uphill in the rain doesn’t make that more appealing. I don’t think I’d make the money back, to be honest. And I’d need it to.

Which brings me to cost. I can’t afford to self-publish. Assuming I wrote all four of my literary fantasy tetralogy and then published together for a rapid release schedule, the cost of editors and covers *alone* would be punishing (at least £4k).

I can’t use cheap photo manip covers because there are no human characters in those novels, nor would that be appropriate for the market I’m trying to target (have a look at the cover of Etched City, you’ll see what I mean); I also strongly believe self pub books benefit from an editor, and that it’s a bad idea to skimp in that regard. But those do cost money.  As before, the goal is sustainable career, even if not wealthy. I need publishing to be affordable, I need to have a hope of making the money back.

Even if I went “cheap” on self pub I still can’t afford the few hundred outlay. Not even for one book. We have zero savings and a shitton of debt. Self pub is akin to starting a small business and since I can’t invest the minimum amount to create a good product, I shouldn’t do it.

I could, of course, write in a different genre for self pub. This was the most common advice given to me in self pub communities; write in a genre that definitely sells. Target your demographic appropriately. Self pub gives you the freedom to write outside of prescriptive trade press guidelines, but only true if you don’t care about selling copies. If you do, you’re just as constrained by what does sell. (Hint: Romance outsells everything else by an enormous, mind-blowing margin. I can’t write romance to save my life.)

If I’m going to be confined no matter what I do, then I might as well write what sells to a trade market, because querying costs nothing, so it’s a safer business decision. And then eventually do a transition (if/when I get a following of my own) into writing what interests me a bit more, and/or is a bit weirder.

It’s a fair point, of course, that trade publishing doesn’t guarantee success. But I have less to lose by attempting this route, at this time. And I potentially have a lot more to gain.

There are probably a thousand other issues that could be raised for discussion in conversation, such as artistic control and so forth, but we’d be here all day and I think I’ve given a general idea for why this option wasn’t going to work for me in the end.

Anyways. I feel better now. My apologies to the various followers I might lose because I’ve given into grumpiness today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Introducing: my #retroscifi #bookcollection project

I’ve never really done much with Instagram, except be vaguely baffled by it. Hopefully, that will change.

A couple years ago, my partner’s uncle passed away (cancer is a bitch.) In addition to being a really awesome person, Gethyn had spent years and years cultivating a wonderful SFF book collection of around 4000 physical volumes and–so legends say–nearly 10,000 ebook volumes on his kindle. (We can’t access his kindle to check that, though.)

Not only did he buy and read all these books, he *remembered* them(!!) and that has always blown my mind a little bit. You could pick up any book lying around his house, ask “What was this like?” and he’d give you a quick run down, plus his own opinion. Even if he’d only read them once (and only towards the end of his life, did he start to reread rather than read new.)

When he passed, there was some discussion of selling the collection; it would have netted about £4000 (so, roughly £1 per book). The thought of all his treasured books shunted off to a secondhand bookstore was a bit killer, though, and we asked to take them instead. To keep them in the family, as it were.

We have finally moved house where we have the space to unpack/store Gethyn’s library, and I’ve started to sort/shelve them. The main priority is to make sure they all have shelf space in some form or other.

I am also cataloging the books through pictures, with annotations, and sometimes reviewing them (if I read them). This is where Instagram comes in. If this sort of thing interests you, then you can find a growing list of book covers/book titles on my Instagram page: https://www.instagram.com/sunyi.dean/ or follow the sidebar links. I hope to put up 1-2 books per week… which will only take me a million years lol, to do them all. I hope that it will be another way to keep his collection alive, and bring it to a wider audience.

Thanks for reading, and happy book-cover browsing.

Five-Twelfths of Heaven, by Melissa Scott

Five-Twelfths of Heaven by Melissa Scott

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I have so many mixed feelings on this novel.

So… context first. I picked it at random off the shelves, and decided to read it because I liked the title. If you look at the cover, note that it shows a blond woman and two men, a ship in the background–that and the blurb make it sounds like a classic space opera type story.

The cover is bullshit. This is a science fantasy space-opera about a religious mageocracy who rule space travel through magic and enforce a highly unequal society, particularly against women (many of them wear veils, and there is a blatant Jewish/Muslim feel to much of the setting.) The title comes from their unique terms for space travel; subspace, or its equivalent, is called “Purgatory” and looks like literal rivers of fire. Maguses draw their power from “hell” and when ships travel via FTL, their speed is measured in increments of “heaven” so “5/12ths of heaven” is the speed that the Sun-Treader ship travels at. (Presumably, getting to 12/12ths of heaven means you’re dead, though this was never explicitly confirmed.)

PRetty cool, huh? Not conveyed on the cover.

Also not conveyed on the cover: The woman, Silence Leigh, is explicitly described as very pale with black hair. That, and the setting, makes me think of her as somewhat Asian. But she’s been whitewashed, or perhaps just blond-washed, for the cover purposes. It’s doubly annoying since her colouring is relevant to the book’s cultures (indicative of caste/class). But no, some twat had to make her blonde. God forbid anyone find brunettes attractive *grumble grumble*

Annnyways. Main plot: Silence Leigh is a crack pilot who has been disenfranchised and lost her inheritance, essentially because she is a woman (this is what it boils down to). She comes to an arrangement with two guys; they’re gonna sign up for a threeway marriage so they can all get citizenship in this empire they’re in. (The empire has a 0 immigration policy, you only get citizenship through marriage or birth; one of the men is a citizen but the other isn’t, and a M/M marriage doesn’t confer that citizenship but apparently a MMF one does.)

I mean… on the whole, it’s really a pretty progressive book in some ways. There’s a little bit of internalised misogyny here and there, and some outdated stuff on gender. But this novel was also published in 1986 (I wasn’t even born, lol) so *for its time* it was pretty darn good on that front, imo.

One of the more interesting things is that although Silence agrees to this marriage for cynical and monetary reasons, she does actually develop deep, platonic affection for both men. It’s not quite a marriage, and for anyone hopeful of a NK Jemisin style 3 way sex scene, you’ll be disappointed–no sex in the book–but it’s still reasonably well done and enjoyable.

And yet, despite the ideas, ambition, and surprises, I only mark it at three stars >.>

Structurally, the story drags in places. The pacing is odd, the plots meander or else everything happens at once; the novel lacks focus. “Earth was their destiny” says the tagline, but the subject of Earth isn’t raised till almost the end. And yes, this is an older book where, I guess, people were happier to accept cliffhanger endings, but I was still frustrated that the novel felt unfinished, as if it cut off right when it was starting to go somewhere. Presumably the sequel is a direct follow-on, though whether I can find it in this house is anyone’s guess.

Silence herself is a bit… exasperating. She feels less like a character and more like a lens with which to showcase the ideas and worldbuilding. Her reactions are inconsistent and she behaves in ways which further the plot or stall the plot as required. I found her hard to to relate to. Again, the rules have changed for modern SFF, but ideas alone are not enough to sell me on a book.

For all that it was engaging, and had a kind of refreshing vigour (and I do appreciate space opera written by women, particularly). I am interested enough in those ideas that I’ll be keeping an eye out for other books in the series, if I can find them.

View all my reviews

Keys to the Kingdom – Elliott Downing

The Keys to the Kingdom by Elliott Downing

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Surprising and fantastic story

Pretty much everything I look for in weird fiction.

First person present tense always gets a thumbs up from me. If you are one of those readers who are dubious about FPPT, give this a try; it might change your mind. The structure of the narrative is perfectly suited to the tense, and they showcase each other very well.

Part of what prompted me to pick up the story was a cautious curiosity. My concern was that a narrative focusing on a man obsessing over video footage (literally watching the same thing over and over) would swiftly descend into repetitive monotony.

I was pleased to be mistaken in this instance; Downing side steps that trap effortlessly, wringing fresh detail from the various viewings–much as the character himself does, while painstakingly examining said footage for hidden truth.

One of the best techniques (my apologies, I think of everything in terms of craft these days) that the story benefitted from was Downing’s choice of emphasis. He sticks to the emotional, to the contents of the footage, to the increasingly narrow confines that encircle the narrator’s life. That all works very well, imo. Other stuff, eg *how* the editing programme could exist is never addressed, nor is it needed to; attempting to do that would derail the tight focus and take the story in a different direction. These kinds of mysteries in stories are usually best left explained.

For example, I have always maintained that the worst thing Dan Simmons ever did (writing-wise!) was produce a sequel for his astonishing novel Hyperion, because the sequel explained everything and rendered the original mysteries mundane/unsatisfying. A good writer, like a good magician, is wise not to reveal every secret.

Anyways… give it a try!

View all my reviews

You Should Come With Me Now, by M. John Harrison

You Should Come With Me Now: Stories of Ghosts by M. John Harrison

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Swinging back to leave a review for this book, although I finished it a few months back. I think this is a must-have for fans of genre-bending literary short fiction.

The writing is stunning, in a technical sense. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such consistently immaculate execution of craft.

The main reason this is four star rather than five: almost all the stories have no ending. I don’t mean they go on endlessly or anything, because the don’t, and indeed some are very short. What I mean is that they don’t resolve; the stories just stop.

I start each short story, get immediately caught up in the truly excellent microtension and phenomenal eye for authentic detail that Harrison seems to have mastered (and made to look effortless) but after a certain point the story just… abruptly calls it quits, and the next one starts. What happened? What did they decide? Where did the characters go from here?

It’s as if, having crafted an intensely riveting mystery, Harrison wasn’t quite able to provide an explanation at that last gasp to wrap it all up. A few of the stories wrap up in “sequels” later on down the line, but most don’t. It could be this is stylistic, of course. Some readers, I imagine, will take much delight in being left guessing. This reader, however, was left a smidgen frustrated, and so this incredible collection of shorts is relegated to 4 stars only, instead of the 5 that it probably deserves.

View all my reviews

The Brief History of the Dead, by Kevin Brockmeier

The Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I seem to be having an AMAZING reading month. I can’t remember the last time I read so many 4+ star stories in a short time frame (we’ll give ‘Consider Phlebas’ a pass, and roll it into the Culture books overall). Partly this is, I think, because I’ve taken the pressure off myself to stick to “recent” releases and just concentrated on hunting down fiction that I think I’ll love.

Anyways… this was phenomenal. The kind of book that sets my brain alight, that delights in and plays with language; that contains enormous scope and far-reaching themes, yet very personal stories; that examines the universe through tiny, refractive lenses. The imagery and skillful writing were a joy. I think this will stay with me for quite awhile.

Fans of weird fiction, new weird, surrealism, and/or litfic with a speculative edge, should pick up this novel if they haven’t already.

TLDR: Look, it was just fucking great. Fin.

View all my reviews

How NOT to open a novel

This post has become a kind of personal record for how much my writing has evolved, particularly in the opening of the novel. Read early versions at your own risk (and, perhaps, be amazed at much drafts can change.)

October 2016 Opening Scene (600 words)

– Originally, this was a YA fantasy about sibling rivalry. An outcast girl and her “paragon” brother are very close, until said girl becomes as good as him, and jealousy drives them apart. The title for this novel was “Place of No Sky.” Please forgive the absolutely awful writing. That, first and foremost, was the problem with this opener.

October 2017 Opening Scene (1000 words)

– Novel has now been renamed “The Origin of Sight” and is borderline ya/adult fantasy with strong dystopian elements and a plot that wouldn’t look amiss as a Hunger Games spin-off, but with magic aliens. The characters have been aged up, the plot now centers around philosophy and social commentary, and I’ve started to find my voice.

However, note that it takes a long time to get to the inciting incident; too long for most agents. My first 5 pages have almost no conflict, no character connections, and no sense of purpose. The encounter is literally random.

October 2018 Opening Scene (400 words)

– I’m returning to Origin after a 10 month break, having officially trunked it in December 2017. Since then I’ve written a contemporary fantasy novel, first person PT and very narrow scope, with a heavy emphasis on the emotional. I’m hoping to use what I’ve learned to redraft Origin and build better character connection + immediate conflict.

The opening here is a scrap and redo because I’ve changed the inciting event from random fight to “purposeful” escape, and tried to stuff it with interiority from the characters, as most people struggled to connect with Nefral. I’ve also slowed the overall novel down, to give more space to worldbuild in subtler, gentler ways.

It’s not perfect, but it is getting better. I look forward to updating this post next year, and seeing how this novel has yet again evolved.

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October 2016 Opening Scene

On the island of Fallen Bells, a boy was dying – and a girl was killing him.

The boy lay with his limbs outstretched, a look of pained astonishment on his features. His chest was deeply scored and bleeding profusely, and his right hand was severed at the wrist. He was otherwise unharmed, and should not have been at death’s shore. Yet the skin of his face was pale and drawn, the flesh of his body stiff with cold. A thick layer of frost had formed around the mouth and eyes.

As for the girl, she knelt on his chest, barelegged and filthy, with both fists jammed so hard against his sternum that she had pulped the skin until his bones were visible. And still she pressed down, as if trying to crush his hearts with her mere hands, pushing through flesh and blood and cartilage with the strength that comes only through anger.

She made no sound; her lips were set in a line, jaw clenched and eyes wide. Untamed, tawny hair stood up from her scalp, part-shaven on one side and cropped short on the other. Her yellow irises were wild and bloodshot.The dying boy coughed weakly, opalescent eyes rolling in supplication up at the two magisters who stood frozen in indecision, not four paces away.

The taller magister peered at him through the holes in her red mask with something akin to compassion, but she did not move forward – not yet.Stood halfway between the magisters and the fighting children, crouched a second young girl. This one was a small, sleek creature. Her colouring and wiry hair spoke of raven heritage, and the skin around her eyes was very dark.

“Nefrál!” she cried out, and dashed forward.

But even as the hybrid moved towards them, the red-masked magister reached out and wrenched her to a stop. She was fiercely strong, despite her gaunt frame. “Keep back, lowly,” she said. “Do not touch her, or Amur will die.”

“But–!”

“He will live, if Master Sarieu does as he is bid,” said the magistra, gesturing to her companion. To the lowly, she added, “Pull yourself together, and go get help!”

The young hybrid flushed, but turned and ran back up the path, away from the beach, her voice ringing out ahead of her.

To her companion, the magister said, “Handle this, Master Sarieu – her!”

“Don’t give me orders,” said Master Sarieu. But he still circled the girl called Nefrál, removed his gloves, and laid a single hand upon her exposed shoulder.

At his touch, Nefrál suddenly cried out for the first time, jerking up and backwards, partially on her feet. But Master Sarieu retained his steady grip, pale fingers hooked under her collar bones. For a moment she stood arched backwards and balancing on her heels, him grimly supporting her – and then her knees folded, and she fell, wailing and screaming.On the ground, Amur gasped a ragged breath and sputtered out blue blood.

“The ocean, the ocean!” said Mistra Fen, between clenched teeth.

Master Sarieu did not need to be told. Even as she fell, he picked her up under the jaw with both hands, and carried her as he splashed through the roiling surf. When he was nearly waist-deep in the ocean, he threw her in and held her under with one pale hand around her neck, and the other across her face. She kicked, but had no strength; she fought, but was calmly defeated. He continued to hold her down for the full ten minutes, and stirred not an inch as wave after wave of near-freezing water broke across his back.

[I’m going to stop there because I can’t bear to inflict any more on anyone. BACK TO THE TOP!]

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October 2017 Opening Scene

I. Individuals of a society are not born equal.



II. If individuals are not equal, then to treat them with equality is to inflict on them an injustice.



III. If imposing equality on individuals is unjust, then any society founded on the principles of equality must be an unjust society.



IV. Therefore, a just society must be an unequal society.

— from ‘The Pillars of Law’

#

On the island of Fallen Bells where no birds ever land, Nefrál drifted through the boiling rain along a barren stretch of beach.

Most Calaani spent rainrise standing together in companionable silence. Nefrál preferred to walk alone, often backwards, to watch her footprints fill with water. She hunted for white seashells, but found only blue—and contemplated whether there would be a beach of any kind when she went to her exile, in less than a year’s time.

The downpour limned every flawed feature: hands too large for elegance, shoulders too narrow for strength, and skin the colour of wet sand. She had neither the pearlescent eyes nor cerulean complexion for which the Calaani were known, bearing instead all the hallmarks of an anomaly. Sometimes her appearance still bothered her, but on the whole Nefrál had found it easier to change her feelings than her skin.

When rainrise finished, Nefrál wrung out her tattered clothes, gave her damp hair a shake, and ran with clumsy feet to the drudges’ shelter where she lived, having no place among her own kind. The metallic dome sat halfway between shore and cliff-side, windowless and brightly painted in uneven shades of red. The drudges spilled out of the shelter to attend their daily jobs, now that the rain—so deadly to them—had cleared off.

Nefrál stepped between the rush of grey-clad figures to look for Mythala, who she found by following the sound of arguing. Three other drudges, umber-skinned in contrast to Mythala’s dark-green hues, arraigned in a semi circle. One of them shouted a stream of words. The heated discussion stopped as Nefrál approached; angry eyes dropped earthwards, and they slunk off. Anomaly or not, Nefrál was still Calaani. Sort of.

“Problem?” She glanced at the retreating figures.

“Na.” Mythala’s own glower dissipated into a crooked grin. Her scarlet crest of feathers flattened, resting against dark hair. “Just Learim and his louts, pickin’ a row with me. Like ever. Y’ scared ’em off.”

“I won’t always be here,” Nefrál said. Her exile was something she thought about a lot these days. “Learim will be, though. For at least as long as you.”

“Well, y’ here right now, and he’s not,” Mythala said, with her usual practicality. “Where we off to, anyways?”

Nefrál didn’t have anywhere to go, and exploration had lost its allure with age and familiarity on an island so small. But she and Mythala went anyway, veering off from the shelter to clamber along the northern shoreline, amidst the lichen and seagrass which grew rife. Midway round the eastern side, the curving line of the coast became ragged, jutting forth at odd angles. When the tide was high, there was no beach at all, only the ocean breaking against sheer cliffs. The tide was rising now. Mythala stood on the thin scrap of shore to keep her feet dry, gazing south, while Nefrál hunted for starfish and crabs among the shallow waves.

A Calaani youth ran round the curve of jutting cliff, who Nefrál knew vaguely by sight. Amur was alone and bare to the waist, a sheen of sweat on dark blue skin, and a multitude of dark braids tied back from his face.

Nefrál didn’t see him in time, and he didn’t see her at all.  They collided hard. Amur fell into the brine; she fell against the cliff-face, knocking her head. A spot of darkness grew in her vision and then—

She is in a strange room with bland walls, restraints on each limb. A light is above her head, so bright she can see little else. Amur moves into her field of view.It is not the Amur she is familiar with, though. He is far older, fully grown and then some. He wears neither a magister’s kiton nor a youth’s leso wrap, but a stiff white tunic, and a mask covering his mouth. Other figures come, to help hold her down. She wants to flee, so snarls and snaps, roused to fury. Amur lifts a scalpel, and presses it to her neck—

As swiftly as it had come, the brief dream faded. Blackness faded, her normal sight returning.

“Godhells! Watch it, will you? Sodding fráls and featherheads!”

Amur’s voice cut through the haze in front of her eyes. Nefrál shook her head to clear it.

Mythala muttered, “Weren’t us who didna pay attention!”

Amur backhanded her across the face. To Nefrál, the blow would have been little more than a stinging rebuke, rude but bearable. Mythala, though, was no Calaani. At barely five feet tall to Amur’s seven, his strike knocked her down hard. She glared up at him, cheek already bruising and top lip split.

They should have left. Retaliation would only make things worse. But the waking dream, or whatever it had been, still rang in Nefrál’s head. The memory of Amur hurting her in the dream melded with Amur striking Mythala in the present, and rolled into a single tangled skein of resentment. Nefrál stepped between them. Courage she was not well acquainted with, but anger was a willing substitute, drowning out both fear and sense.

 “You shouldn’t hit the drudges,” she said. Anomaly or not, she matched his height.

Amur scowled at her. “Get drowned.”

Nefrál punched him. His head snapped back. She went for him again, but this time Amur anticipated her strike. He attuned, his form blurring, and Nefrál knew she was about to lose. A heavy blue fist swung towards her face, and she moved instinctively to block it. Her hand closed around his wrist, and for a strangely drawn-out moment she felt the twin beat of his pulse beneath skin.

[This is running a bit long, so we’ll stop here. See how long it took me to get anywhere with the text? BACK TO THE TOP!]

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October 2018 Opening Scene

I. Individuals of a society are not born equal.

II. If individuals are not equal, then to treat them with equality is to inflict on them an injustice.

III. If imposing equality on individuals is unjust, then any society founded on the principles of equality must be an unjust society.

IV. Therefore, a just society must be an unequal society.

— from ‘The Pillars of Law’

#

On the island of Fallen Bells where no birds ever land, Nefrál stumbled through the boiling rain along a barren stretch of beach. Time was her enemy and her feet itched to sprint. But running would risk drawing unwanted attention, so she counted a breath between every step and kept her eyes trained on the shore ahead.

Rainrise lashed the salt-raw tide, birthing clouds of steam. To her left, sheer cliffs loomed forty feet above. Glimpsed from other islands, the crags of Fallen Bells resembled an uneven row of bottom teeth; the discarded jaw of some long-dead god, perhaps. To her right, the North Sea surged in fretful waves.

The tide was rising, and most of the beach would be underwater by mid-morning. That seemed wrong; Nefrál was sure they needed the high tide now. Had they misjudged the timing of their escape? Maybe it didn’t matter. They only needed to reach the southward currents.

Farther up the beach, shrouded in a haze of steam, three young women had gathered on the rocks with arms and faces uplifted. One cobalt-toned, one violet, and one alabaster blue; all three with long, dark hair bound carefully into braids. All of them basking in the heat.

Nefrál averted her eyes. It was custom for all Calaani to enjoy rainrise in small groups. Like she should be doing, in fact. Anyone of them could choose to report her, follow her, stop her—and though they’d find nothing except a tattered leso wrapping her gaunt frame, the delay could ruin everything. Her brother had already called off two earlier attempts. They could not afford to put this off forever.

Anxiety fluttered in both of her hearts. Take a step, take a breath, avoid their eyes. Twenty feet till she drew level, then only another thirty feet until the next rocky outcropping hid her from their view. She hoped they couldn’t see the shake in her hands.

The first part of Revion’s “Plan” had required both of them to adopt new habits to excuse their unusual behaviour. Nefrál had therefore started ambling along the Fallen Bells beach during rainrise—often backwards, to watch her footprints fill with water. Let everyone see her here, every morning for months. Let them stop her, search her, follow her. Let them find nothing, again and again, until her oddity became routine, rather than suspicious.

[This excerpt is only 400 words, but that was enough to fit in some conflict, intrigue, and tension. Not perfect, but improving. BACK TO THE TOP!]

The Player of Games by Iain M. Banks

The Player of Games by Iain M. Banks

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Late to the party, but this was excellent. I stayed up far later than I should have done to finish it; the kind of story that reminds me why I love scifi so much. This is what I mean about Banks being all over the map, for me–Consider Phlebas I rated 2 stars, but Player of Games was a comfortable 5 stars.

One of the best things about this novel, from a writerly standpoint, is that it so easily could be dull. Most of the novel is in “tell” rather than show. The MC is described with a huge amount of emotional distance (because the story isn’t written by him), even though the story supposedly hinges on his highs and lows as hey plays. The main character, Gurgeh, is a straight up Mary Sue most of the time. And the central feature of the book, the game of Azad itself, is far too complex for the reader to actually learn all the rules, so the narrative spends all its time talking *around* the game.

And…. it… works. Really, really works. This novel is a case study (as Banks’ novels so often are) of how to bend the rules in all the right ways.

To address the points above, having to talk around the game is what causes most of the book to be narrated in a tell-style, and removes much of the emotional filter. But part of why this works is because the book ISN’T focused on the highs and lows of wins and losses, as you might expect for a game about gambling. For one thing, that tension almost isn’t there–because, as above, Gurgeh is just too good. You expect him to win. The tension comes from the mystery of the game itself. How high, how deep, how far does it go? To what extent does it define, permeate, sustain, and be influenced by, Azad society? Or indeed, all societies? What does the approach of each player say about them, say about their culture and mindset? These are riveting aspects, the sources of tension of fascination throughout.

A lot of skill went into the construction for this novel. As ever, Banks aimed high–and this time, he hit.

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Review: Consider Phlebas by Iain M. Banks

Consider Phlebas by Iain M. Banks

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Ehhhhhh. It’s Banks, so I was never *not* entertained, but overall the book fell short for me.

I’ve read a number of these novels, and Banks is, for me, all over the map in terms of quality. Some of his novels are great, and some are a hot mess. This was definitely in the hot mess category.

I liked Horza (the mc). Banks does his characters well; they’re complex, they’re interesting, they’re funny. His dialogue was great. There were some good moments in the novel, and some genuinely great moments. I think Banks fans would still enjoy it, and it’s more information about the Culture, as ever (the main reason I chose to dip back and read it.)

So. Why the low rating? In nutshell, because novels which aim for greatness and miss by a narrow margin, often fail harder than novels which aim for mediocre and hit. Banks always aims for great, but it’s (apparently) 50/50 whether he nails it. For “Consider Phlebas”, he missed.

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Some specifics, for those who are interested:

Structurally, the novel felt sloppy (see: comments above re Hot Mess). If I were beta reading this, I’d be leaving notes about the plot behaving too randomly, about events simply occurring without a strong narrative thread to pull them together. About the tension and pacing arcs being off balance. Things like that. But I’m not, and it’s already published, so we’ll leave it there. This aspect of the book may not bother anyone except other writers.

In relation to concepts, Banks often has good ideas. But, again for me, he doesn’t explore them enough. He introduces ideas, then leaves them hanging; the equivalent of a man who walks into a room, starts a conversation, and the disappears as soon as he has your interest. To varying extents, even his best novels do this, so I think it’s a personal style he’s chosen rather than an unintended flaw.

I suppose there is scope to say he leaves these issues for your own intelligence and imagination, but I don’t feel the need to test my own imagination and intelligence; it’s sufficient. I’m here to investigate *the author’s* intelligence and imagination. Talk to me about these ideas. Explore them. Shying away is frustratingly coy.

The story itself was ultimately… unsatisfying, and didn’t justify the build up IMO. For example, I took an entire star off for some of the deaths which occur in the book (not a massive spoiler, that people die in a SF book). Every single death was wholly predictable, to the point where as soon as a character was introduced, I had a pretty good idea of whether or not they’d live to the end of the novel. Only one of my guesses was wrong and they all died to incredibly predictable and preventable situations.

Given how much the various characters survive against the odds when the story requires, the deaths felt extra annoying because they smacked of authorial fiat. Another improbable solution could have been contrived to save them, and it would have been no more unrealistic than their other escape attempts they endured to that point (probably less) but it didn’t happen, because the plot needed them gone at X point. So add a “forced” to that predictable and presentable.

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TLDR: Yes there were things to like, and it was written well enough to engage me; and in a weird way, I’m glad I read it, if only for the additional context. But I finished the book far more frustrated than I began it, with a feeling of exasperation–because this could have been great, and wasn’t.

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Review: The Southern Reach Trilogy by Jeff VanderMeer

The Southern Reach Trilogy: Annihilation / Authority / Acceptance by Jeff VanderMeer

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Fascinating

NB: Review is for the trilogy overall. On an individual basis, I’d probably give Annihilation 5 stars, Authority 4 stars, and Acceptance 4.5 stars.

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Short review: As fascinating as it was frustrating; as triumphant as it was dark; beautiful, if occasionally flawed. An original and thoughtful book.

Longer review (minimal spoilers):

I found the first couple of chapters of Annihilation difficult and distant, much like the narrator herself. However, it was worth the time to get to know her, and the novel; I was, I admit, disappointed that she didn’t narrate all the way through, although she does reappear throughout 2 and 3.

Any fan of Lovecraft would find a lot to enjoy in Southern Reach. Haunting, lyrical writing; endless spirals of paranoia; complex, layered reflection; unreliable narrators; and something I refer to in books in my layman way as the “total ruination of a human being”, ie the deeply personal apocalypse of a single individual.

I waffle a lot, and I mean A LOT, about character interiority and emotional landscape (for more on that, check with The Master, Donald Maass, and his incredible nonfic book “The Emotional Craft of Fiction”). Southern Reach is absolutely rammed with emotional interiority. The internal landscape of every character is intricately, relentlessly, and painfully integrated into the larger narrative. The events of childhood and the essence of self is of equal importance (really, more) to the plot as the various military maneuverings and political ploys. The books almost verge into being a character study, and you could read them like that if you chose, with the background events a canvass for painting their personal woes.

The creepiness factor was wonderful and evocative, in the best sort of horror tradition (cosmic madness of a single brain, natch). Particular standout moments: Control ascending into Whitby’s attic, which could have been cheap but was executed brilliantly. The deepening gloom and stratospheric levels of paranoia were *so* good in the best way.

My favorite aspect–there were many–is the reoccuring theme of not acknowledging things beyond understanding, as a way of controlling or resisting them (ie, refusing to look at a monstrous sight) which sounds odd, but will make sense when you read the novels. It was just done really well and has, of course, scientific implications (i.e., the observation effect).

However, there were sections which gave me frustration, and in the end I reluctantly have marked the series down to 4 stars. It came down to a question of structure, and ineffectuality re the characters. Hardly any of the POV characters *achieved* anything, and by that I mean (because I don’t want to give spoilers) in a normal Cthulhu-esque novel, your investigator character would go off investigating, getting steadily madder as they uncover secret after secret.

In Southern Reach, the emphasis of the books tilts very strongly to examining their pasts, and internal worlds, in order to give clout to the decisions made. All fine and good. But in terms of advancing the plot, very little progress is made by the characters themselves; they discover things, but don’t understand their significance; they succeed or fail largely on terms not defined by them. In short, if Southern Reach were a Cthulhu novel, most of the investigators go mad while barely uncovering any clues.

When information is revealed, it tends to come all at once, usually in the form of the right person asking the right questions at the right time. It’s a little bit akin to afore-mentioned Cthulhu investigator getting frustrated and doing a google search, a few chapters from the end (okay, not that bad, not nearly–I’m exaggerating–but you know.)

Yes, that sounds finicky, but I am a finicky reader, and when–for me–combined with a resolution that felt abrupt, I couldn’t quite justify 5 stars. What can I say, I’m a picky bastard. I’d still recommend the book unreservedly as I think it is provocative and memorable; it not only rewards multiple re-reads, but practically demands them.

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