Sam Sykes's Blog, page 25

Genre Mash-Ups

What is a mash-up, you ask?

Well, you see, genres, perfectly respectable and decent as they might be, have urges, urges repressed and constrained by the demands of their authors and their audiences.  For years, sometimes decades, a genre will sit and stew quietly, content to bring out all the expected tropes and well-mannered prose.  But then, they go to a bar of seedy repute, and find other, more dangerous genres.  At first it begins all nice and polite, what with the trading of elements and influences.  But by the third drink, things begin to get rowdy.

Before long, they've stripped off their cover art and are rolling about in a drunken, passionate embrace, only to part in the morning and try to forget they ever associated with each other…

…until one fateful day, when Romance calls Fantasy in quiet, sobbing tones and tells him they have nine months to make a decision.  Poor Fantasy is flustered and escapes into one of his many, many worlds.  Romance, unwilling to admit the association, quietly gives up the child on the doorstep of a local reading club.  And they take it up into their arms and, with a single tear shed for the miracle, say: "We shall call her…Paranormal Romance."

Now, I respect the sanctity of genres too much to venture far beyond my comfortable Epic Fantasy (despite some things I did in college that I'm not proud of), but it's high time that I started getting in on this amazingly innovative field of blending genres.

Thus, please enjoy this excerpt from my newest manuscript, a tale of one woman's quest to truly live her life through the pain and suffering of others, a mash-up of Privileged Literature and Epic Fantasy: Eat, Pray, Destroy.

Chapter Two: Alejandrus

By the time I had fully roused myself from the waking coma that had been my marriage, the world began to seem a different place to me.  The scents of the Necromancer's laboratories seemed more acrid, the blood of executed prisoners spattered the walls in such bright patterns I thought myself like to weep for the beauty they presented.  And yet, it was in the mornings that I found the comfortable, dreary routines that had beckoned me into that coma: the empty beds, the quiet dinners, the times when our lives were interrupted by another Army of Light battering down the doors.

The Dark Lord Stephen was away…again.  The excuses had all begun to run together these days: elvish guerrillas attacking our outposts, clerics banishing the undead hordes, another rag-tag band of comically mismatched heroes attempting to fulfill another prophecy of light.  And my excuses were not so dissimilar: "Of course, dear, we'll do it next time," "Well, I'm sure you have a good reason for missing dinner," "Yes, honey, I realize that the blood of the innocent does not spill itself."

But it was only on that day, when I woke up, that I realized something.

I was a woman with a life.

And it was time to start living it…by the point of a sword.

***  ***  ***

He was a gentle man, I knew.  His hands told me that as they so delicately ran over the swirling layers of clay.  His eyes confirmed him as he looked up at me, full of the fear and terror that could only come from a man unused to seeing a woman of high society and her twelve-foot-tall Ogre Bodyguard.

"And what is it you're making there?" I asked him.  We had vases and pots aplenty in the Black Tower, of course, but this was the first time I had seen one made.  This was the first time it had occurred to me that they came from artisans…or, I guess, maybe from homes that had been sacked and looted by the orcs.  Stephen told me once, but I couldn't take time to remember now.  I was living.

"It's…uh…a pot…" he said, trying hard to focus on the craft and not on Pietrov's one-eyed scowl locked upon him.

"Such people," I whispered, astonished, forgetting that I usually made my monologues internal.  "The way you weave, the way you sculpt.  You find such meaning in these things that I never could amidst my piles of gold and plush blankets."

"Well, actually, I make these so I can sell them at a pittance, assuming they aren't stolen or confiscated by the Dreadguard, so that I can feed my family and–"

He spoke with such gentility I almost lamented the crack of the whip as Pietrov snapped the braided leather against his back and sent him crashing to the floor, his misshapen project to follow.

"The mistress was having an epiphany, vermin," my ogre snarled.  "You dare interrupt her musings on the common folk?"

"Oh, oh god no," he whimpered, his voice punctuated by an agony that I had never heard inside the tower.  "God, lady, I didn't mean anything by it.  I just…oh…  Just don't…don't kill me."

Incredible.  Here, they talked about killing like it was a bad thing.  Was life truly like this on the outside?  I knelt beside him, moving my skirts out of the pool of blood weeping out from his flayed back.

"Tell me your name."

"Ale…Alejandrus.  God, lady, I have a family."

Alejandrus.  That sounded just poor enough for me to start my adventure.

His name was Alejandrus.

And he was bleeding out at my feet.

I had made my first true friend.

Gandalf Ex Machina

So, I'm reading Conqueror's Shadow by Ari Marmell (recently picked-up Pyr author, too!) and I've got to say, I enjoy the heck out of it.  The concept is nice (ex-scourge of civilization warlord is forced to do right after his treacherous lieutenants take over his previously wicked ways) and the execution is way better (Marmell's got that oft-underappreciated and too-rare talent of having some actual vigor in his writing).  In general, it's a really cool take on a classic trope that I think a lot of people should read.

But I'm not here to sing the praises of Marmell's work.  In fact, I'm not going to discuss the book at all beyond an occurrence early in its pages that rankled me and inspired this blog post (sorry, Ari!)

Potential Spoiler Begins.

At one point, Corvis Rebaine, the protagonist, is attempting to interrogate some people who made an attempt against him.  He handily dispatches them with a shovel in a really bad-ass scene, but when it comes time to extract information from him, he casts a spell that momentarily makes him look like the skull-plated, spiky warlord he was back in the day to intimidate the fellow.

Potential Spoiler Ends.

And that's about the time I was jarred from the story.  Personally, I didn't think it was really necessary to do such a thing other than just to have something magical happen because, hey, it's a fantasy story and it needs magic, doesn't it?  Well, not necessarily.  I didn't see much of a reason why a guy would use that kind of spell when he has just shattered a man's pelvis with a shovel.

Now, I've not finished the book yet and it hasn't diminished my opinion, so maybe everything gets a little better.  But that's not the point.

My beef was with the choice, not the magic itself.  Which leads me to the actual subject of magic in fantasy: is it a handicap or a boon?

It was briefly discussed on Speculative Horizons awhile back, with the general theory being posed by George R.R. Martin's quote that magic often dilutes a story, diminishing impact and characterization.  This is a complaint that has been echoed by a lot of people when it comes to "high magic" settings (we fly on talking storks who take us to forests where grenades grow on trees and armadillos spew fire) versus "low magic" settings (we solve 90% of our problems with swords and the other 10% with swearing and sex).

They're not entirely wrong, but I think the issue is a little deeper than can be accurately blamed on a trope.

Magic, ideally, is something of a big deal.  The ability to affect reality in more tangible ways than we're used to is a cornerstone of fantasy.  As a result, you'll still see books where a subject of praise is the magic system (Spellwright, The Way of Kings, The Black Prism).  What we're really praising when we praise it, though, is the ability to turn magic into a part of the world, as opposed to something we just throw out because "it's fantasy, lol."

And if magic is indeed a big deal, it should ideally provide more impact, more depth, more character.  Sadly, there's no shortage of fantasy that does the exact opposite.

It's fairly easy for magic to dilute the story, since magic can be fairly easy in general.  The Great Darkness can be averted with a magical relic designed specifically to destroy it.  The great warrior can be a muscle-bound jerk and a world-class magician, thus making it very hard to feel sympathy for him (because if he can swing a giant sword, hurl fire and get the girl, does he really need us?)  It can be really hard to establish mood and tone if there are no certainties owing to the ability to do anything.

And certainty is what it all comes down to: what does magic do and for what reason?  It's a character, a part of the world, and like any other character, it needs to be defined.

What are the limitations?  Where does it come from?  Why is it channeled by magic words?  What does the eye of newt do, specifically, in the potion?  Why does a wizard have a spellbook?  Why doesn't he just keep some condensed notes around?

That's not to say that magic needs to be outlined, regulated and have its own attorney, though.  It can be a mystical, nebulous thing that doesn't abide by any rules, logic or any such thing.  But that, too, needs to be certain.  If we are certain that magic is an ancient force beyond our reckoning, then it will jar us if Abercrombie the Swineherd can command the plants to speak.  If we're certain that magic is prevalent enough that Abercrombie the Swineherd can command the plants to speak, then it will jar us if people don't solve most of their problems by magic.

Magic is a complicated thing, plot-wise, and above all, it requires a firm choice.  I can see why a lot of people choose to abandon it in their books, it can easily lead to something overly-complex and confusing.  If magic can do A and B, but not C, what happens when we need C?  Ideally, that conflict is what draws the reader in.  But too often, in their search for C, the author will decide that magic suddenly can do C, but just this once and no, they won't tell you why.

And then we're not writing a story anymore, we're just shoehorning things in for the sake of moving things along.  And at that point, the reader, too, is merely moving along, going through the motions instead of actually getting involved in the story.  The tension is gone and the impact is gone.

When we praise good magic systems, we're praising the fact that they are part of the plot, not shoehorned in.  When we praise stories that are low magic, we're praising the characters and plot that work without it.  As ever, it comes down to my favorite thing ever said by Scott Lynch that was not "do you want ten dollars, Sam": "There is no such thing as a bad cliche, only a bad way to use them."

Message from the Dead

So, I know I haven't updated this blog in a bit.  And likewise, I know you're disappointed.  This blog filled a certain hole in your life, and its momentary absence left you without the melodious soundlessness of my written pomposity.  You're weeping, bitterly, wondering if you can ever read a blog again, wondering if you can ever love again after what I've done to you.

But baby, I had a good reason.

As you might know, I spill authorial blood in the name of Pyr Books and its mighty, hairless overlord, Lou Anders.  When one enters a publishing contract, one is usually required to swear all manner of blood oaths to get there, usually under the careful observation of a demonic overseer.  In our case, Lou and I both offered our blood to Onostrov, Lord of Vendettas (it could be worth; Scalzi had to offer up his soul to Stephen, Demon Accountant).

Thusly, when Lou emailed me with the title: "PANIC TIME," honor demanded that I oblige swiftly.

As it turns out, media galleys for Black Halo are due…well, I guess next week!  It was "in three weeks" when Lou sent me the email and so I've been busting my bottom and engaging in all manner of self-flagellation to make sure I finish his notes, my British editor Simon Spanton's notes (fact: he gave me the award for bad sex writing, it did not come with a cash prize) and made sure it's hit my own personal standards.

What does this mean for me?  Well, mostly, that I've trimmed a great deal from the book and made it flow with the sort of nice and easy speed that one requires when describing the digestive processes of a colossal sea serpent when said sea serpent interrupts a particularly bizarre romance in which the female protagonist wonders aloud if it makes her less of a person if she can't kill her love interest.  It's the sort of fascinating thing that–hey, are you listening?!  Oh, I see.  You want to know what this means for you, don't you?

For you, this means that Black Halo is out ALL THE FASTER.  Media galleys are a stepping stone between line editing (in which the editor wonders exactly what it means to scalp someone without a knife) and copy editing (in which the copy editor wonders how you got published in the first place), and shortly after that comes galley editing and then, finally, publication.

So when is Black Halo coming out?

Ask Lou.  I don't get to decide these things!

Well, that pisses me right off, Sykes!  I'd be surprised if you survived the night based on my own personal reaction to this.  I suppose you'd best give me something to soothe my soul!

I have just the thing!  If you check the site, you'll see that the Lost Pages are now up!  Go in!  Admire the fantastic artwork by this great gentleman here and the accompanying entries!  Plucked straight from Lenk's journal to better offer you a glimpse into the society that spawns madmen and madwomen, I hope you get as big a kick out of this as I've gotten planning it!

Look.

LOOK NOW.