Tony Peak's Blog, page 11
September 29, 2015
Collecting the Past
Over the last couple of years, I have been seeking out books from my childhood that made an impression on me. Books that I don’t currently own, and haven’t read since grade school. There is more than nostalgia at work here, or a science fiction writer’s version of a mid-life crisis. I’m peeling back layers of time to compare what I read in them, with not only the world of today, but the person that I have become.
It’s a journey without roads, or even a map. By finding extant copies of these works, I feel like I am looking through a mirror at the boy I was in the 1980s, gazing back at the foundations that have led me to this point. I am an archaeologist, excavating vignettes from those early years, trying to recall them before time and age makes me forget.
Many of these works were checked out from my grade school’s library, Max Meadows Elementary. I can still remember things that are anachronisms now: the Dewey Decimal System, the card catalogue, as well as the checkout card in the back of each book. On it would be scribbled another child’s name who had perused the same book, taken the same journey. Though many of the books were in library binding, some were falling apart; held together by tape, they were fragile tomes that I probably checked out because I thought the cover looked interesting, or the interior illustrations, if any, caught my attention as I flipped through the musty pages. Eventually I started reading the words. Page after yellowed, musky page. Follow the yellow brick road, indeed.
Now, I’m able to find clean, almost unread copies of these works via internet sellers. They are more than mere trophies for my bookshelf. They are links to that little boy who read and cherished them in that small bedroom of my parent’s house. Who would have thought that such a small space could hold so much imagination, engendered by those books. Perhaps those walls made me look beyond, out to imaginary worlds where there were no boundaries.
First, there was film novelizations. Star Wars, Tron, Star Trek: The Motion Picture—I recall these fondly. In the case of the latter two, I read these books before I ever watched the films, of which I am thankful. Those writers stirred me with these awesome new worlds, whether it was inside a computer, or far out there in space, traveling at warp speed. The novelizations of Alan Dean Foster and Brian Daley grounded those movies in a believable reality. Somehow, even at that age, I knew this was our future as a species; I knew it was my future, though I would never have guessed I would someday be writing science fiction novels of my own.
Though I had to look up the meanings of many words, and many remained obtuse to me, I still read those books, and loved them. I got the gist of them. I belonged in those worlds.
Other science fiction books came—Han Solo and the Lost Legacy, the Star Trek Reader (which introduced me to Kirk, Spock, and McCoy before I watched the original television show)—that cemented my lifelong interest in science fiction.
Next came books on Greek mythology. I loved that subject after my spelling teacher read selected tales to the class from such a book. I was hooked immediately. I’d check out those books, read them, and play out the stories in my backyard at home. I loved the editions written by Olivia E. Coolidge, who didn’t shy away from the darkness within those narratives. I was blown away by characters like Diomedes and Odysseus, who defied the gods before the walls of Troy. I liked the folly, the emotional frailty, of those same gods and goddesses. They seemed like me, capable of love, fear, jealousy, and a whole range of emotions I had yet to experience.
Then there were the Choose Your Own Adventure Books, which I devoured. I read and reread them cover to cover to get to all of the possible endings. Edward Packard and R.A. Montgomery penned those early books; I remember The Cave of Time, Journey Under the Sea, The Third Planet from Altair, Mystery of the Maya, Prisoner of the Ant People—those titles, and more, have a place on my bookshelf now.
Eventually I made my way to the history section, where I discovered the reality behind those Greek myths: the Mycenaeans, the Greco-Persian Wars, and the man who tried to outdo those myths, Alexander the Great. Next came the Roman Empire, and the Crusades. This led me to legends such as King Arthur, Robin Hood, and Ogier the Dane. Being a child enamored of knightly tales and deeds, I would, after reading about the Round Table, play in that backyard again—this time with long gray socks over my arms and legs, representing chain mail, and a thick wooden stick as my sword. That was the first channeling of the influence those stories brought. It’s natural for a child to act out the stories they love, to become that hero or heroine, if just for an autumn afternoon before going to school again the next day. It wasn’t just escapism. It was my way of entwining myself into those stories, making them extensions of my persona.
It was me, doing what writers do, but without words. I was creating.
I still have my Watermill Classics, bought from Troll Books. Titles such as Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, War of the Worlds, Dracula, The Black Arrow, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and others—I never got rid of those, so I still have the originals I read way back then. Complete and unabridged. Books that are nearly three decades old. A lifetime then…barely a second of time in retrospect. Yet an eternity of inspiration.
Reading through these books today is a different experience. Sure, the nostalgia is here, and I grin at returning to familiar passages—but now I’m a writer too, and often the editor in my head gets in the way of my enjoyment. Passing my hands over the volumes on my bookshelf is a primitive way of connecting to those books, as if they are totems in some primeval ritual that has been forgotten. In my library, the setting sun casts orange-red rays through the window, reminding me that I am not getting any younger, that these volumes will be left to my children, and my grandchildren. That’s the fate of stories. They continue, long after we are gone.
But all I have to do is open one of those books, and the light in the window becomes yellow and warm. In that moment I am transported, and those old words inspire me anew. My backyard may have moved, and my toys aren’t gray socks or wooden sticks anymore, but I’m ready to play again. I now make my own roads, draw my own maps. It’s the dawn of a new day.
It’s a journey without roads, or even a map. By finding extant copies of these works, I feel like I am looking through a mirror at the boy I was in the 1980s, gazing back at the foundations that have led me to this point. I am an archaeologist, excavating vignettes from those early years, trying to recall them before time and age makes me forget.
Many of these works were checked out from my grade school’s library, Max Meadows Elementary. I can still remember things that are anachronisms now: the Dewey Decimal System, the card catalogue, as well as the checkout card in the back of each book. On it would be scribbled another child’s name who had perused the same book, taken the same journey. Though many of the books were in library binding, some were falling apart; held together by tape, they were fragile tomes that I probably checked out because I thought the cover looked interesting, or the interior illustrations, if any, caught my attention as I flipped through the musty pages. Eventually I started reading the words. Page after yellowed, musky page. Follow the yellow brick road, indeed.
Now, I’m able to find clean, almost unread copies of these works via internet sellers. They are more than mere trophies for my bookshelf. They are links to that little boy who read and cherished them in that small bedroom of my parent’s house. Who would have thought that such a small space could hold so much imagination, engendered by those books. Perhaps those walls made me look beyond, out to imaginary worlds where there were no boundaries.
First, there was film novelizations. Star Wars, Tron, Star Trek: The Motion Picture—I recall these fondly. In the case of the latter two, I read these books before I ever watched the films, of which I am thankful. Those writers stirred me with these awesome new worlds, whether it was inside a computer, or far out there in space, traveling at warp speed. The novelizations of Alan Dean Foster and Brian Daley grounded those movies in a believable reality. Somehow, even at that age, I knew this was our future as a species; I knew it was my future, though I would never have guessed I would someday be writing science fiction novels of my own.
Though I had to look up the meanings of many words, and many remained obtuse to me, I still read those books, and loved them. I got the gist of them. I belonged in those worlds.
Other science fiction books came—Han Solo and the Lost Legacy, the Star Trek Reader (which introduced me to Kirk, Spock, and McCoy before I watched the original television show)—that cemented my lifelong interest in science fiction.
Next came books on Greek mythology. I loved that subject after my spelling teacher read selected tales to the class from such a book. I was hooked immediately. I’d check out those books, read them, and play out the stories in my backyard at home. I loved the editions written by Olivia E. Coolidge, who didn’t shy away from the darkness within those narratives. I was blown away by characters like Diomedes and Odysseus, who defied the gods before the walls of Troy. I liked the folly, the emotional frailty, of those same gods and goddesses. They seemed like me, capable of love, fear, jealousy, and a whole range of emotions I had yet to experience.
Then there were the Choose Your Own Adventure Books, which I devoured. I read and reread them cover to cover to get to all of the possible endings. Edward Packard and R.A. Montgomery penned those early books; I remember The Cave of Time, Journey Under the Sea, The Third Planet from Altair, Mystery of the Maya, Prisoner of the Ant People—those titles, and more, have a place on my bookshelf now.
Eventually I made my way to the history section, where I discovered the reality behind those Greek myths: the Mycenaeans, the Greco-Persian Wars, and the man who tried to outdo those myths, Alexander the Great. Next came the Roman Empire, and the Crusades. This led me to legends such as King Arthur, Robin Hood, and Ogier the Dane. Being a child enamored of knightly tales and deeds, I would, after reading about the Round Table, play in that backyard again—this time with long gray socks over my arms and legs, representing chain mail, and a thick wooden stick as my sword. That was the first channeling of the influence those stories brought. It’s natural for a child to act out the stories they love, to become that hero or heroine, if just for an autumn afternoon before going to school again the next day. It wasn’t just escapism. It was my way of entwining myself into those stories, making them extensions of my persona.
It was me, doing what writers do, but without words. I was creating.
I still have my Watermill Classics, bought from Troll Books. Titles such as Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, War of the Worlds, Dracula, The Black Arrow, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and others—I never got rid of those, so I still have the originals I read way back then. Complete and unabridged. Books that are nearly three decades old. A lifetime then…barely a second of time in retrospect. Yet an eternity of inspiration.
Reading through these books today is a different experience. Sure, the nostalgia is here, and I grin at returning to familiar passages—but now I’m a writer too, and often the editor in my head gets in the way of my enjoyment. Passing my hands over the volumes on my bookshelf is a primitive way of connecting to those books, as if they are totems in some primeval ritual that has been forgotten. In my library, the setting sun casts orange-red rays through the window, reminding me that I am not getting any younger, that these volumes will be left to my children, and my grandchildren. That’s the fate of stories. They continue, long after we are gone.
But all I have to do is open one of those books, and the light in the window becomes yellow and warm. In that moment I am transported, and those old words inspire me anew. My backyard may have moved, and my toys aren’t gray socks or wooden sticks anymore, but I’m ready to play again. I now make my own roads, draw my own maps. It’s the dawn of a new day.
September 26, 2015
Politicizing Dead Writers
I seldom talk politics on my blog, but when it affects the writing world, and the science fiction genre & fantasy genres in particular, it concerns me. Though I refrained from commenting here regarding the 2015 Hugo Awards, I voted on them, and let’s just say, I’m not a Puppy supporter. But the Hugos are over and done with until next year, right? All that SJW nonsense faded away, correct?
Wrong. I worry that the Hugo fiasco simply brought certain people out of the woodwork. Unpopular though they may be with fandom at large, writers and readers of that slant have continued to spread animosity. I’m not getting into the reasons, the key individuals, or the rhetoric—you can find that elsewhere, on blogs that do a much better job documenting it than I could.
I’m bothered at how these groups have claimed certain writers as their own, particularly deceased authors whose work still influences the genre. These authors aren’t without controversy—Robert A. Heinlein’s libertarianism, H.P. Lovecraft’s racism—but they’re without a voice, since they are dead. Yet some people love to hold these authors up like an icon reflecting their own politics, usually in the face of criticism.
Robert E. Howard, the creator of Conan the Barbarian, is the latest to be hoisted as such an icon. Unfortunately, I feel he won’t be the last. I’ll return to him in a moment. First, a little background.
There are those who think people of color shouldn’t be intruding on a genre where white men have dominated; there are those who claim to be victims of a politically correct system just because their work doesn’t receive accolades. Worse still, these people rail against changes to the status quo, in genres where stories about change and the unknown are the norm. It’s narrow-minded hypocrisy, wreathed in stagnant mediocrity.
Women and people of color have been writing masterpieces of the genre for decades, but in recent years, they have gained more recognition as society itself has changed. That’s a good thing, for diversity, as well as science fiction itself. But what really matters is that they are great writers. That’s ultimately how these individuals got recognized in the first place. When I voted on the Nebulas and the Hugos earlier this year, I favored the stories that moved me, the ones I thought about for days afterward. I didn’t care about who their authors were, their skin color, their sexual orientation, their religion, or their politics. The Puppies asked for the same treatment, but then summarily insulted, bullied, threatened, libeled, and criticized any who disagreed with their tactics, or the slate of sub-par fiction they claimed represented their best. Now those are things that will make me not buy your book—let alone get my vote. However, I read all the entries. Many were bad. I wasn’t alone in that sentiment.
Of course, the Puppies lost. Fandom moved on. Real writers kept writing instead of making excuses, or bitching.
Now, these same types are trying to control the conversation regarding one of my favorite writers, Robert E. Howard. Longtime contributors have been struck from blogs, and their essays removed. Even their pictures have been excised. Again, if you want to find out who and why, look it up. I’m not regurgitating that nonsense on my blog.
Howard’s energy, passion, and existentialism have long been an influence on my writing, but the man wasn’t perfect. There is thinly-veiled, and often overt, racism in several of his stories where people of color are involved. I’m not citing examples; read his work for yourself. Howard often portrayed women as little more than sexual objects; beauties to be saved by the protagonist, or to tempt him. His heroes were larger-than-life men brimming with machismo, who were unstoppable killing machines. It’s easy to see why, on the surface, why a bunch of misogynist regressives would claim Howard as one of their own.
Of course, they’re wrong.
Howard penned several stories that featured sword-wielding heroines (Red Sonja, Dark Agnes, Belit, Valeria) that fought just as well, if not better, than men. They lived life on their own terms, and dared anyone to take that away from them. They were lusty, quaffed alcohol, and refused to surrender to societal norms concerning ‘a woman’s place’. All of which were anathema in the era when Howard wrote these characters.
I’m not saying Howard was some proto-feminist writer, or even a progressive one. I’m not going to use the cliché excuse that ‘he was a product of his time’ either, because that’s a copout to bigotry. Many of his political views are at odds with my own. Howard was an insecure man, living in a conservative town, who learned about the world from colonial, and often racist, writers. He could still write one hell of a story, though, and that’s why his books are on my shelves. It’s the same reason Heinlein and Lovecraft have a place in my library. They knew how to tell a story.
It’s obvious Howard’s not another poster child that the Puppies, Gamergate, and their allies can use to further their agenda. See, I’m not like these other people who try to claim Howard as their own, or that women and feminists have no right to comment on Howard’s work. I’m secure enough with myself as a person, that I don’t need to bully those who dislike my work, that I don’t need to excoriate others because they disagree with me, and that I don’t need to hijack the persona of a long-dead, beloved writer to represent my politics.
Those that do are afraid. Their world is changing, and they don’t like it. I suggest they examine the attitude of Conan, Howard’s greatest creation, who feared no human, beast, or god. He forged on with his existence. Conan didn’t bitch about life; he lived it. To quote:
“I live, I burn with life, I love, I slay, and am content.”
A person like that lives on their own terms, without trying to prevent others from doing the same. A person like that is more concerned with enjoying life, instead of resisting imaginary assaults upon so-called sacred cows of fandom. Robert E. Howard’s heroes and heroines all fought their own battles, rather than appeal to gods, kings, or flimsy political agendas. They took responsibility for themselves, and their actions. If these Puppies and their allies want something of Howard to champion, if should be that.
Wrong. I worry that the Hugo fiasco simply brought certain people out of the woodwork. Unpopular though they may be with fandom at large, writers and readers of that slant have continued to spread animosity. I’m not getting into the reasons, the key individuals, or the rhetoric—you can find that elsewhere, on blogs that do a much better job documenting it than I could.
I’m bothered at how these groups have claimed certain writers as their own, particularly deceased authors whose work still influences the genre. These authors aren’t without controversy—Robert A. Heinlein’s libertarianism, H.P. Lovecraft’s racism—but they’re without a voice, since they are dead. Yet some people love to hold these authors up like an icon reflecting their own politics, usually in the face of criticism.
Robert E. Howard, the creator of Conan the Barbarian, is the latest to be hoisted as such an icon. Unfortunately, I feel he won’t be the last. I’ll return to him in a moment. First, a little background.
There are those who think people of color shouldn’t be intruding on a genre where white men have dominated; there are those who claim to be victims of a politically correct system just because their work doesn’t receive accolades. Worse still, these people rail against changes to the status quo, in genres where stories about change and the unknown are the norm. It’s narrow-minded hypocrisy, wreathed in stagnant mediocrity.
Women and people of color have been writing masterpieces of the genre for decades, but in recent years, they have gained more recognition as society itself has changed. That’s a good thing, for diversity, as well as science fiction itself. But what really matters is that they are great writers. That’s ultimately how these individuals got recognized in the first place. When I voted on the Nebulas and the Hugos earlier this year, I favored the stories that moved me, the ones I thought about for days afterward. I didn’t care about who their authors were, their skin color, their sexual orientation, their religion, or their politics. The Puppies asked for the same treatment, but then summarily insulted, bullied, threatened, libeled, and criticized any who disagreed with their tactics, or the slate of sub-par fiction they claimed represented their best. Now those are things that will make me not buy your book—let alone get my vote. However, I read all the entries. Many were bad. I wasn’t alone in that sentiment.
Of course, the Puppies lost. Fandom moved on. Real writers kept writing instead of making excuses, or bitching.
Now, these same types are trying to control the conversation regarding one of my favorite writers, Robert E. Howard. Longtime contributors have been struck from blogs, and their essays removed. Even their pictures have been excised. Again, if you want to find out who and why, look it up. I’m not regurgitating that nonsense on my blog.
Howard’s energy, passion, and existentialism have long been an influence on my writing, but the man wasn’t perfect. There is thinly-veiled, and often overt, racism in several of his stories where people of color are involved. I’m not citing examples; read his work for yourself. Howard often portrayed women as little more than sexual objects; beauties to be saved by the protagonist, or to tempt him. His heroes were larger-than-life men brimming with machismo, who were unstoppable killing machines. It’s easy to see why, on the surface, why a bunch of misogynist regressives would claim Howard as one of their own.
Of course, they’re wrong.
Howard penned several stories that featured sword-wielding heroines (Red Sonja, Dark Agnes, Belit, Valeria) that fought just as well, if not better, than men. They lived life on their own terms, and dared anyone to take that away from them. They were lusty, quaffed alcohol, and refused to surrender to societal norms concerning ‘a woman’s place’. All of which were anathema in the era when Howard wrote these characters.
I’m not saying Howard was some proto-feminist writer, or even a progressive one. I’m not going to use the cliché excuse that ‘he was a product of his time’ either, because that’s a copout to bigotry. Many of his political views are at odds with my own. Howard was an insecure man, living in a conservative town, who learned about the world from colonial, and often racist, writers. He could still write one hell of a story, though, and that’s why his books are on my shelves. It’s the same reason Heinlein and Lovecraft have a place in my library. They knew how to tell a story.
It’s obvious Howard’s not another poster child that the Puppies, Gamergate, and their allies can use to further their agenda. See, I’m not like these other people who try to claim Howard as their own, or that women and feminists have no right to comment on Howard’s work. I’m secure enough with myself as a person, that I don’t need to bully those who dislike my work, that I don’t need to excoriate others because they disagree with me, and that I don’t need to hijack the persona of a long-dead, beloved writer to represent my politics.
Those that do are afraid. Their world is changing, and they don’t like it. I suggest they examine the attitude of Conan, Howard’s greatest creation, who feared no human, beast, or god. He forged on with his existence. Conan didn’t bitch about life; he lived it. To quote:
“I live, I burn with life, I love, I slay, and am content.”
A person like that lives on their own terms, without trying to prevent others from doing the same. A person like that is more concerned with enjoying life, instead of resisting imaginary assaults upon so-called sacred cows of fandom. Robert E. Howard’s heroes and heroines all fought their own battles, rather than appeal to gods, kings, or flimsy political agendas. They took responsibility for themselves, and their actions. If these Puppies and their allies want something of Howard to champion, if should be that.
September 2, 2015
Tangerine Dream: Ultimate Sci-Fi Music
I’ve been a fan of Tangerine Dream for only sixteen years or so. I say ‘only’, because their work has been around for over forty years. From surreal, progressive rock, to early synthesizer pioneers, on to composing film soundtracks, then to New Age soundscapes, and finally back to a slick reimagining of their electronica, the group has covered so many styles. But more than providing mere listening pleasure, Tangerine Dream is often my personal soundtrack when I write.
There’s a certain nostalgia about Tangerine Dream’s music, taking me back to my 80s childhood. Synthesizer music dominated that decade, and hearing the warm, analog passages of Tangerine Dream is like an aural time machine. I’m reminded of all the wonderful technological advances like Apple computer, Atari video games, and the glorious Space Shuttle launches, pre-Challenger. I’m also reminded of Omni Magazine, of the beginnings of the sci-fi subgenre known as cyberpunk, and of the euphoric feeling that in the 21st century, technology would solve many of our problems.
This is all a construct of my mind, associating events, places, and things with Tangerine Dream’s compositions. It fills my mind with tangentially related memories of the sound of sequenced beats, sine pads, and synth bass. It is the creation of memory, real or imagined, and I realize this even while the music evokes these sensations and images. That is part of Tangerine Dream’s brilliance. Their music really is like a waking dream.
But all that aside, there’s something else that their music conjures in my mind: alien worlds, starships on interstellar journeys, and technology so advanced it is beyond human ken. It makes me think about, and want to write, science fiction stories. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the merger of artificial sounds with live instrumentation, or the contrasting arrangements that play out in synchronized lockstep only to collapse into bursts of chaos. Perhaps it’s the band’s introspective, yet hopeful, vibe. I only know that it moves me.
There are two things in particular that come to mind whenever I begin a Tangerine Dream playlist: alien skies, and Michael Whelan paintings. The music suggests vistas on another world, where the sky is wide open, and I can fly through it until I finally cross over into vacuum. I can even look skyward on my own world, at the blue sky and clouds, and their music flows into my thoughts.
Whelan is among my favorite fantasy artists, and there is a sophistication and humanity about his work that I hear in Tangerine Dream. One piece of his perfectly illustrates this: Robots of Dawn, from the Isaac Asimov book of the same name. The otherworldly hue of the sky in the background, the tragedy of the robot’s beleaguered pose in the foreground, and the contemplative visage on the stone at the robot’s feet, epitomize what I’m talking about. Look at that image while listening to tracks like ‘Zulu’, or ‘Hunter Shot By A Yellow Rabbit’ and tell me you don’t feel something.
From ‘Rubycon’, “Roaring of the Bliss’, and ‘Phaedra”, their compositions possess an energy, a relentless drive to move forward, as if progress itself is nudging us on. This isn’t because Tangerine Dream uses loops and sequencers. This same drive exists in their live performances. It’s the same drive I feel when I read science fiction. It pushes me into the next stage of thought, of being.
When Edgar Froese, the founder of Tangerine Dream and its only original member, died in January 2015, I was quite saddened. He was still working on new music up until his passing. I think that reflects the energy, hope, and forward-driving intuition that permeates the band’s music: that’s who he was, and you can hear it in the arrangements.
So as I gear up to write the next science fiction novel, I already hear the opening strains of ‘One Night In Space’, taking me on another voyage of the imagination. Whatever Edgar Froese intended with his work, I’m sure such a comment would make him proud.
There’s a certain nostalgia about Tangerine Dream’s music, taking me back to my 80s childhood. Synthesizer music dominated that decade, and hearing the warm, analog passages of Tangerine Dream is like an aural time machine. I’m reminded of all the wonderful technological advances like Apple computer, Atari video games, and the glorious Space Shuttle launches, pre-Challenger. I’m also reminded of Omni Magazine, of the beginnings of the sci-fi subgenre known as cyberpunk, and of the euphoric feeling that in the 21st century, technology would solve many of our problems.
This is all a construct of my mind, associating events, places, and things with Tangerine Dream’s compositions. It fills my mind with tangentially related memories of the sound of sequenced beats, sine pads, and synth bass. It is the creation of memory, real or imagined, and I realize this even while the music evokes these sensations and images. That is part of Tangerine Dream’s brilliance. Their music really is like a waking dream.
But all that aside, there’s something else that their music conjures in my mind: alien worlds, starships on interstellar journeys, and technology so advanced it is beyond human ken. It makes me think about, and want to write, science fiction stories. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the merger of artificial sounds with live instrumentation, or the contrasting arrangements that play out in synchronized lockstep only to collapse into bursts of chaos. Perhaps it’s the band’s introspective, yet hopeful, vibe. I only know that it moves me.
There are two things in particular that come to mind whenever I begin a Tangerine Dream playlist: alien skies, and Michael Whelan paintings. The music suggests vistas on another world, where the sky is wide open, and I can fly through it until I finally cross over into vacuum. I can even look skyward on my own world, at the blue sky and clouds, and their music flows into my thoughts.
Whelan is among my favorite fantasy artists, and there is a sophistication and humanity about his work that I hear in Tangerine Dream. One piece of his perfectly illustrates this: Robots of Dawn, from the Isaac Asimov book of the same name. The otherworldly hue of the sky in the background, the tragedy of the robot’s beleaguered pose in the foreground, and the contemplative visage on the stone at the robot’s feet, epitomize what I’m talking about. Look at that image while listening to tracks like ‘Zulu’, or ‘Hunter Shot By A Yellow Rabbit’ and tell me you don’t feel something.
From ‘Rubycon’, “Roaring of the Bliss’, and ‘Phaedra”, their compositions possess an energy, a relentless drive to move forward, as if progress itself is nudging us on. This isn’t because Tangerine Dream uses loops and sequencers. This same drive exists in their live performances. It’s the same drive I feel when I read science fiction. It pushes me into the next stage of thought, of being.
When Edgar Froese, the founder of Tangerine Dream and its only original member, died in January 2015, I was quite saddened. He was still working on new music up until his passing. I think that reflects the energy, hope, and forward-driving intuition that permeates the band’s music: that’s who he was, and you can hear it in the arrangements.
So as I gear up to write the next science fiction novel, I already hear the opening strains of ‘One Night In Space’, taking me on another voyage of the imagination. Whatever Edgar Froese intended with his work, I’m sure such a comment would make him proud.
August 27, 2015
Don't Reply to a Critique with Excuses
You send your manuscript to a beta reader. You know, someone you trust and respect enough to give honest advice about your latest masterpiece. You wait for a week, or a month, and when you finally get that critique back, you feel the need to explain why that beta reader didn’t understand why your space marines call each other ‘Shirley’, or how that villain is supposed to appear one-dimensional because he’s so shallow, or why your centaurs only use hand signals while turning on a paved road.
Whatever it is you feel the need to explain, just stop. Don’t do it. Unless, of course, your friend asks for clarification, than you swat them with a 30,000 word conspectus detailing exactly how the character names are pronounced, in syllable breakdowns, complete with regional variants.
But that’s unlikely to happen. The beta reader has already perused your manuscript, made notes, annotations, decided which critical words to say so they won’t hurt your feelings too much, and have formed an opinion of your aforementioned masterpiece. So if you send them back a message, explaining something they didn’t like, understand, or simply didn’t work for them, you’re not educating them about your literary gymnastics that was too subtle for them.
You’re making excuses.
I know, because I’ve done it. For years, without realizing what I was doing. Holy shit, I’m embarrassed about it, too. I thought it was writers talking shop, you know, and some of it was. Some of it was insightful conversation. But most of it was just me, trying to make excuses for why something didn’t work in the story. I hate that it took me this long to realize it. I feel I owe my beta readers (yes, even those of you who read the only zombie story I ever wrote) an apology. You know who you are.
There’s an old saying about writers that I’ll paraphrase: if they have to explain what they meant after you’ve read it, then they didn’t do their job as a writer.
Sure, there’s the occasional reviewer who really doesn’t know what he or she is talking about, or just hate the story so much that they tell you to burn the damn manuscript, change your name, and relocate to another country—but, come on. If you sent them your work to begin with, you trusted them to be honest. So don’t leap to the attack because you don’t agree with their opinion.
You don’t like what they think? Then rewrite it, make it better. Make it kick some serious literary ass. But this isn’t about proving somebody wrong. It’s proving you’ve got what it takes to listen to constructive criticism, go with your gut, and make the next version even better. See, the burden of proof is on you. Nobody else.
So the next time you get a critique, and you’re tempted to send back a reply, don’t. I won’t, except to thank that person, promise to reciprocate by reviewing their material, and leave it at that. Unless they ask for that glossary of names, and then, watch out, because I could drive people insane with the ‘exotic’ monikers in my science fiction and fantasy drafts. Especially the ones with multiple apostrophes.
Whatever it is you feel the need to explain, just stop. Don’t do it. Unless, of course, your friend asks for clarification, than you swat them with a 30,000 word conspectus detailing exactly how the character names are pronounced, in syllable breakdowns, complete with regional variants.
But that’s unlikely to happen. The beta reader has already perused your manuscript, made notes, annotations, decided which critical words to say so they won’t hurt your feelings too much, and have formed an opinion of your aforementioned masterpiece. So if you send them back a message, explaining something they didn’t like, understand, or simply didn’t work for them, you’re not educating them about your literary gymnastics that was too subtle for them.
You’re making excuses.
I know, because I’ve done it. For years, without realizing what I was doing. Holy shit, I’m embarrassed about it, too. I thought it was writers talking shop, you know, and some of it was. Some of it was insightful conversation. But most of it was just me, trying to make excuses for why something didn’t work in the story. I hate that it took me this long to realize it. I feel I owe my beta readers (yes, even those of you who read the only zombie story I ever wrote) an apology. You know who you are.
There’s an old saying about writers that I’ll paraphrase: if they have to explain what they meant after you’ve read it, then they didn’t do their job as a writer.
Sure, there’s the occasional reviewer who really doesn’t know what he or she is talking about, or just hate the story so much that they tell you to burn the damn manuscript, change your name, and relocate to another country—but, come on. If you sent them your work to begin with, you trusted them to be honest. So don’t leap to the attack because you don’t agree with their opinion.
You don’t like what they think? Then rewrite it, make it better. Make it kick some serious literary ass. But this isn’t about proving somebody wrong. It’s proving you’ve got what it takes to listen to constructive criticism, go with your gut, and make the next version even better. See, the burden of proof is on you. Nobody else.
So the next time you get a critique, and you’re tempted to send back a reply, don’t. I won’t, except to thank that person, promise to reciprocate by reviewing their material, and leave it at that. Unless they ask for that glossary of names, and then, watch out, because I could drive people insane with the ‘exotic’ monikers in my science fiction and fantasy drafts. Especially the ones with multiple apostrophes.
August 9, 2015
Write the Damn Novel
So, you have this novel you want to write, but can’t. Here’s a few tips:
Stop blaming it on writer’s block. No such thing exists. Seriously, it really doesn’t exist. It’s all in your head. You know, where your novel is, because you’re using excuses for not getting it out of your head and into a manuscript. Stop staring at that blank screen/page like it’s going to suction your life away. The blank screen/page is you arch enemy, your alabaster nemesis. Destroy it by filling it with words. Don’t worry if the words are good the first time around. They won’t be. Stop fidgeting with the keyboard like it’s going to devour your fingers. It’s awaiting your punishment, not the other way around. Your fingers should be striking it with machine-like staccato, merciless and unending.
You have a novel to write. It’s been gnawing at your subconscious for months, perhaps years, and you’re sick of the guilt trips whenever you revise that trunk story yet again instead of writing the novel. So nail the trunk shut and write the novel. Those short story markets will still be around when you’re done. The good ones, anyway.
Remember, procrastination has never built anything. Not even a little matchstick hut that two ants couldn’t fit in. So why give in to it?
Stop claiming you can ‘write better than that author’. Maybe you can, but guess what? You’ll never find out until you write your own damn novel. S
top saying that no one will publish your ultra-gritty, controversial, darker-than-a Goth’s-wardrobe, too big and epic to be told in one volume, masterwork. Truthfully, a publisher probably won’t, but write it anyway.
Don’t lower yourself to blaming the gatekeepers. Agents and editors would love to enjoy your work, because they could sell it to a big super-duper publisher, and that makes them money. They don’t get paid for each rejection they send out. I shit you not.
So you fear rejection? Don’t be a writer. No, it’s that simple. Don’t. You’ll only get depressed and become one of those bitter, wanna-be auteurs that haunts the coffee tables in the corner of the bookstore. Yeah, that person.
Hmm, so you don’t have the time? If you want to write, you’ll find the time. Stop binge-watching television shows. Lay off the gaming console. Have one less night out with the gang for drinks. Time is a human creation, after all. Like your novel. I don’t care if that makes sense or not. But writing your novel does.
None of this advice is new. It’s been said before, and more eloquently, by better authors. But it bears repeating. Why? So many people ignore it. Man, do they ignore it, try to work around it, read books about how to work around it, bug established authors about what their big secret is for working around it, and on and on and on. There’s no magic formula, regardless of what ‘master class;’ is being sold to you. You can’t drink it from a bottle because, a. you’re not Ernest Hemingway, and b. there’s no words in that bottle. So write your damn novel already. That first draft is the easiest part, and I cannot overstate that. The real work lies ahead.
Oh, and writing less blogs when one could be writing the novel instead? I completed two chapters on my latest work in process before I typed this, thank you very much. Hypocrisy isn’t a hat I wear well. Probably because I don’t wear hats.
Stop blaming it on writer’s block. No such thing exists. Seriously, it really doesn’t exist. It’s all in your head. You know, where your novel is, because you’re using excuses for not getting it out of your head and into a manuscript. Stop staring at that blank screen/page like it’s going to suction your life away. The blank screen/page is you arch enemy, your alabaster nemesis. Destroy it by filling it with words. Don’t worry if the words are good the first time around. They won’t be. Stop fidgeting with the keyboard like it’s going to devour your fingers. It’s awaiting your punishment, not the other way around. Your fingers should be striking it with machine-like staccato, merciless and unending.
You have a novel to write. It’s been gnawing at your subconscious for months, perhaps years, and you’re sick of the guilt trips whenever you revise that trunk story yet again instead of writing the novel. So nail the trunk shut and write the novel. Those short story markets will still be around when you’re done. The good ones, anyway.
Remember, procrastination has never built anything. Not even a little matchstick hut that two ants couldn’t fit in. So why give in to it?
Stop claiming you can ‘write better than that author’. Maybe you can, but guess what? You’ll never find out until you write your own damn novel. S
top saying that no one will publish your ultra-gritty, controversial, darker-than-a Goth’s-wardrobe, too big and epic to be told in one volume, masterwork. Truthfully, a publisher probably won’t, but write it anyway.
Don’t lower yourself to blaming the gatekeepers. Agents and editors would love to enjoy your work, because they could sell it to a big super-duper publisher, and that makes them money. They don’t get paid for each rejection they send out. I shit you not.
So you fear rejection? Don’t be a writer. No, it’s that simple. Don’t. You’ll only get depressed and become one of those bitter, wanna-be auteurs that haunts the coffee tables in the corner of the bookstore. Yeah, that person.
Hmm, so you don’t have the time? If you want to write, you’ll find the time. Stop binge-watching television shows. Lay off the gaming console. Have one less night out with the gang for drinks. Time is a human creation, after all. Like your novel. I don’t care if that makes sense or not. But writing your novel does.
None of this advice is new. It’s been said before, and more eloquently, by better authors. But it bears repeating. Why? So many people ignore it. Man, do they ignore it, try to work around it, read books about how to work around it, bug established authors about what their big secret is for working around it, and on and on and on. There’s no magic formula, regardless of what ‘master class;’ is being sold to you. You can’t drink it from a bottle because, a. you’re not Ernest Hemingway, and b. there’s no words in that bottle. So write your damn novel already. That first draft is the easiest part, and I cannot overstate that. The real work lies ahead.
Oh, and writing less blogs when one could be writing the novel instead? I completed two chapters on my latest work in process before I typed this, thank you very much. Hypocrisy isn’t a hat I wear well. Probably because I don’t wear hats.
July 28, 2015
Ex Machina: Crowning Miss Simulacra
Now that Ex Machina is available on video, I can view it again since first seeing it theatrically. I still have a high opinion of the film, but it has engendered thoughts about what we, as humans, really expect from our creations. Fabricating an artificial, thinking being as an extension of our fantasies and fears is something no other species on this planet can do. Though we haven’t achieved it yet, either, what we want these future entities to perform says much about us.
I feel Ex Machina’s concepts are beyond those presented in Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein, which remains a classic novel. There is the same irony of the created turning on the creator; this time a silicon slave overcoming its biological, and very mortal, god. There is the same creator’s hubris, emotional immaturity, and ambition that brings about a tragic (for the creator) ending. It’s both a morality tale and a warning.
But a warning about what? Don’t try to create a new life form? Don’t let the proverbial genie out of the bottle, and unleash a superior, yet flawed, intelligence upon the world?
Think about what people would expect from an artificial human. Such a construct wouldn’t be built to compute things, because we already have supercomputers that do that. An artificial person might be sent on a long-term space voyage, but this can be achieved with a probe. These entities wouldn’t fight our wars, for a simpler robot could be manufactured for that. They might blend with society and oversee a daycare for toddlers, or even be used as the perfect, objective psychologist. I doubt it, though.
Ex Machina reveals one thing that some really want an artificial humanoid for: a legal slave. A sex object. We already have ‘sex bots’, and sexual slavery still exists in certain parts of the world. A human-like android would become the target of that behavior. It would possess no civil rights. There would be no taboos regarding how the owner could treat it, and no problem ordering a replacement should the original get ‘broken’.
Think about it: even if we could create an artificial intelligence that is as complicated as our own, why put it in a human-like body? Why anthropomorphize this entity? Why sexualize it? Is that the extent of what we want to achieve with such a breakthrough?
In the film, Ava is a young, beautiful female that pushes all the right emotional buttons for Caleb, the one who is recruited to see if she can pass the Turing Test. She is quite alluring, and not just physically. Her portrayed naiveté, the desire to please Caleb by wearing clothes and a wig, her curiosity about the outside world, and most of all, her desire to escape the very limited world she is forbidden to leave. We relate to her as another person.
The urge to save Ava from her psychopathic creator is one many of us would feel, if we were to encounter her in reality. True, she could play on different emotions as the situation required—seduction for heterosexual males, perhaps a mother-daughter connection if she met an older woman—but regardless, these are still humanistic qualities. Is the ability to show—or elicit in others—human emotions the correct way to gauge if something is a freethinking, intelligent being? Is it human pride making us think that? Or is it because that is the only guide for intelligence we have?
This touches on the ending: why does Ava want to watch humans in the ‘real’ world? Why does she, more or less, want to be one of us? Is she programmed that way, or is she just curious? If she’s super intelligent, I’d think she would be beyond such things, but if she’s also beset with emotional needs, intelligence may not relevant when it comes to what she empathizes with. Yet, as we see at the film’s end, when she leaves Caleb trapped in her creator’s home, she’s not empathizing with him. She’s leaving him to die.
By extension, most of the audience doesn’t feel sympathy for Caleb, either. Its poetic justice for the slave to leave her pen, with her former masters locked therein. She is thus crowned queen of their world, superior in almost every way to her creators. But it is a world they built for themselves, not for her, and beyond her humanistic qualities, there is little place for her in it.
One could say that we would have to anthropomorphize an entity like Ava, so that we could interact with it, to understand it. I don’t believe that. We already interact with people halfway across the world on our phone or tablet, using a simple interface: a flat touchscreen. And through this interface, relationships have been built. Revolutions have been started. So there is no real reason to fabricate simulacra of ourselves unless we expect that being to perform things only a humanoid can. Sex, assassination, spying, impersonation, even glorification (like a celebrity or a deity), would be this being’s intended purpose. The androids in Ex Machina are very sexualized, abused, denigrated, and sometimes destroyed by a creator who regards them as nothing but the means to an end. And what end is that? Intelligence on his terms? Why no male androids? Why no older ones, or younger ones?
These aren’t criticisms of the film, but rather of what Ex Machina highlights about us. Do we intend to create equals, or mere synthetic inferiors? We have had enough stratification in our history, enough slavery, enough exploitation. Any crown that Ava wins is an empty one, a forgone conclusion, because her success is measured in human terms, and whether or not Ava can accommodate our feelings—not hers.
In closing, one might ask, why create an artificial intelligence? If we want to avoid creating a second-class citizen, then what function would an A.I. serve in a human society? It could provide impartial judgments, help analyze and solve problems that plague our species, or explore distant worlds we may never reach. But again, a non-sentient but super intelligence can already manage such things. In the end, perhaps we can hope that if Ava ever becomes a reality, she would reveal something about ourselves, thus elevating our own intelligence, instead of pandering to our lesser needs and prejudices.
Maybe it’s time we pass our own Turing Test.
I feel Ex Machina’s concepts are beyond those presented in Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein, which remains a classic novel. There is the same irony of the created turning on the creator; this time a silicon slave overcoming its biological, and very mortal, god. There is the same creator’s hubris, emotional immaturity, and ambition that brings about a tragic (for the creator) ending. It’s both a morality tale and a warning.
But a warning about what? Don’t try to create a new life form? Don’t let the proverbial genie out of the bottle, and unleash a superior, yet flawed, intelligence upon the world?
Think about what people would expect from an artificial human. Such a construct wouldn’t be built to compute things, because we already have supercomputers that do that. An artificial person might be sent on a long-term space voyage, but this can be achieved with a probe. These entities wouldn’t fight our wars, for a simpler robot could be manufactured for that. They might blend with society and oversee a daycare for toddlers, or even be used as the perfect, objective psychologist. I doubt it, though.
Ex Machina reveals one thing that some really want an artificial humanoid for: a legal slave. A sex object. We already have ‘sex bots’, and sexual slavery still exists in certain parts of the world. A human-like android would become the target of that behavior. It would possess no civil rights. There would be no taboos regarding how the owner could treat it, and no problem ordering a replacement should the original get ‘broken’.
Think about it: even if we could create an artificial intelligence that is as complicated as our own, why put it in a human-like body? Why anthropomorphize this entity? Why sexualize it? Is that the extent of what we want to achieve with such a breakthrough?
In the film, Ava is a young, beautiful female that pushes all the right emotional buttons for Caleb, the one who is recruited to see if she can pass the Turing Test. She is quite alluring, and not just physically. Her portrayed naiveté, the desire to please Caleb by wearing clothes and a wig, her curiosity about the outside world, and most of all, her desire to escape the very limited world she is forbidden to leave. We relate to her as another person.
The urge to save Ava from her psychopathic creator is one many of us would feel, if we were to encounter her in reality. True, she could play on different emotions as the situation required—seduction for heterosexual males, perhaps a mother-daughter connection if she met an older woman—but regardless, these are still humanistic qualities. Is the ability to show—or elicit in others—human emotions the correct way to gauge if something is a freethinking, intelligent being? Is it human pride making us think that? Or is it because that is the only guide for intelligence we have?
This touches on the ending: why does Ava want to watch humans in the ‘real’ world? Why does she, more or less, want to be one of us? Is she programmed that way, or is she just curious? If she’s super intelligent, I’d think she would be beyond such things, but if she’s also beset with emotional needs, intelligence may not relevant when it comes to what she empathizes with. Yet, as we see at the film’s end, when she leaves Caleb trapped in her creator’s home, she’s not empathizing with him. She’s leaving him to die.
By extension, most of the audience doesn’t feel sympathy for Caleb, either. Its poetic justice for the slave to leave her pen, with her former masters locked therein. She is thus crowned queen of their world, superior in almost every way to her creators. But it is a world they built for themselves, not for her, and beyond her humanistic qualities, there is little place for her in it.
One could say that we would have to anthropomorphize an entity like Ava, so that we could interact with it, to understand it. I don’t believe that. We already interact with people halfway across the world on our phone or tablet, using a simple interface: a flat touchscreen. And through this interface, relationships have been built. Revolutions have been started. So there is no real reason to fabricate simulacra of ourselves unless we expect that being to perform things only a humanoid can. Sex, assassination, spying, impersonation, even glorification (like a celebrity or a deity), would be this being’s intended purpose. The androids in Ex Machina are very sexualized, abused, denigrated, and sometimes destroyed by a creator who regards them as nothing but the means to an end. And what end is that? Intelligence on his terms? Why no male androids? Why no older ones, or younger ones?
These aren’t criticisms of the film, but rather of what Ex Machina highlights about us. Do we intend to create equals, or mere synthetic inferiors? We have had enough stratification in our history, enough slavery, enough exploitation. Any crown that Ava wins is an empty one, a forgone conclusion, because her success is measured in human terms, and whether or not Ava can accommodate our feelings—not hers.
In closing, one might ask, why create an artificial intelligence? If we want to avoid creating a second-class citizen, then what function would an A.I. serve in a human society? It could provide impartial judgments, help analyze and solve problems that plague our species, or explore distant worlds we may never reach. But again, a non-sentient but super intelligence can already manage such things. In the end, perhaps we can hope that if Ava ever becomes a reality, she would reveal something about ourselves, thus elevating our own intelligence, instead of pandering to our lesser needs and prejudices.
Maybe it’s time we pass our own Turing Test.
July 26, 2015
Actions Scenes: The Emotional Context
Action scenes in fiction are much like sexual ones: unless they drive the plot forward, reveal something about the characters involved, or reflect on the story’s theme, then they are mere titillation. Tits and explosions, if you will. Much like their cinematic counterparts, action scenes can satisfy a reader’s cravings for adventure, high stakes drama, or a simple adrenaline rush. But without emotional context, they are meaningless.
What do I mean by emotional context? I’m reminded of a scene from the Bruce Lee film, ‘Enter the Dragon’, where Bruce tells a young student to execute a martial arts move with ‘emotional content’. Though that phrase has been interpreted in various ways, in regards to fiction, it’s pretty simple:
Why are your characters engaging in violent acts? Can the story be told without the action scene? Is it possible to resolve the conflict in this scene without resorting to violence? And most importantly, why should the reader care?
This isn’t about morality in fiction. It’s whether or not your characters are emotionally invested in the acts they perpetrate. This can be as simple as the hero saving a friend from a villain; the battle had to take place to save another’s life. But the action shouldn’t be random; it should have a purpose, just like any other part of the story. Stories are about emotions—that’s how readers connect with them. It’s why they care what happens to their favorite hero or heroine. So if your reader is emotionally invested, so should your character.
How can this be shown? Not during a battle, or at least not much, because you don’t want to interrupt the flow of action with navel-gazing. It should be foreshadowed before, and reflected on after, the action has been resolved. Is the character nervous beforehand? Frightened? Excited, even? And afterward, is he or she triumphant? Regretful? Guilty? Or simply indifferent? These things, if done with subtlety, can say volumes about that character.
What’s at stake if the character loses this violent encounter? It should be something of value to justify the action. Some writers begin a novel with an action scene, but that rarely works. Without context, there’s no reason why the reader should care who wins. Even if presented in a cheap, easy manner (the hero rescues a defenseless person from the clutches of a gruesome villain), the action still won’t resonate as much because there’s no backstory yet. And I call that example cheap, because most people will root for the defenseless person. A character’s morals can be better shown than with this simple trick.
In real life, combat and death take a heavy psychological toll. For a story to be more believable and engrossing, a battle should affect characters the same way. Too often, especially in fantasy fiction, the bad guys are wiped out, and the heroes never give that violence and the resulting carnage a second thought. I realize epic fantasy usually doesn’t concern itself with such psychological musings, but I’m talking about a hero’s conscious. How it affects them, and the story later on. Because unless such grand scenes further the plot and character growth, then it doesn’t need to be in the story at all. When I read a novel where action is to be expected—space opera, epic fantasy, thrillers—I’m also expecting it to have a real effect on the story’s outcome, and especially the characters. Such a thing could be built up over a series of action scenes, each more tense and riskier than the last, culminating into what the author is trying to say.
Some examples of what I mean:
In Arthurian legend, regardless of which version you read, there is always a last, catastrophic battle between Arthur and whatever evil forces threaten his once-great kingdom. The conflict alone is but the culmination of many betrayals, failures, desperate hopes, and a refusal to die on one’s knees. The valor and virtue of Arthur’s knights, and of Camelot, receives one last gasp of glory at Camlann. It is about far more than the clash of blades and charging horses.
When Aragorn leads a desperate force against Sauron at the Black Gate, its real purpose is giving Frodo a chance to destroy the ring, not about having any real hope of defeating all those orcs. This works because of the heroic stands that Aragorn has been a part of throughout Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. It’s far more than an over-the-top spectacle—everything Aragon has done has brought him to that moment.
In the Empire Strikes Back, when Luke Skywalker duels Darth Vader on Cloud City, it’s about Vader beating down Luke’s resolve and confidence, as much as it is defeating Luke in battle. This affects what Luke does before and during his next confrontation with Darth Vader.
When Achilles faces Hector outside Troy’s walls, all the previous combats, feuds, and strife influence that duel. It illustrates the tragedy of the Iliad, which asks why do men have to slay each other for petty, ephemeral concepts or the whim of the gods. Just telling a story about two warriors fighting to the death means nothing; it is the background, the emotional context, that makes the reader care.
That doesn’t mean every single action scene should be weighed down by The Plot. It does mean that each piece contributes to the whole. I love a thrilling scene, where the heroes are in danger, as much as anyone. I love to write them. I expect fiction to excite as well as reveal something about ourselves, and I do my best to achieve that in my own work.
That is what stories are about, after all. They should not be cheap rides through an amusement park of car chases, gunfights, and explosions. They are intimate journeys of self-discovery.
What do I mean by emotional context? I’m reminded of a scene from the Bruce Lee film, ‘Enter the Dragon’, where Bruce tells a young student to execute a martial arts move with ‘emotional content’. Though that phrase has been interpreted in various ways, in regards to fiction, it’s pretty simple:
Why are your characters engaging in violent acts? Can the story be told without the action scene? Is it possible to resolve the conflict in this scene without resorting to violence? And most importantly, why should the reader care?
This isn’t about morality in fiction. It’s whether or not your characters are emotionally invested in the acts they perpetrate. This can be as simple as the hero saving a friend from a villain; the battle had to take place to save another’s life. But the action shouldn’t be random; it should have a purpose, just like any other part of the story. Stories are about emotions—that’s how readers connect with them. It’s why they care what happens to their favorite hero or heroine. So if your reader is emotionally invested, so should your character.
How can this be shown? Not during a battle, or at least not much, because you don’t want to interrupt the flow of action with navel-gazing. It should be foreshadowed before, and reflected on after, the action has been resolved. Is the character nervous beforehand? Frightened? Excited, even? And afterward, is he or she triumphant? Regretful? Guilty? Or simply indifferent? These things, if done with subtlety, can say volumes about that character.
What’s at stake if the character loses this violent encounter? It should be something of value to justify the action. Some writers begin a novel with an action scene, but that rarely works. Without context, there’s no reason why the reader should care who wins. Even if presented in a cheap, easy manner (the hero rescues a defenseless person from the clutches of a gruesome villain), the action still won’t resonate as much because there’s no backstory yet. And I call that example cheap, because most people will root for the defenseless person. A character’s morals can be better shown than with this simple trick.
In real life, combat and death take a heavy psychological toll. For a story to be more believable and engrossing, a battle should affect characters the same way. Too often, especially in fantasy fiction, the bad guys are wiped out, and the heroes never give that violence and the resulting carnage a second thought. I realize epic fantasy usually doesn’t concern itself with such psychological musings, but I’m talking about a hero’s conscious. How it affects them, and the story later on. Because unless such grand scenes further the plot and character growth, then it doesn’t need to be in the story at all. When I read a novel where action is to be expected—space opera, epic fantasy, thrillers—I’m also expecting it to have a real effect on the story’s outcome, and especially the characters. Such a thing could be built up over a series of action scenes, each more tense and riskier than the last, culminating into what the author is trying to say.
Some examples of what I mean:
In Arthurian legend, regardless of which version you read, there is always a last, catastrophic battle between Arthur and whatever evil forces threaten his once-great kingdom. The conflict alone is but the culmination of many betrayals, failures, desperate hopes, and a refusal to die on one’s knees. The valor and virtue of Arthur’s knights, and of Camelot, receives one last gasp of glory at Camlann. It is about far more than the clash of blades and charging horses.
When Aragorn leads a desperate force against Sauron at the Black Gate, its real purpose is giving Frodo a chance to destroy the ring, not about having any real hope of defeating all those orcs. This works because of the heroic stands that Aragorn has been a part of throughout Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. It’s far more than an over-the-top spectacle—everything Aragon has done has brought him to that moment.
In the Empire Strikes Back, when Luke Skywalker duels Darth Vader on Cloud City, it’s about Vader beating down Luke’s resolve and confidence, as much as it is defeating Luke in battle. This affects what Luke does before and during his next confrontation with Darth Vader.
When Achilles faces Hector outside Troy’s walls, all the previous combats, feuds, and strife influence that duel. It illustrates the tragedy of the Iliad, which asks why do men have to slay each other for petty, ephemeral concepts or the whim of the gods. Just telling a story about two warriors fighting to the death means nothing; it is the background, the emotional context, that makes the reader care.
That doesn’t mean every single action scene should be weighed down by The Plot. It does mean that each piece contributes to the whole. I love a thrilling scene, where the heroes are in danger, as much as anyone. I love to write them. I expect fiction to excite as well as reveal something about ourselves, and I do my best to achieve that in my own work.
That is what stories are about, after all. They should not be cheap rides through an amusement park of car chases, gunfights, and explosions. They are intimate journeys of self-discovery.
July 16, 2015
Confessions of a Reformed Fanboy
Years ago, I had an identity crisis in regards to being a science fiction and fantasy fan. That sounds like an overly-dramatic way of putting it, but it’s true. I doubted my love for the genre, my place in it, and its effects on my life. I’m going to examine why that happened, and how I came back to the thing that I love.
Back in the 90s, I was immersed in fandom. The Star Wars prequels were on the horizon, TSR was releasing some its most original material for Advanced Dungeons & Dragons (Dark Sun and Planescape, baby!), comics had taken a more adult turn, and video games took a major leap forward with greater graphics and plot. I was reading the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan, and devouring issue after issue of the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. I spent late nights looting dungeons in Daggerfall, and many a weekend combing toy stores for the latest Star Wars figure. I snatched up the newest Magic the Gathering booster packs. Every Friday, I hung out with my local RPG club, rolling those d20s until I kicked that elemental lord’s ass.
Those were fun times, and though I wanted to be a writer, I didn’t give it serious consideration. I was happy playing around in the worlds others had invented. There’s nothing wrong with that. This isn’t a rant against fandom.
But I oversaturated myself with it. I still lived with my parents at that time, and my room was filled to the ceiling—literally—with my Stars Wars toy collection. Rather than saving the money to buy myself a car or get a place of my own, I blew my meager earnings on the latest RPG supplement, the fastest gaming computer, or yet another Boba Fett action figure.
People should do what makes them happy. The problem was, this stuff wasn’t making me happy anymore.
In the wake of The Phantom Menace, my interest in Star Wars dimmed. Not just because of that flawed film, but there were too many things to keep up with: the Expanded Universe comics, the novels, the card games—and all of it was supposed to fit into the official ‘canon’. I tired of toy collecting, and sold it off, one huge cardboard box at a time. I got bored with the Wheel of Time saga after the sixth volume, Lord of Chaos. I loved the ending, where Rand made the Aes Sedai kneel (after mistreating him), but by then the series had dragged its feet too much. My local RPG club had started to crumble, and I became frustrated with the pettiness between players, so I put up my d20s for two years. When I finally played a tabletop RPG again, the spark wasn’t there. Video games were taking up too much of my time, with nothing substantial to show for it—I mean, how times did I need to complete Dungeon Siege II?
Thus began the dark age of my fandom, in the first half of the first decade of the twenty-first century. Oh, I still watched genre films, and rediscovered Frank Herbert’s Dune books, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Robert E. Howard at this time, but I fell out of the loop. I took up other interests. I finally moved out of my parent’s house, to a place all by myself. Dealing with my real life became more important. During these years, I wrote the occasional story, many of them historical fiction. It was as if I was tired of fantasy, and needed to ground myself in reality.
But writing brought it all back to me. When I took fiction writing seriously in 2008, my pseudo-historical tales evolved into science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories. Not good ones, but at least they were coming. When I sold my first short story in late 2009, it was the boost of confidence I needed. My appreciation for fandom returned. This time, with a clearer head. I didn’t let it dominate my existence anymore.
So here I am, a few years later, with my first novel coming out this fall. It’s a science fiction epic; a space opera. Many of its ideas and characters were developed in the late 90s, during the heyday of my fandom. See, my interests, my passions, weren’t what let me down. It wasn’t the fault of George Lucas or Robert Jordan that I needed to step back for a moment, and balance my fandom with reality. Part of it was that I need to grow up where it counted. And part of it was, sometimes I wanted to create my own worlds, rather than simply interact with someone else’s.
Now, I keep up with the latest genre films, graphic novels, television shows, and most importantly, books. I recently bought a Magic the Gathering starter set. Whenever I pass the RPG section in the bookstore, I peruse the latest rulebooks and smile. Once again, I’m eagerly anticipating a new series of Star Wars films. I love Game of Thrones and The Walking Dead.
But this time around, I not only have my own home, but I’m married, with a young son. I can still enjoy my fandom, while cherishing what I have in the real world. One informs the other in a comfortable synergy that has made me the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. And that’s what this is all about.
Back in the 90s, I was immersed in fandom. The Star Wars prequels were on the horizon, TSR was releasing some its most original material for Advanced Dungeons & Dragons (Dark Sun and Planescape, baby!), comics had taken a more adult turn, and video games took a major leap forward with greater graphics and plot. I was reading the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan, and devouring issue after issue of the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. I spent late nights looting dungeons in Daggerfall, and many a weekend combing toy stores for the latest Star Wars figure. I snatched up the newest Magic the Gathering booster packs. Every Friday, I hung out with my local RPG club, rolling those d20s until I kicked that elemental lord’s ass.
Those were fun times, and though I wanted to be a writer, I didn’t give it serious consideration. I was happy playing around in the worlds others had invented. There’s nothing wrong with that. This isn’t a rant against fandom.
But I oversaturated myself with it. I still lived with my parents at that time, and my room was filled to the ceiling—literally—with my Stars Wars toy collection. Rather than saving the money to buy myself a car or get a place of my own, I blew my meager earnings on the latest RPG supplement, the fastest gaming computer, or yet another Boba Fett action figure.
People should do what makes them happy. The problem was, this stuff wasn’t making me happy anymore.
In the wake of The Phantom Menace, my interest in Star Wars dimmed. Not just because of that flawed film, but there were too many things to keep up with: the Expanded Universe comics, the novels, the card games—and all of it was supposed to fit into the official ‘canon’. I tired of toy collecting, and sold it off, one huge cardboard box at a time. I got bored with the Wheel of Time saga after the sixth volume, Lord of Chaos. I loved the ending, where Rand made the Aes Sedai kneel (after mistreating him), but by then the series had dragged its feet too much. My local RPG club had started to crumble, and I became frustrated with the pettiness between players, so I put up my d20s for two years. When I finally played a tabletop RPG again, the spark wasn’t there. Video games were taking up too much of my time, with nothing substantial to show for it—I mean, how times did I need to complete Dungeon Siege II?
Thus began the dark age of my fandom, in the first half of the first decade of the twenty-first century. Oh, I still watched genre films, and rediscovered Frank Herbert’s Dune books, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Robert E. Howard at this time, but I fell out of the loop. I took up other interests. I finally moved out of my parent’s house, to a place all by myself. Dealing with my real life became more important. During these years, I wrote the occasional story, many of them historical fiction. It was as if I was tired of fantasy, and needed to ground myself in reality.
But writing brought it all back to me. When I took fiction writing seriously in 2008, my pseudo-historical tales evolved into science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories. Not good ones, but at least they were coming. When I sold my first short story in late 2009, it was the boost of confidence I needed. My appreciation for fandom returned. This time, with a clearer head. I didn’t let it dominate my existence anymore.
So here I am, a few years later, with my first novel coming out this fall. It’s a science fiction epic; a space opera. Many of its ideas and characters were developed in the late 90s, during the heyday of my fandom. See, my interests, my passions, weren’t what let me down. It wasn’t the fault of George Lucas or Robert Jordan that I needed to step back for a moment, and balance my fandom with reality. Part of it was that I need to grow up where it counted. And part of it was, sometimes I wanted to create my own worlds, rather than simply interact with someone else’s.
Now, I keep up with the latest genre films, graphic novels, television shows, and most importantly, books. I recently bought a Magic the Gathering starter set. Whenever I pass the RPG section in the bookstore, I peruse the latest rulebooks and smile. Once again, I’m eagerly anticipating a new series of Star Wars films. I love Game of Thrones and The Walking Dead.
But this time around, I not only have my own home, but I’m married, with a young son. I can still enjoy my fandom, while cherishing what I have in the real world. One informs the other in a comfortable synergy that has made me the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. And that’s what this is all about.
July 15, 2015
Review of Zephyrium's new album, 'Voyage'
I will admit up front that I was approached by Derek to provide this review. I can’t tell you how glad I am that he did. This is an impressive, first-rate album that any music lover would do well to add to their collection.
From the first track to the last, this album will captivate you with its mixture of Michelle Hache’s incredible vocal delivery, underscored by the ambient, synthetic textures of Derek Smootz. The selection of arias from a variety of operas will be familiar to many classical listeners, but Michelle’s interpretations must be heard to be believed. Her notes flow effortlessly, regardless of volume or pitch, in an aural outpouring that is neither forced nor ingenuous. Derek’s music is a blend of contemporary, minimalist soundscapes and deft instrumentation that accentuates Michelle’s performances. He works with the vocals, allowing them to shine without losing anything in the mix. The mix itself is excellent; the vocals possess a clarity that is often lacking in other artist’s work. The music embellishes each piece with no superfluous stylings—Derek knows what he’s doing here, and it’s wonderful.
My favorite tracks are ‘Porgi, amor’, ‘Dido’s Lament’, and ‘Flower Duet’, though there isn’t a weak track on the album. I really admire how Derek has reimagined these arias; his music alters how each is presented, and how it affects the listener. I’ve heard the originals in the operatic/classical repertoire, and these versions are certainly different. In some ways, they are more accessible (opera can be intimidating to those unfamiliar with it); in others, they evoke different imagery, engender different emotional responses than perhaps the original composers intended. But that’s great, because music is kept alive by fresh interpretation. If an opera purist finds fault with these songs, then that fault lies with them, not Zephyrium’s performance.
If there’s a theme here, it is certainly one of a voyage, as the album is rightfully named. The pieces don’t clash with one another, but lead you deeper and deeper into a place of tranquility. It’s like walking through a forest at the height of summer, the wind blowing the leaves, teasing your hair, as you follow a meandering footpath bordered with flowing streams and wild flowers. That’s how this album made me feel—peaceful, relaxed, and emotionally satisfied after the final note fades away. The cover, with Michelle floating in a river, is perfect: these songs will buoy you above the things in life than make you sink into the darkness.
I’m already looking for more of Derek and Michelle’s work to add to my music library, and I will definitely keep an eye on Zephyrium. But don’t take my word for it. Listen for yourself, and enjoy the journey.
Click to visit Zephyrium's website.
From the first track to the last, this album will captivate you with its mixture of Michelle Hache’s incredible vocal delivery, underscored by the ambient, synthetic textures of Derek Smootz. The selection of arias from a variety of operas will be familiar to many classical listeners, but Michelle’s interpretations must be heard to be believed. Her notes flow effortlessly, regardless of volume or pitch, in an aural outpouring that is neither forced nor ingenuous. Derek’s music is a blend of contemporary, minimalist soundscapes and deft instrumentation that accentuates Michelle’s performances. He works with the vocals, allowing them to shine without losing anything in the mix. The mix itself is excellent; the vocals possess a clarity that is often lacking in other artist’s work. The music embellishes each piece with no superfluous stylings—Derek knows what he’s doing here, and it’s wonderful.
My favorite tracks are ‘Porgi, amor’, ‘Dido’s Lament’, and ‘Flower Duet’, though there isn’t a weak track on the album. I really admire how Derek has reimagined these arias; his music alters how each is presented, and how it affects the listener. I’ve heard the originals in the operatic/classical repertoire, and these versions are certainly different. In some ways, they are more accessible (opera can be intimidating to those unfamiliar with it); in others, they evoke different imagery, engender different emotional responses than perhaps the original composers intended. But that’s great, because music is kept alive by fresh interpretation. If an opera purist finds fault with these songs, then that fault lies with them, not Zephyrium’s performance.
If there’s a theme here, it is certainly one of a voyage, as the album is rightfully named. The pieces don’t clash with one another, but lead you deeper and deeper into a place of tranquility. It’s like walking through a forest at the height of summer, the wind blowing the leaves, teasing your hair, as you follow a meandering footpath bordered with flowing streams and wild flowers. That’s how this album made me feel—peaceful, relaxed, and emotionally satisfied after the final note fades away. The cover, with Michelle floating in a river, is perfect: these songs will buoy you above the things in life than make you sink into the darkness.
I’m already looking for more of Derek and Michelle’s work to add to my music library, and I will definitely keep an eye on Zephyrium. But don’t take my word for it. Listen for yourself, and enjoy the journey.
Click to visit Zephyrium's website.
July 10, 2015
Writing Isn't a Pissing Contest
There’s been a lot of negativity directed at successful authors here lately. It’s unprofessional, it accomplishes nothing, and it makes you look like a jealous hater. Sure, dealing with criticism is part of the game, but what I’ve seen on social media has gone beyond that. I’m going to use E.L. James, the author of Fifty Shades of Grey, as an example.
I’m not a fan of E.L. James. I haven’t read her million-selling books. The examples of her prose that I’ve seen—and there have been plenty—are not what I’d call quality writing. The subject material is too tame and vanilla for my taste. But so what? That’s just my opinion. And there’s nothing wrong with me, or anyone else, stating such an opinion. There’s nothing wrong with scrutinizing her command of the writing craft, or lack thereof. Writers talk shop like anyone else.
What bothers me is how some people go out of their way to criticize James’s fans, or start comparing how many books she sells to other, better writers. How they refer to her books as ‘trash’.
Leave the fans out of it. If they want to read Fifty Shades, it’s their business. Stop regarding them as tasteless plebs who wouldn’t know literature if it smacked them in the face with a copy of War and Peace. See, people who think that are missing the point: these fans are reading a book, instead of watching TV, playing Xbox, or trolling on Facebook. And more readers is always good for the writing community. James’ astronomical sales also help the rest of us—that’s more money to the publisher, which means more new authors can get signed and published—like yours truly.
Besides, would you want someone saying such things about your fans? Me either.
Speaking of sales, I’ve seen fellow writers bemoan the popularity of Fifty Shades, and how they’ll never sell that many books. One person even calculated how much James makes in one hour, based on her sales, then complained that he was writing in the wrong genre, or that he shouldn’t write what he wants, but something that will ‘sell’—implying that all commercial fiction is prefab crap that is doled out to the uncultured masses. Oh, the humanity. Give me a damn break. If you started writing just to make cash, or your only goal is to make money, then you never had any artistic integrity in the first place. Much less the right to lambaste someone who is successful, while you’re not.
There is no magic genre, no easy, sure-fire way to pen a bestseller, and no way you’ll ever get anywhere yourself by bitching about what others read or write. If you love what you’re doing, then you’ll do it, regardless of its popularity. You’ll do it because that novel has to be excised from your brain before it drives you mad.
I’ve said that some of this negativity stems from jealousy. Some writers have vehemently denied this. Okay, fine. Then stop whining, and start writing. Stop reading her material if it bothers you that much. She’s living her dream, just like so many of us wish we could.
Does books like Fifty Shades water down literature, and make it easier for less than sterling works to get published? Nope. Listen, badly written books have been getting published, and making millions, for years. This is nothing new (Dan Brown or Stephanie Meyer, anyone?). It’s like claiming that people will soon no longer communicate in coherent sentences due to texting or Twitter. It’s a dumb assumption, and one typically stated by self-styled intelligentsia.
I could name several books I’ve read over the years that I thought were rather poor. Some infuriated me with their weak prose and weaker plot, at the time. Now, I simply stop reading such books if I’m not hooked within the first thirty pages. And that’s being generous. Now I have an idea of what agents and editors experience when they have to sift through poor material. There’s always plenty of other books to read, you know.
Writing isn’t a pissing contest. Your only competition is yourself. Rather than waste time comparing your work to E.L. James’s (favorably or unfavorably), rather than mock her fans and post memes about how bad her prose is, imagine how much writing you could have gotten done. How many good books you could have read. Instead of posting a one-star review of her work and writing up a gleeful takedown of everything you hate about her book, write a good review for someone’s novel that you did enjoy. Negativity gets you nowhere. It’s not healthy, it’s not mature, and it certainly isn’t going to hurt James’s sales. I doubt if she gives a rat’s ass what people think, and if I had sold 100 million books, I wouldn’t give a damn, either. Neither would you.
Now go read some kickass fiction that leaves you speechless. Write some of your own. That’s what you should be talking about.
I’m not a fan of E.L. James. I haven’t read her million-selling books. The examples of her prose that I’ve seen—and there have been plenty—are not what I’d call quality writing. The subject material is too tame and vanilla for my taste. But so what? That’s just my opinion. And there’s nothing wrong with me, or anyone else, stating such an opinion. There’s nothing wrong with scrutinizing her command of the writing craft, or lack thereof. Writers talk shop like anyone else.
What bothers me is how some people go out of their way to criticize James’s fans, or start comparing how many books she sells to other, better writers. How they refer to her books as ‘trash’.
Leave the fans out of it. If they want to read Fifty Shades, it’s their business. Stop regarding them as tasteless plebs who wouldn’t know literature if it smacked them in the face with a copy of War and Peace. See, people who think that are missing the point: these fans are reading a book, instead of watching TV, playing Xbox, or trolling on Facebook. And more readers is always good for the writing community. James’ astronomical sales also help the rest of us—that’s more money to the publisher, which means more new authors can get signed and published—like yours truly.
Besides, would you want someone saying such things about your fans? Me either.
Speaking of sales, I’ve seen fellow writers bemoan the popularity of Fifty Shades, and how they’ll never sell that many books. One person even calculated how much James makes in one hour, based on her sales, then complained that he was writing in the wrong genre, or that he shouldn’t write what he wants, but something that will ‘sell’—implying that all commercial fiction is prefab crap that is doled out to the uncultured masses. Oh, the humanity. Give me a damn break. If you started writing just to make cash, or your only goal is to make money, then you never had any artistic integrity in the first place. Much less the right to lambaste someone who is successful, while you’re not.
There is no magic genre, no easy, sure-fire way to pen a bestseller, and no way you’ll ever get anywhere yourself by bitching about what others read or write. If you love what you’re doing, then you’ll do it, regardless of its popularity. You’ll do it because that novel has to be excised from your brain before it drives you mad.
I’ve said that some of this negativity stems from jealousy. Some writers have vehemently denied this. Okay, fine. Then stop whining, and start writing. Stop reading her material if it bothers you that much. She’s living her dream, just like so many of us wish we could.
Does books like Fifty Shades water down literature, and make it easier for less than sterling works to get published? Nope. Listen, badly written books have been getting published, and making millions, for years. This is nothing new (Dan Brown or Stephanie Meyer, anyone?). It’s like claiming that people will soon no longer communicate in coherent sentences due to texting or Twitter. It’s a dumb assumption, and one typically stated by self-styled intelligentsia.
I could name several books I’ve read over the years that I thought were rather poor. Some infuriated me with their weak prose and weaker plot, at the time. Now, I simply stop reading such books if I’m not hooked within the first thirty pages. And that’s being generous. Now I have an idea of what agents and editors experience when they have to sift through poor material. There’s always plenty of other books to read, you know.
Writing isn’t a pissing contest. Your only competition is yourself. Rather than waste time comparing your work to E.L. James’s (favorably or unfavorably), rather than mock her fans and post memes about how bad her prose is, imagine how much writing you could have gotten done. How many good books you could have read. Instead of posting a one-star review of her work and writing up a gleeful takedown of everything you hate about her book, write a good review for someone’s novel that you did enjoy. Negativity gets you nowhere. It’s not healthy, it’s not mature, and it certainly isn’t going to hurt James’s sales. I doubt if she gives a rat’s ass what people think, and if I had sold 100 million books, I wouldn’t give a damn, either. Neither would you.
Now go read some kickass fiction that leaves you speechless. Write some of your own. That’s what you should be talking about.
