Tony Peak's Blog, page 12
June 29, 2015
A Little Gravity in My Sci-Fi
Gravity is a constant in spacefaring science fiction. From low-G worlds to floating Klingon blood, it’s usually taken for granted. But how often do we really consider its effects on the imaginary, interstellar civilizations authors create?
In real life, we’re accustomed to astronauts floating in zero-G, probes receiving a gravity assist from planets as they journey to their destination, and the effects of weightlessness on human physiology. Science fiction writers, like myself, portray these phenomena in our stories to further immerse readers in the narrative. They have become typical set dressing, much like castles and knights are clichés of epic fantasy. There’s nothing wrong with that, but what about the real, long-term effects of gravity?
This invisible force has had immeasurable effects on not only our planet and the surrounding universe, but our very species. Everything from bone structure, the colors we can see, our shape—and possibly, even how we age. Could gravity be the deciding factor in our future among the stars?
We already have some sort of destiny beyond the Earth. Our space probes, such as Voyager I & II, are proof of that, for they will likely outlast our species by billions of years. But gravity will play a larger role in that future, other than being a slight obstacle in escaping Earth orbit. It will determine where we can live. Where we can survive.
But science fiction has touched on that. Here are some areas it doesn’t typically address:
Sentient intelligence: Does gravity have a long-term, evolutionary effect on our brains? Does it inhibit or encourage the complex arrangement of neurons and chemicals that grant us the processing power to think? Or to feel? If humans had evolved on a planet with a different gravity—say, three times that of Earth—would we think differently? Or can intelligence, as we know it, even evolve under different conditions? I’m sure it can, but until we know for certain, it does pose a fascinating question: could we interact with, or even understand, a species that evolved in a vastly different gravity? I’m talking about aliens that evolved under, say, six times our normal gravity. How would that change possible communication, beyond the physiological constraints?
Childbirth: Since no child has been carried to term and birthed in a zero gravity environment (or any other alternate gravity, for that matter), what effects will it have when that happens? I’m guessing less bones mass, perhaps weaker muscles. Maybe not in a crippling way, but I doubt that such an environment would have no effect on the fetus. Will these children be a link between our past and our future? Birthed by a lifeform from a certain gravity, with its genetic makeup, but influenced by a gravity at odds with how those very genes evolved? Would there be birth defects if the child were born on a high-G world, with such powerful forces tugging on every second of its development in the fetus? Over time, could another species evolve from us, one that could survive alternate gravities? This isn’t referring to just zero-G, I’m also including Mars’s gravity. Though about one third of Earth’s, would its gravity reshape future colonists over several generations?
Sensory limits: Our own gravity, and our sun, influence our eyesight. Right now, we can only see a small fraction of the electromagnetic spectrum. We can only hear within a certain aural range. Would this be the same for a human born and reared on another planet? A world with different gravity than Earth’s, and one with a hotter, brighter star? Or even a dimmer, colder star? If a colony survived on such a world for, say, a thousand years, how different would their offspring be from those born on Earth? I’d imagine there’d be some differences. And I mean beyond the assumed ones (generations birthed on a low-G world would be slighter, etc.). I’m referring to how they’d interact with their environment. Would their eyes discern different colors than ours, for example? What about their other senses?
Technology: This is something, off the top of my head, that I haven’t seen in science fiction—a disparity in technologies due to different native gravities. And I don’t mean that one civilization has a super-duper ray gun and one doesn’t. I mean, could we even utilize another species’ tech if they developed it for use in another gravity? Imagine trying to wield a gun fabricated by a high-G species. Or piloting a starship, where its process for creating artificial gravity during flight aggravates or even kills another species that wasn’t that vessel’s intended occupants. I think more than just physiology and philosophy would be at work here, in making an object alien to human understanding. I’d imagine that everything would be different. Gravity could have a hand in that.
Economics: Gravity, as we currently understand it, is a universal, irrevocable force. One that we manipulate, and even escape at times, but we still cannot control it. In most interstellar science fiction, FTL travel is common, and artificial gravity aboard starships and space stations is the norm. But gravitational forces would still make such endeavors expensive. What if there were extra tariffs placed on goods from a low-G world, because they’re likelier to break? What if there were taxes incurred whenever one traveled to a high-G planet, due to the extra fuel and danger that such a landing/takeoff would involve? In very advanced civilizations, gravity could become a commodity, where the rich reside in comfortable living spaces attuned to their native gravity, while the poor dwell in gravity that is harmful to them. Think of the health costs in an intergalactic society. Is it really worth it to colonize a high gravity world? Would space travelers have to pay more for medical services, because their extra needs (bone reinforcement, reversing muscular atrophy, accelerated pulmonary conditions) puts a strain on society?
If a science fiction writer has already touched on these issues, then I still have a lot of reading to do. Though I tried to inject the side-effects of gravity into my novel INHERIT THE STARS, I didn’t touch on all of these issues. The story didn’t call for them, and that’s true for many other authors. It’s not always a sign of lazy writing—my novel isn’t Hard SF, after all. But I would like to see more of these concerns expressed in science fiction. I have some ideas gestating on this, since I’m fascinated by gravity’s effects on us. Through my fiction, I intend to explore more of those effects.
In real life, we’re accustomed to astronauts floating in zero-G, probes receiving a gravity assist from planets as they journey to their destination, and the effects of weightlessness on human physiology. Science fiction writers, like myself, portray these phenomena in our stories to further immerse readers in the narrative. They have become typical set dressing, much like castles and knights are clichés of epic fantasy. There’s nothing wrong with that, but what about the real, long-term effects of gravity?
This invisible force has had immeasurable effects on not only our planet and the surrounding universe, but our very species. Everything from bone structure, the colors we can see, our shape—and possibly, even how we age. Could gravity be the deciding factor in our future among the stars?
We already have some sort of destiny beyond the Earth. Our space probes, such as Voyager I & II, are proof of that, for they will likely outlast our species by billions of years. But gravity will play a larger role in that future, other than being a slight obstacle in escaping Earth orbit. It will determine where we can live. Where we can survive.
But science fiction has touched on that. Here are some areas it doesn’t typically address:
Sentient intelligence: Does gravity have a long-term, evolutionary effect on our brains? Does it inhibit or encourage the complex arrangement of neurons and chemicals that grant us the processing power to think? Or to feel? If humans had evolved on a planet with a different gravity—say, three times that of Earth—would we think differently? Or can intelligence, as we know it, even evolve under different conditions? I’m sure it can, but until we know for certain, it does pose a fascinating question: could we interact with, or even understand, a species that evolved in a vastly different gravity? I’m talking about aliens that evolved under, say, six times our normal gravity. How would that change possible communication, beyond the physiological constraints?
Childbirth: Since no child has been carried to term and birthed in a zero gravity environment (or any other alternate gravity, for that matter), what effects will it have when that happens? I’m guessing less bones mass, perhaps weaker muscles. Maybe not in a crippling way, but I doubt that such an environment would have no effect on the fetus. Will these children be a link between our past and our future? Birthed by a lifeform from a certain gravity, with its genetic makeup, but influenced by a gravity at odds with how those very genes evolved? Would there be birth defects if the child were born on a high-G world, with such powerful forces tugging on every second of its development in the fetus? Over time, could another species evolve from us, one that could survive alternate gravities? This isn’t referring to just zero-G, I’m also including Mars’s gravity. Though about one third of Earth’s, would its gravity reshape future colonists over several generations?
Sensory limits: Our own gravity, and our sun, influence our eyesight. Right now, we can only see a small fraction of the electromagnetic spectrum. We can only hear within a certain aural range. Would this be the same for a human born and reared on another planet? A world with different gravity than Earth’s, and one with a hotter, brighter star? Or even a dimmer, colder star? If a colony survived on such a world for, say, a thousand years, how different would their offspring be from those born on Earth? I’d imagine there’d be some differences. And I mean beyond the assumed ones (generations birthed on a low-G world would be slighter, etc.). I’m referring to how they’d interact with their environment. Would their eyes discern different colors than ours, for example? What about their other senses?
Technology: This is something, off the top of my head, that I haven’t seen in science fiction—a disparity in technologies due to different native gravities. And I don’t mean that one civilization has a super-duper ray gun and one doesn’t. I mean, could we even utilize another species’ tech if they developed it for use in another gravity? Imagine trying to wield a gun fabricated by a high-G species. Or piloting a starship, where its process for creating artificial gravity during flight aggravates or even kills another species that wasn’t that vessel’s intended occupants. I think more than just physiology and philosophy would be at work here, in making an object alien to human understanding. I’d imagine that everything would be different. Gravity could have a hand in that.
Economics: Gravity, as we currently understand it, is a universal, irrevocable force. One that we manipulate, and even escape at times, but we still cannot control it. In most interstellar science fiction, FTL travel is common, and artificial gravity aboard starships and space stations is the norm. But gravitational forces would still make such endeavors expensive. What if there were extra tariffs placed on goods from a low-G world, because they’re likelier to break? What if there were taxes incurred whenever one traveled to a high-G planet, due to the extra fuel and danger that such a landing/takeoff would involve? In very advanced civilizations, gravity could become a commodity, where the rich reside in comfortable living spaces attuned to their native gravity, while the poor dwell in gravity that is harmful to them. Think of the health costs in an intergalactic society. Is it really worth it to colonize a high gravity world? Would space travelers have to pay more for medical services, because their extra needs (bone reinforcement, reversing muscular atrophy, accelerated pulmonary conditions) puts a strain on society?
If a science fiction writer has already touched on these issues, then I still have a lot of reading to do. Though I tried to inject the side-effects of gravity into my novel INHERIT THE STARS, I didn’t touch on all of these issues. The story didn’t call for them, and that’s true for many other authors. It’s not always a sign of lazy writing—my novel isn’t Hard SF, after all. But I would like to see more of these concerns expressed in science fiction. I have some ideas gestating on this, since I’m fascinated by gravity’s effects on us. Through my fiction, I intend to explore more of those effects.
June 28, 2015
A Little Gravity in My Sci-Fi
Gravity is a constant in spacefaring science fiction. From low-G worlds to floating Klingon blood, it’s usually taken for granted. But how often do we really consider its effects on the imaginary, interstellar civilizations authors create?
In real life, we’re accustomed to astronauts floating in zero-G, probes receiving a gravity assist from planets as they journey to their destination, and the effects of weightlessness on human physiology. Science fiction writers, like myself, portray these phenomena in our stories to further immerse readers in the narrative. They have become typical set dressing, much like castles and knights are clichés of epic fantasy. There’s nothing wrong with that, but what about the real, long-term effects of gravity?
This invisible force has had immeasurable effects on not only our planet and the surrounding universe, but our very species. Everything from bone structure, the colors we can see, our shape—and possibly, even how we age. Could gravity be the deciding factor in our future among the stars?
We already have some sort of destiny beyond the Earth. Our space probes, such as Voyager I & II, are proof of that, for they will likely outlast our species by billions of years. But gravity will play a larger role in that future, other than being a slight obstacle in escaping Earth orbit. It will determine where we can live. Where we can survive.
But science fiction has touched on that. Here are some areas it doesn’t typically address:
Sentient intelligence: Does gravity have a long-term, evolutionary effect on our brains? Does it inhibit or encourage the complex arrangement of neurons and chemicals that grant us the processing power to think? Or to feel? If humans had evolved on a planet with a different gravity—say, three times that of Earth—would we think differently? Or can intelligence, as we know it, even evolve under different conditions? I’m sure it can, but until we know for certain, it does pose a fascinating question: could we interact with, or even understand, a species that evolved in a vastly different gravity? I’m talking about aliens that evolved under, say, six times our normal gravity. How would that change possible communication, beyond the physiological constraints?
Childbirth: Since no child has been carried to term and birthed in a zero gravity environment (or any other alternate gravity, for that matter), what effects will it have when that happens? I’m guessing less bones mass, perhaps weaker muscles. Maybe not in a crippling way, but I doubt that such an environment would have no effect on the fetus. Will these children be a link between our past and our future? Birthed by a lifeform from a certain gravity, with its genetic makeup, but influenced by a gravity at odds with how those very genes evolved? Would there be birth defects if the child were born on a high-G world, with such powerful forces tugging on every second of its development in the fetus? Over time, could another species evolve from us, one that could survive alternate gravities? This isn’t referring to just zero-G, I’m also including Mars’s gravity. Though about one third of Earth’s, would its gravity reshape future colonists over several generations?
Sensory limits: Our own gravity, and our sun, influence our eyesight. Right now, we can only see a small fraction of the electromagnetic spectrum. We can only hear within a certain aural range. Would this be the same for a human born and reared on another planet? A world with different gravity than Earth’s, and one with a hotter, brighter star? Or even a dimmer, colder star? If a colony survived on such a world for, say, a thousand years, how different would their offspring be from those born on Earth? I’d imagine there’d be some differences. And I mean beyond the assumed ones (generations birthed on a low-G world would be slighter, etc.). I’m referring to how they’d interact with their environment. Would their eyes discern different colors than ours, for example? What about their other senses?
Technology: This is something, off the top of my head, that I haven’t seen in science fiction—a disparity in technologies due to different native gravities. And I don’t mean that one civilization has a super-duper ray gun and one doesn’t. I mean, could we even utilize another species’ tech if they developed it for use in another gravity? Imagine trying to wield a gun fabricated by a high-G species. Or piloting a starship, where its process for creating artificial gravity during flight aggravates or even kills another species that wasn’t that vessel’s intended occupants. I think more than just physiology and philosophy would be at work here, in making an object alien to human understanding. I’d imagine that everything would be different. Gravity could have a hand in that.
Economics: Gravity, as we currently understand it, is a universal, irrevocable force. One that we manipulate, and even escape at times, but we still cannot control it. In most interstellar science fiction, FTL travel is common, and artificial gravity aboard starships and space stations is the norm. But gravitational forces would still make such endeavors expensive. What if there were extra tariffs placed on goods from a low-G world, because they’re likelier to break? What if there were taxes incurred whenever one traveled to a high-G planet, due to the extra fuel and danger that such a landing/takeoff would involve? In very advanced civilizations, gravity could become a commodity, where the rich reside in comfortable living spaces attuned to their native gravity, while the poor dwell in gravity that is harmful to them. Think of the health costs in an intergalactic society. Is it really worth it to colonize a high gravity world? Would space travelers have to pay more for medical services, because their extra needs (bone reinforcement, reversing muscular atrophy, accelerated pulmonary conditions) puts a strain on society? If a science fiction writer has already touched on these issues, then I still have a lot of reading to do. Though I tried to inject the side-effects of gravity into my novel INHERIT THE STARS, I didn’t touch on all of these issues. The story didn’t call for them, and that’s true for many other authors. It’s not always a sign of lazy writing—my novel isn’t Hard SF, after all. But I would like to see more of these concerns expressed in science fiction. I have some ideas gestating on this, since I’m fascinated by gravity’s effects on us. Through my fiction, I intend to explore more of those effects.
In real life, we’re accustomed to astronauts floating in zero-G, probes receiving a gravity assist from planets as they journey to their destination, and the effects of weightlessness on human physiology. Science fiction writers, like myself, portray these phenomena in our stories to further immerse readers in the narrative. They have become typical set dressing, much like castles and knights are clichés of epic fantasy. There’s nothing wrong with that, but what about the real, long-term effects of gravity?
This invisible force has had immeasurable effects on not only our planet and the surrounding universe, but our very species. Everything from bone structure, the colors we can see, our shape—and possibly, even how we age. Could gravity be the deciding factor in our future among the stars?
We already have some sort of destiny beyond the Earth. Our space probes, such as Voyager I & II, are proof of that, for they will likely outlast our species by billions of years. But gravity will play a larger role in that future, other than being a slight obstacle in escaping Earth orbit. It will determine where we can live. Where we can survive.
But science fiction has touched on that. Here are some areas it doesn’t typically address:
Sentient intelligence: Does gravity have a long-term, evolutionary effect on our brains? Does it inhibit or encourage the complex arrangement of neurons and chemicals that grant us the processing power to think? Or to feel? If humans had evolved on a planet with a different gravity—say, three times that of Earth—would we think differently? Or can intelligence, as we know it, even evolve under different conditions? I’m sure it can, but until we know for certain, it does pose a fascinating question: could we interact with, or even understand, a species that evolved in a vastly different gravity? I’m talking about aliens that evolved under, say, six times our normal gravity. How would that change possible communication, beyond the physiological constraints?
Childbirth: Since no child has been carried to term and birthed in a zero gravity environment (or any other alternate gravity, for that matter), what effects will it have when that happens? I’m guessing less bones mass, perhaps weaker muscles. Maybe not in a crippling way, but I doubt that such an environment would have no effect on the fetus. Will these children be a link between our past and our future? Birthed by a lifeform from a certain gravity, with its genetic makeup, but influenced by a gravity at odds with how those very genes evolved? Would there be birth defects if the child were born on a high-G world, with such powerful forces tugging on every second of its development in the fetus? Over time, could another species evolve from us, one that could survive alternate gravities? This isn’t referring to just zero-G, I’m also including Mars’s gravity. Though about one third of Earth’s, would its gravity reshape future colonists over several generations?
Sensory limits: Our own gravity, and our sun, influence our eyesight. Right now, we can only see a small fraction of the electromagnetic spectrum. We can only hear within a certain aural range. Would this be the same for a human born and reared on another planet? A world with different gravity than Earth’s, and one with a hotter, brighter star? Or even a dimmer, colder star? If a colony survived on such a world for, say, a thousand years, how different would their offspring be from those born on Earth? I’d imagine there’d be some differences. And I mean beyond the assumed ones (generations birthed on a low-G world would be slighter, etc.). I’m referring to how they’d interact with their environment. Would their eyes discern different colors than ours, for example? What about their other senses?
Technology: This is something, off the top of my head, that I haven’t seen in science fiction—a disparity in technologies due to different native gravities. And I don’t mean that one civilization has a super-duper ray gun and one doesn’t. I mean, could we even utilize another species’ tech if they developed it for use in another gravity? Imagine trying to wield a gun fabricated by a high-G species. Or piloting a starship, where its process for creating artificial gravity during flight aggravates or even kills another species that wasn’t that vessel’s intended occupants. I think more than just physiology and philosophy would be at work here, in making an object alien to human understanding. I’d imagine that everything would be different. Gravity could have a hand in that.
Economics: Gravity, as we currently understand it, is a universal, irrevocable force. One that we manipulate, and even escape at times, but we still cannot control it. In most interstellar science fiction, FTL travel is common, and artificial gravity aboard starships and space stations is the norm. But gravitational forces would still make such endeavors expensive. What if there were extra tariffs placed on goods from a low-G world, because they’re likelier to break? What if there were taxes incurred whenever one traveled to a high-G planet, due to the extra fuel and danger that such a landing/takeoff would involve? In very advanced civilizations, gravity could become a commodity, where the rich reside in comfortable living spaces attuned to their native gravity, while the poor dwell in gravity that is harmful to them. Think of the health costs in an intergalactic society. Is it really worth it to colonize a high gravity world? Would space travelers have to pay more for medical services, because their extra needs (bone reinforcement, reversing muscular atrophy, accelerated pulmonary conditions) puts a strain on society? If a science fiction writer has already touched on these issues, then I still have a lot of reading to do. Though I tried to inject the side-effects of gravity into my novel INHERIT THE STARS, I didn’t touch on all of these issues. The story didn’t call for them, and that’s true for many other authors. It’s not always a sign of lazy writing—my novel isn’t Hard SF, after all. But I would like to see more of these concerns expressed in science fiction. I have some ideas gestating on this, since I’m fascinated by gravity’s effects on us. Through my fiction, I intend to explore more of those effects.
June 5, 2015
Review Etiquette
Reviewing another author’s work and posting it to Goodreads or Amazon can be tricky. If you leave an honest but low-star review, you risk making an enemy (the writer in question). If you leave a positive, high-star review, you might come off as a sycophant. But you shouldn’t have to worry about posting your honest opinion, either. So what’s the best review etiquette?
Mine is simple: I only post reviews for titles I really like.
Books that I find mediocre, boring, or even terrible, I merely leave an average to low-star rating without writing a review. This way, I remain honest, but provide a boost for authors whose work impressed me. Those writers who didn’t, well, there is always someone willing to post negative comments. There’s no shortage of that on the web, and I’d rather not contribute. Plus, if I found the book that bad, I don’t waste time writing comments—I’ve already paid money for it, and spent time reading it, so why use more resources on something I didn’t enjoy?
When I do write review comments, I have three rules: don’t give away spoilers, say positive things about the book, and describe particular aspects of the work that stuck out to me.
Why no spoilers? Because I loathe them. If I’m writing a review at all, that means I liked the book. So why would I want to rob prospective readers—readers who might be influenced by my review to buy said book—of the story’s secrets, or its ending, when I was able to enjoy these things myself? So I hint at what may come in the story, but that’s it. I try to write my own blurb for the book, actually. That’s more or less what most web reviews are—and blurbs don’t have spoilers.
Positive comments highlight the reasons I’m writing a review in the first place. Remember, I only do this for books I rate 4 or 5 stars. So if there are a few issues I had with a novel, they aren’t worth mentioning. This is a title that left me satisfied, was though-provoking, and left me emotionally moved. So I’m not going to bother with nits.
And finally, I always point out names, situations, or details from the book—information I can only get from actually reading it, instead of copying other reviews. This way the author will know I really did read the work from beginning to end. As an author myself, it’s always gratifying when a reader recalls a character name, a scene, or a snippet of dialogue from my own work. It shows that they read it, and enjoyed it enough to remember details afterward. I do this as a compliment to the writer.
I don’t go into literary analysis or in-depth critiques. I leave that to the professional critics, the ones who write reviews for a living. See, I don’t write reviews for a living. I write fiction. Leave the analysis to the experts and to those who think they are experts. Plus most people who is scan over a book’s reviews aren’t looking for a scholarly deconstruction that touches on theme or symbolism—they want to know if the title is worth their time, effort, and money. There are always plenty of other books out there to read, after all.
A final word: if I bothered to leave a 4 or 5 star rating, and I wrote review comments, that means your book captured my imagination. It held my attention from beginning to end. It’s a title I’d recommend to fellow readers and authors. It is a book I’m proud to display on the shelf next to my other favorite books. And I keep what I consider great books for life (I still have titles I read when I was ten years old, and I’m near forty). So that means I’ll be passing your book on to my children, the next generation. That may be the best endorsement of all.
Mine is simple: I only post reviews for titles I really like.
Books that I find mediocre, boring, or even terrible, I merely leave an average to low-star rating without writing a review. This way, I remain honest, but provide a boost for authors whose work impressed me. Those writers who didn’t, well, there is always someone willing to post negative comments. There’s no shortage of that on the web, and I’d rather not contribute. Plus, if I found the book that bad, I don’t waste time writing comments—I’ve already paid money for it, and spent time reading it, so why use more resources on something I didn’t enjoy?
When I do write review comments, I have three rules: don’t give away spoilers, say positive things about the book, and describe particular aspects of the work that stuck out to me.
Why no spoilers? Because I loathe them. If I’m writing a review at all, that means I liked the book. So why would I want to rob prospective readers—readers who might be influenced by my review to buy said book—of the story’s secrets, or its ending, when I was able to enjoy these things myself? So I hint at what may come in the story, but that’s it. I try to write my own blurb for the book, actually. That’s more or less what most web reviews are—and blurbs don’t have spoilers.
Positive comments highlight the reasons I’m writing a review in the first place. Remember, I only do this for books I rate 4 or 5 stars. So if there are a few issues I had with a novel, they aren’t worth mentioning. This is a title that left me satisfied, was though-provoking, and left me emotionally moved. So I’m not going to bother with nits.
And finally, I always point out names, situations, or details from the book—information I can only get from actually reading it, instead of copying other reviews. This way the author will know I really did read the work from beginning to end. As an author myself, it’s always gratifying when a reader recalls a character name, a scene, or a snippet of dialogue from my own work. It shows that they read it, and enjoyed it enough to remember details afterward. I do this as a compliment to the writer.
I don’t go into literary analysis or in-depth critiques. I leave that to the professional critics, the ones who write reviews for a living. See, I don’t write reviews for a living. I write fiction. Leave the analysis to the experts and to those who think they are experts. Plus most people who is scan over a book’s reviews aren’t looking for a scholarly deconstruction that touches on theme or symbolism—they want to know if the title is worth their time, effort, and money. There are always plenty of other books out there to read, after all.
A final word: if I bothered to leave a 4 or 5 star rating, and I wrote review comments, that means your book captured my imagination. It held my attention from beginning to end. It’s a title I’d recommend to fellow readers and authors. It is a book I’m proud to display on the shelf next to my other favorite books. And I keep what I consider great books for life (I still have titles I read when I was ten years old, and I’m near forty). So that means I’ll be passing your book on to my children, the next generation. That may be the best endorsement of all.
March 26, 2015
Writing Science Fiction in an Anti-Science Era
As a speculative fiction author, I can imagine (as Han Solo would say) quite a bit. But I never would have imagined that in the 21st century our society would still suffer from so much bigotry and ignorance. Human nature, right? I disagree. Plenty of progress has been made in the human arena during a very short span of time. Much of that progress owes a debt to science. The very computer I’m typing this on, the device you’re using to read this blog, and the networks necessary to carry it from me to you wouldn’t exist without it. Science has aided human endeavor since civilization began. It has expanded our knowledge, saved lives, made dreams possible. Placing a human being on the Moon, resuscitating patients, uncovering dinosaur bones millions of years old—its pros far outweigh any cons. The irony of people decrying something they use every day, that benefits them in infinitesimal ways, would be comical were it not for the consequences.
So why are so many people anti-science these days?
Everyone from climate-change deniers, evolutionary skeptics, creationists, to the anti-vaccine crowd, has really pushed their agendas in the last decade. Far more than ever before, and with surprising success. At the roots of this success is a dash of religious fundamentalism, resistance to change, a poor educational system, and just plain ignorance—but deep down, it’s driven by fear. Fear of progress.
Fear of the future, which is the greatest unknown, even to science. It is that unknown that we science fiction writers delve into. Not only to tell a good story, but to wrest something out of the void and thus learn more about ourselves.
When I was a child, science was a wondrous thing. It fueled my imagination, and revealed answers no holy book or moronic politician ever could. Fundamental concepts and evidence weren’t questioned, at least not by educated people. Best of all, science never claimed to be able to explain everything. Such objective, pragmatic reasoning has stuck with me all my life. Now it influences my writing.
But how does one sell books about interstellar voyages, centered on hope and progress, when the zeitgeist is bloated with anti-science doom and gloom?
Though I’m not loading my stories with any pro-science subtext, my work isn’t filled with idiots who love to pilot starships but deny the existence of gravity, either. That’s how these people present themselves. That’s no different than someone polluting the Earth with fossil fuels but refusing to accept human-made climate change—in the face of overwhelming scientific evidence. No different than trying so say dinosaurs coexisted with humans just to make paleontology fit Bronze Age mythology. There’s a real disconnect between reason and responsibility here. At the heart of that is something greater than fear: greed.
So we have ignorance, fear, and greed. Strong themes in any genre, but science fiction has always been the literature of ideas. It has allowed us to imagine better worlds, and warned us of terrifying ones. Science fiction has shown us where these urges have been overcome---such as Gene Roddenberry’s original Star Trek—as well as settings where they are amplified—such as George Orwell’s 1984. But fiction is fiction, right? Escapism, food for thought, whatever you want to glean from it—fiction isn’t made to change the world; its primary purpose is to entertain. I’m not using my stories as a platform to advocate anything. I never will.
But I will inundate them with characters who fight against ignorance, fear, and greed. Within, and without. Stories that show what ignorance, fear, and greed can do—and what heroes and heroines can do to stop it by using their brains more often than violence. Books that reach into that void to discover, to learn, and ultimately, to share. We are still a young species, with so much potential. If my fiction inspires even a single reader to look beyond our primitive instincts and seek something better, then I’ll consider myself fortunate.
I for one will continue writing what I want. To hell with these anti-science morons. But science alone won’t save us; neither will science fiction stories. Maybe, though, by showing readers what is possible when science uplifts the best that humanity has to offer, us sci-fi authors can make a small difference.
So why are so many people anti-science these days?
Everyone from climate-change deniers, evolutionary skeptics, creationists, to the anti-vaccine crowd, has really pushed their agendas in the last decade. Far more than ever before, and with surprising success. At the roots of this success is a dash of religious fundamentalism, resistance to change, a poor educational system, and just plain ignorance—but deep down, it’s driven by fear. Fear of progress.
Fear of the future, which is the greatest unknown, even to science. It is that unknown that we science fiction writers delve into. Not only to tell a good story, but to wrest something out of the void and thus learn more about ourselves.
When I was a child, science was a wondrous thing. It fueled my imagination, and revealed answers no holy book or moronic politician ever could. Fundamental concepts and evidence weren’t questioned, at least not by educated people. Best of all, science never claimed to be able to explain everything. Such objective, pragmatic reasoning has stuck with me all my life. Now it influences my writing.
But how does one sell books about interstellar voyages, centered on hope and progress, when the zeitgeist is bloated with anti-science doom and gloom?
Though I’m not loading my stories with any pro-science subtext, my work isn’t filled with idiots who love to pilot starships but deny the existence of gravity, either. That’s how these people present themselves. That’s no different than someone polluting the Earth with fossil fuels but refusing to accept human-made climate change—in the face of overwhelming scientific evidence. No different than trying so say dinosaurs coexisted with humans just to make paleontology fit Bronze Age mythology. There’s a real disconnect between reason and responsibility here. At the heart of that is something greater than fear: greed.
So we have ignorance, fear, and greed. Strong themes in any genre, but science fiction has always been the literature of ideas. It has allowed us to imagine better worlds, and warned us of terrifying ones. Science fiction has shown us where these urges have been overcome---such as Gene Roddenberry’s original Star Trek—as well as settings where they are amplified—such as George Orwell’s 1984. But fiction is fiction, right? Escapism, food for thought, whatever you want to glean from it—fiction isn’t made to change the world; its primary purpose is to entertain. I’m not using my stories as a platform to advocate anything. I never will.
But I will inundate them with characters who fight against ignorance, fear, and greed. Within, and without. Stories that show what ignorance, fear, and greed can do—and what heroes and heroines can do to stop it by using their brains more often than violence. Books that reach into that void to discover, to learn, and ultimately, to share. We are still a young species, with so much potential. If my fiction inspires even a single reader to look beyond our primitive instincts and seek something better, then I’ll consider myself fortunate.
I for one will continue writing what I want. To hell with these anti-science morons. But science alone won’t save us; neither will science fiction stories. Maybe, though, by showing readers what is possible when science uplifts the best that humanity has to offer, us sci-fi authors can make a small difference.
February 26, 2015
Lessons in Self-Editing
After turning in the latest revisions to my editor, I have come to an important conclusion in my writing career: I am guilty of self-indulgent overwriting. I never thought my work suffered from this, but like always, it takes someone else to see what the creator cannot. No longer will I turn a blind eye to my bloated novels—it is indeed time to kill those darlings, like Stephen King says.
The manuscript in question, INHERIT THE STARS (coming out this November through Ace/Roc) was accepted by the publisher at 128,000 words. At the time I thought the scope and breadth of my story justified such a length. This was my space opera, my Stars Wars meets Dune meets 2001, dammit, and I wanted to make sure the reader knew every little friggin’ detail.
But what readers want is a story. World building is secondary. Again, I tried to justify the extra information because this is the first installment in a series, and hey, I needed to establish the setting’s details, right?
Um, no. What readers still want is a story.
It started with each successive draft I’d revise—every time, I ended up with a higher word count. But I felt good about the story, the characters. I doted on the little moments, added a little extra detail to that planet, or increased the drama by adding more stakes. The sad part is that I was doing this with every novel I revised. I now realize I’d gotten too close to these stories. I was like a mason building extra towers onto a castle—that already had plenty of towers.
When my editor mentioned that the manuscript for INHERIT THE STARS was too long, I was afraid of how much she’d want to cut. Now, I knew the publisher would expect some editing, but I assumed it wouldn’t include any huge changes. Still, I grew anxious, fearing they’d want a stripped-down 100K novel. So I got started on the revision, using my editor’s advice, but right before I received her line-edits.
The process was so easy, I almost didn’t believe it. I sliced out sentences, sometimes whole paragraphs. Passages jumped out at me that didn’t need to be there, that slowed the narrative down. I trimmed down on all the excess body language and background minutiae. When I got my editor’s line-edits and looked over them, I realized I was cutting the very same things she thought could go. But, I was also trimming more than she suggested. She said her edits were but a guideline, and since I could feel the story getting tighter, I forged ahead without worrying about cutting too much.
Upon completion, the manuscript was over 17,000 words shorter—but the plot remained the same. No character had been excised; no subplots eliminated. I finally understood that I didn’t need all the extra description, my characters didn’t need to be spoiled with extra internal monologue, and my story certainly didn’t need to be clogged with obscure references and names most people couldn’t pronounce.
For the first time I had REALLY edited a novel. And damn, it felt good.
This was a major learning experience, which I’m going to apply to my other overweight novels. And I’m excited to do so, because I know each one will be the better for it. I’m just glad I was able to see these problems for myself at last. A year ago, I might have disagreed with my editor. Now, I know my craft has improved, and that I’m more willing to compromise.
I find this is just as important as the book contract itself. Because, unless I grow, there might not be any more contracts.
And because, in the end, all that matters is the story.
The manuscript in question, INHERIT THE STARS (coming out this November through Ace/Roc) was accepted by the publisher at 128,000 words. At the time I thought the scope and breadth of my story justified such a length. This was my space opera, my Stars Wars meets Dune meets 2001, dammit, and I wanted to make sure the reader knew every little friggin’ detail.
But what readers want is a story. World building is secondary. Again, I tried to justify the extra information because this is the first installment in a series, and hey, I needed to establish the setting’s details, right?
Um, no. What readers still want is a story.
It started with each successive draft I’d revise—every time, I ended up with a higher word count. But I felt good about the story, the characters. I doted on the little moments, added a little extra detail to that planet, or increased the drama by adding more stakes. The sad part is that I was doing this with every novel I revised. I now realize I’d gotten too close to these stories. I was like a mason building extra towers onto a castle—that already had plenty of towers.
When my editor mentioned that the manuscript for INHERIT THE STARS was too long, I was afraid of how much she’d want to cut. Now, I knew the publisher would expect some editing, but I assumed it wouldn’t include any huge changes. Still, I grew anxious, fearing they’d want a stripped-down 100K novel. So I got started on the revision, using my editor’s advice, but right before I received her line-edits.
The process was so easy, I almost didn’t believe it. I sliced out sentences, sometimes whole paragraphs. Passages jumped out at me that didn’t need to be there, that slowed the narrative down. I trimmed down on all the excess body language and background minutiae. When I got my editor’s line-edits and looked over them, I realized I was cutting the very same things she thought could go. But, I was also trimming more than she suggested. She said her edits were but a guideline, and since I could feel the story getting tighter, I forged ahead without worrying about cutting too much.
Upon completion, the manuscript was over 17,000 words shorter—but the plot remained the same. No character had been excised; no subplots eliminated. I finally understood that I didn’t need all the extra description, my characters didn’t need to be spoiled with extra internal monologue, and my story certainly didn’t need to be clogged with obscure references and names most people couldn’t pronounce.
For the first time I had REALLY edited a novel. And damn, it felt good.
This was a major learning experience, which I’m going to apply to my other overweight novels. And I’m excited to do so, because I know each one will be the better for it. I’m just glad I was able to see these problems for myself at last. A year ago, I might have disagreed with my editor. Now, I know my craft has improved, and that I’m more willing to compromise.
I find this is just as important as the book contract itself. Because, unless I grow, there might not be any more contracts.
And because, in the end, all that matters is the story.
January 29, 2015
Why I Write Female Characters
Lately many of my stories have featured women protagonists. Even my novel, INHERIT THE STARS, due out this November, revolves around a heroine. Many writers of both genders have touched on why some men write through a woman’s point of view. Here, I’ll state why I choose to do so, and how it relates to the stories I’m telling. For starters, writing female protagonists is a challenge—at least for me. Not because the basic emotions, goals, or presentation needs to be different, but because women’s lives have never been easy throughout history. From cultural and religious bigotry regarding gender roles, sexual assault because men abided rape, to the travails of menstrual cycles and childbirth, women have endured much more than their male counterparts. That alone provides more drama that can affect a heroine. Stories can develop arcs that would never be possible with a male character. This isn’t something as crude as highlighting feminine anatomy in the text, or loading her scenes with stereotypic concerns. It is more nuanced—and rewarding—than that.
Women have proven they are just as capable as men when it comes to warfare, science, politics, education, the arts, and every other facet of human existence. Speculative fiction is finally catching up to that realization. We have moved beyond the clueless, scantily –clad bimbo in old space opera and sword & sorcery tropes. Women characters have much more potential than just sexualized treats for the fanboys. But what really makes their stories different, beyond the obvious?
Other than physical characteristics and hormones, the biggest difference between genders is a woman’s ability to carry a child to term. I’m not reducing women down to this single function, like so many ignorant men of the past (and unfortunately, the present). This is a fantastic ability women possess. Though a man fertilizes their egg, a woman does the rest of the work in carrying and birthing the child. The power of life is in their hands. That is why some men over the centuries have feared and hated women, making them second-class citizens—if citizens at all. This isn’t a tirade about how bad men are, or a ‘politically correct rant’ about feminism. I’m simply stating the truth. Men can never possess this power, no matter how hard they try. Now, place the fairer sex in a science fiction or fantasy story, where this power has even further implications. This adds more possibilities for conflict. For example:
Cloning and genetic engineering are staples of science fiction. So is the creation of artificial sentience, such as androids. Such things affect and even challenge a woman’s power to give birth. It is women who still have to bear cloned children (such as the gholas created from axlotl tanks in Frank Herbert’s Dune series—the ‘tanks’ were formerly women). Any genetic engineering is done before birth, perhaps even before conception, which can also affect the mother. With androids or artificial intelligence, the process of birth is completely bypassed, with ready-made entities stepping off an assembly line. This undermines feminine power to create human life, regardless of intended purpose.
Bloodlines and royal ascension are common in fantasy settings, with their focus on medieval politics and beliefs—such as male-dominated societies. Blood descent is considered important, often deciding who rules and who is a slave. Again, women hold the power here, for all children must come from them. From arranged marriages to the theft of a queen, men try to control this power. Akin to science fiction, fantasy also explores alternate routes of procreation, from demonic deals to empower one’s offspring, to a dash of elven blood granting a child special abilities. Golems, like androids, bypass the need of a woman to carry them to term, and thus remain a challenge as well.
Horror allows a writer to explore even more terrible avenues of fear when told from a woman’s perspective. Everything from losing one’s child to possession, to getting impregnated with a monster. As before, this ties into a woman’s power over life. She may lose it, or see it twisted by some dark force beyond her control. In the most brutal stories, a pregnant woman makes for an even more empathic victim, as two are suffering, not one.
Secondly, women express their emotions better than most men. This is more than mere cultural etiquette, where in our society it’s considered okay for a woman to cry, but not a man. I mean the things women want, what they think about, the connections they make to mundane things. This is going to be different than if I’m writing a male character. True, there are cultural and personal considerations—a hardened soldier isn’t going to shed a tear before her squad, whereas a bride-to-be in a Victorian novel might sob because she spilled her tea—but it will still be different. A woman need not be masculinized to be strong—strength comes in many forms, not the least of which is fortitude. So even if a woman isn’t toting a gun in each hand or cleaving a dragon’s neck, she can convey strength via personality and deed. The so-called ‘weaker’ sex is anything but.
Thirdly…why do I write these heroines into my stories? I tend to portray strong female leads who aren’t afraid of what the universe throws at them. Nothing new there, I know. Maybe it’s the extra power over life that women possess that raises the stakes. Maybe it’s an alternate take on reality, the same as writing from the perspective of an alien, a robot, a child, or a transgender person. Sometimes it’s because I like underdogs, and let’s face it, women have been consigned to that role much of our history. Even today, with controversies like Gamergate, assaults on abortion rights, and the continued maltreatment of women in poorer nations, women have it harder than men. Some guys will be offended by that statement, but the facts speak for themselves. That’s another reason why I write so many narratives with female protagonists—once that woman, with so many odds stacked against her, finally succeeds, then it is a victory not just for her, but our species as a whole. That’s the beauty of rendering a woman’s perspective in my fiction. It makes me examine the opposite sex in ways I might never have considered. Hopefully, so will my readers.
But I’m still learning. The only ones who can best write female characters are women authors. And to quote Joss Wheedon, when asked why he writes so many strong women into his stories: “Because you’re still asking me that question.”
That’s reason enough.
Women have proven they are just as capable as men when it comes to warfare, science, politics, education, the arts, and every other facet of human existence. Speculative fiction is finally catching up to that realization. We have moved beyond the clueless, scantily –clad bimbo in old space opera and sword & sorcery tropes. Women characters have much more potential than just sexualized treats for the fanboys. But what really makes their stories different, beyond the obvious?
Other than physical characteristics and hormones, the biggest difference between genders is a woman’s ability to carry a child to term. I’m not reducing women down to this single function, like so many ignorant men of the past (and unfortunately, the present). This is a fantastic ability women possess. Though a man fertilizes their egg, a woman does the rest of the work in carrying and birthing the child. The power of life is in their hands. That is why some men over the centuries have feared and hated women, making them second-class citizens—if citizens at all. This isn’t a tirade about how bad men are, or a ‘politically correct rant’ about feminism. I’m simply stating the truth. Men can never possess this power, no matter how hard they try. Now, place the fairer sex in a science fiction or fantasy story, where this power has even further implications. This adds more possibilities for conflict. For example:
Cloning and genetic engineering are staples of science fiction. So is the creation of artificial sentience, such as androids. Such things affect and even challenge a woman’s power to give birth. It is women who still have to bear cloned children (such as the gholas created from axlotl tanks in Frank Herbert’s Dune series—the ‘tanks’ were formerly women). Any genetic engineering is done before birth, perhaps even before conception, which can also affect the mother. With androids or artificial intelligence, the process of birth is completely bypassed, with ready-made entities stepping off an assembly line. This undermines feminine power to create human life, regardless of intended purpose.
Bloodlines and royal ascension are common in fantasy settings, with their focus on medieval politics and beliefs—such as male-dominated societies. Blood descent is considered important, often deciding who rules and who is a slave. Again, women hold the power here, for all children must come from them. From arranged marriages to the theft of a queen, men try to control this power. Akin to science fiction, fantasy also explores alternate routes of procreation, from demonic deals to empower one’s offspring, to a dash of elven blood granting a child special abilities. Golems, like androids, bypass the need of a woman to carry them to term, and thus remain a challenge as well.
Horror allows a writer to explore even more terrible avenues of fear when told from a woman’s perspective. Everything from losing one’s child to possession, to getting impregnated with a monster. As before, this ties into a woman’s power over life. She may lose it, or see it twisted by some dark force beyond her control. In the most brutal stories, a pregnant woman makes for an even more empathic victim, as two are suffering, not one.
Secondly, women express their emotions better than most men. This is more than mere cultural etiquette, where in our society it’s considered okay for a woman to cry, but not a man. I mean the things women want, what they think about, the connections they make to mundane things. This is going to be different than if I’m writing a male character. True, there are cultural and personal considerations—a hardened soldier isn’t going to shed a tear before her squad, whereas a bride-to-be in a Victorian novel might sob because she spilled her tea—but it will still be different. A woman need not be masculinized to be strong—strength comes in many forms, not the least of which is fortitude. So even if a woman isn’t toting a gun in each hand or cleaving a dragon’s neck, she can convey strength via personality and deed. The so-called ‘weaker’ sex is anything but.
Thirdly…why do I write these heroines into my stories? I tend to portray strong female leads who aren’t afraid of what the universe throws at them. Nothing new there, I know. Maybe it’s the extra power over life that women possess that raises the stakes. Maybe it’s an alternate take on reality, the same as writing from the perspective of an alien, a robot, a child, or a transgender person. Sometimes it’s because I like underdogs, and let’s face it, women have been consigned to that role much of our history. Even today, with controversies like Gamergate, assaults on abortion rights, and the continued maltreatment of women in poorer nations, women have it harder than men. Some guys will be offended by that statement, but the facts speak for themselves. That’s another reason why I write so many narratives with female protagonists—once that woman, with so many odds stacked against her, finally succeeds, then it is a victory not just for her, but our species as a whole. That’s the beauty of rendering a woman’s perspective in my fiction. It makes me examine the opposite sex in ways I might never have considered. Hopefully, so will my readers.
But I’m still learning. The only ones who can best write female characters are women authors. And to quote Joss Wheedon, when asked why he writes so many strong women into his stories: “Because you’re still asking me that question.”
That’s reason enough.
November 16, 2014
Signing a Contract with One of the Big Five
This was originally posted on Facebook at the request of a friend, but I'd like to share it here as well:
Recently, I signed a contract with Penguin Random House for my science fiction novel, INHERITANCE (tentative title). I managed this without an agent. Honestly, I've only had a few semi-pro short fiction sales thus far, never cracking into the professional markets. That's not for lack of effort. I've written scores of short stories and eight novels so far, with all the work and headache familiar to us writers. This particular novel was written back in 2011. I was unemployed at the time. I wrote it as fast as I could, unsure if I'd get another chance to get so much work done.
I revised the novel several times, and with the help of excellent readers, honed it into the manuscript that Penguin accepted. Six major drafts altogether. I never thought anyone would want it (the last draft was 128K) but I remained on the lookout for someone who'd take it. I searched the hashtag #MSWL on Twitter, and scanned for those seeking a space opera novel. Penguin turned up, so I submitted the manuscript through the criteria listed on their website.
Months passed, and I figured they'd rejected it and moved on. To my surprise, they expressed interest, and, after reviewing the full manuscript, accepted it for publication.
I don't have any special, secret advice as to how I did this. Trust me, I'd contacted a few agents before trying Penguin directly. I got discouraged, like so many others. Writing and publishing isn't for the impatient or thin-skinned. No matter how I felt, I never stopped believing in myself. There’s no magic button. You have to write and read as often as you can, just like all those advice books say. You have to put your work out there and not care if you get rejected. I'm not unique. If I can do this, others can. Never give up. Ever. Every word you write, every character that takes a piece of your heart, demands that you respect them. You must regard yourself as a professional, regardless of sales. If you don't, neither will a publisher.
I hope this inspires others that are depressed, frustrated, or burned out. That's going to happen to every writer. It’s happened to me numerous times. The key is to forge on, no matter what. Like Kivita, the heroine of my novel, we have to keep reaching inside of ourselves if we ever hope to see the stars.
Recently, I signed a contract with Penguin Random House for my science fiction novel, INHERITANCE (tentative title). I managed this without an agent. Honestly, I've only had a few semi-pro short fiction sales thus far, never cracking into the professional markets. That's not for lack of effort. I've written scores of short stories and eight novels so far, with all the work and headache familiar to us writers. This particular novel was written back in 2011. I was unemployed at the time. I wrote it as fast as I could, unsure if I'd get another chance to get so much work done.
I revised the novel several times, and with the help of excellent readers, honed it into the manuscript that Penguin accepted. Six major drafts altogether. I never thought anyone would want it (the last draft was 128K) but I remained on the lookout for someone who'd take it. I searched the hashtag #MSWL on Twitter, and scanned for those seeking a space opera novel. Penguin turned up, so I submitted the manuscript through the criteria listed on their website.
Months passed, and I figured they'd rejected it and moved on. To my surprise, they expressed interest, and, after reviewing the full manuscript, accepted it for publication.
I don't have any special, secret advice as to how I did this. Trust me, I'd contacted a few agents before trying Penguin directly. I got discouraged, like so many others. Writing and publishing isn't for the impatient or thin-skinned. No matter how I felt, I never stopped believing in myself. There’s no magic button. You have to write and read as often as you can, just like all those advice books say. You have to put your work out there and not care if you get rejected. I'm not unique. If I can do this, others can. Never give up. Ever. Every word you write, every character that takes a piece of your heart, demands that you respect them. You must regard yourself as a professional, regardless of sales. If you don't, neither will a publisher.
I hope this inspires others that are depressed, frustrated, or burned out. That's going to happen to every writer. It’s happened to me numerous times. The key is to forge on, no matter what. Like Kivita, the heroine of my novel, we have to keep reaching inside of ourselves if we ever hope to see the stars.
October 26, 2014
Why Halloween is the Best Holiday
(reposted from my entry in the HWA's Halloween Haunts)
For horror writers, Halloween is the most anticipated holiday of the year. It’s not hard to imagine why: many dress up like their favorite monsters or villains, and it’s easier to find black lipstick in a department store. The holiday is observed in the middle of autumn, when there is less daylight, the night is chillier, and the landscape has shriveled up in preparation for winter. There is a vague sense of impending excitement, as the year draws to a close. Perfect setting for a gothic novel—or a celebration of who we really are. What places does Halloween have in the 21st century? One would think that ghosts and ghoulies would be passé in a world steeped in the Information Age. It, like all other major holidays here in the Unites States, has been commercialized to the point of mass- saturation. Anathema to the horror genre and its writers, Halloween is mainstream. Children trick or treat, ‘haunted’ houses can be found in every city or small town, and every cheesy slasher flick makes the rounds on television. Despite all this, Halloween still holds a special place in our culture, and particularly the horror sub-culture. It, like the stock monsters associated with it, will not die.
Halloween still belongs to us. And by us, I mean everyone—not just horror writers and fans. Unlike other major holidays, Halloween has not been stolen by religion, like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. It’s not beholden to shallow patriotic ideals, such as the Fourth of July or Veteran’s Day. I say shallow, because you’ll never see a politician praising anything about Halloween, or using it to strengthen their public image, at the expense of the holiday’s original intent. It’s not based on propaganda, like Columbus Day, which whitewashes the death and ruin of so many natives in the Pre-Columbian Americas. No, Halloween, has survived all that. Why?
We’re allowed to have fun on Halloween. In a society that smiles on conformity, this is the one day where no one at the shopping mall will stare at you for wearing fangs and red contact lenses. Fear is sought after for it adrenaline rush, the thrill of being scared. Spooky décor, animated lawn greeters, chilling music—many of us bring all that out in October. For the children knocking at the door, and the child still inside of us. Don a mask and become someone else. Oh, we may laugh afterward, but a glimpse of who we are shines through in these guises. The choice of costume, especially for adults, isn’t arbitrary. We feed our fantasies while the trick-or-treaters feed their sweet tooth. It’s okay to seek demons in the shadows, talk to ghosts in the attic, and stroll through the forest at midnight wearing a plastic mask. Halloween is a momentary rejection of the modern world, when we can believe in vampires, spirits, and other superstitions entertained by medieval peasants. Those peasants, like children, were ignorant of what lies in the darkness. For one night, we can return to this primal state, dancing with the dead even as our hearts throb with the revelry of life.
For us horror writers, Halloween is a reflection of what we already know. The greatest abominations aren’t found under the bed, in a disturbed graveyard, or those spelled out on a Ouija board. They are human beings. The monsters on Halloween are all fake, and thus engenders a comfort zone in us. Dracula becomes a romantic, Frankenstein’s creation becomes a bumbling teddy bear, and zombies are too slow and dumb to really catch us. At the end of the holiday, their masks can be removed. Their make-up can be washed off. The real monster lies underneath the costume, and walks in the light of day. It stares back at you in the mirror on the morning afterward.
The best horror stories tell us something about ourselves: what we fear, how we deal with it, and what fear does to those who surrender to it. Literary critics write off the horror genre as pulp garbage, religious leaders label it as satanic, and conformists consider it abnormal. Just like Halloween. But society needs us. People seek truth in art, and one of the most frightening truths is that human beings are capable of the greatest imaginable evils. Beneath our façade of rationality is the beast, and it is never satisfied—nor far from awakening. Horror fiction illustrates this. It shows us who we can be, if we face those fears. It also reveals who we might become, should we indulge them.
Just like Halloween.
Halloween and horror fiction both celebrates and refutes the beast within us. Above religion and state, both are all-inclusive to anyone unafraid to look in the mirror. They are a subconscious confession that we know what we are—and that we know how to control ourselves. For one fleeting night, we can wear masks depicting monsters. Monsters of our own imagination. Their limits are our limits. We make jest of the demons of old, impersonating them so that the demons inside of us will sleep one more year.
For horror writers, Halloween is the most anticipated holiday of the year. It’s not hard to imagine why: many dress up like their favorite monsters or villains, and it’s easier to find black lipstick in a department store. The holiday is observed in the middle of autumn, when there is less daylight, the night is chillier, and the landscape has shriveled up in preparation for winter. There is a vague sense of impending excitement, as the year draws to a close. Perfect setting for a gothic novel—or a celebration of who we really are. What places does Halloween have in the 21st century? One would think that ghosts and ghoulies would be passé in a world steeped in the Information Age. It, like all other major holidays here in the Unites States, has been commercialized to the point of mass- saturation. Anathema to the horror genre and its writers, Halloween is mainstream. Children trick or treat, ‘haunted’ houses can be found in every city or small town, and every cheesy slasher flick makes the rounds on television. Despite all this, Halloween still holds a special place in our culture, and particularly the horror sub-culture. It, like the stock monsters associated with it, will not die.
Halloween still belongs to us. And by us, I mean everyone—not just horror writers and fans. Unlike other major holidays, Halloween has not been stolen by religion, like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. It’s not beholden to shallow patriotic ideals, such as the Fourth of July or Veteran’s Day. I say shallow, because you’ll never see a politician praising anything about Halloween, or using it to strengthen their public image, at the expense of the holiday’s original intent. It’s not based on propaganda, like Columbus Day, which whitewashes the death and ruin of so many natives in the Pre-Columbian Americas. No, Halloween, has survived all that. Why?
We’re allowed to have fun on Halloween. In a society that smiles on conformity, this is the one day where no one at the shopping mall will stare at you for wearing fangs and red contact lenses. Fear is sought after for it adrenaline rush, the thrill of being scared. Spooky décor, animated lawn greeters, chilling music—many of us bring all that out in October. For the children knocking at the door, and the child still inside of us. Don a mask and become someone else. Oh, we may laugh afterward, but a glimpse of who we are shines through in these guises. The choice of costume, especially for adults, isn’t arbitrary. We feed our fantasies while the trick-or-treaters feed their sweet tooth. It’s okay to seek demons in the shadows, talk to ghosts in the attic, and stroll through the forest at midnight wearing a plastic mask. Halloween is a momentary rejection of the modern world, when we can believe in vampires, spirits, and other superstitions entertained by medieval peasants. Those peasants, like children, were ignorant of what lies in the darkness. For one night, we can return to this primal state, dancing with the dead even as our hearts throb with the revelry of life.
For us horror writers, Halloween is a reflection of what we already know. The greatest abominations aren’t found under the bed, in a disturbed graveyard, or those spelled out on a Ouija board. They are human beings. The monsters on Halloween are all fake, and thus engenders a comfort zone in us. Dracula becomes a romantic, Frankenstein’s creation becomes a bumbling teddy bear, and zombies are too slow and dumb to really catch us. At the end of the holiday, their masks can be removed. Their make-up can be washed off. The real monster lies underneath the costume, and walks in the light of day. It stares back at you in the mirror on the morning afterward.
The best horror stories tell us something about ourselves: what we fear, how we deal with it, and what fear does to those who surrender to it. Literary critics write off the horror genre as pulp garbage, religious leaders label it as satanic, and conformists consider it abnormal. Just like Halloween. But society needs us. People seek truth in art, and one of the most frightening truths is that human beings are capable of the greatest imaginable evils. Beneath our façade of rationality is the beast, and it is never satisfied—nor far from awakening. Horror fiction illustrates this. It shows us who we can be, if we face those fears. It also reveals who we might become, should we indulge them.
Just like Halloween.
Halloween and horror fiction both celebrates and refutes the beast within us. Above religion and state, both are all-inclusive to anyone unafraid to look in the mirror. They are a subconscious confession that we know what we are—and that we know how to control ourselves. For one fleeting night, we can wear masks depicting monsters. Monsters of our own imagination. Their limits are our limits. We make jest of the demons of old, impersonating them so that the demons inside of us will sleep one more year.
October 20, 2014
Ray Bradbury was Wrong
Since this article’s title may have some Bradbury fans in an uproar, I will start by saying that I love his work. Fahrenheit 451, The Illustrated Man, The Martian Chronicles, Something Wicked This Way Comes—all are seminal works within the speculative fiction genre. Yet, in his later years, Bradbury offered scathing criticism of computers and the internet. That is odd coming from a writer who wrote about spaceships and astronauts. The computer is an integral device within most science fiction stories, and by extension, everything associated with it—that means the internet. With the ubiquity of social media, via computers, phones, tablets, televisions, even rings and wristwatches now, some feel this intrudes upon a writer’s art. In other words, many are spending more time writing posts than they are prose. Ray Bradbury’s worst nightmare, right? You could say I’m a hypocrite, since I’m writing this blog entry rather than prose. This comes only after I just dashed out 6,200 words on a novella that is nearing completion. So I make sure I get the real work done first. I am an example of a writer who uses all of the tools at my disposal—without allowing the tools to use me.
To be fair, Bradbury grew up in a different world than we live in now. He rented a typewriter at UCLA to compose Fahrenheit 451, at the rate of a dime every thirty minutes. He loved libraries, and the feel, scent, and weight of hardcopy books. Libraries were all physical, unlike today, where much knowledge can be accessed online. You’d think a writer, especially one who wrote science fiction, would appreciate such informational access. Bradbury comes across as a curmudgeon instead, though he did have his own website in the last few years of his life. Still, he remained critical of this amazing digital tool, one that can be accessed literally anywhere you can receive a satellite signal. Many writers also consider it a bane, complaining about trying to get work done while posting on Facebook.
As a writer, I’ve found the internet indispensable. Submitting stories via email and website forms is far more economic and faster than snail mail. All of my acceptances have been due to this easy connectivity. I’m just as proud of my first fiction sale as I’m sure Bradbury was of his. I wouldn’t have gotten novels accepted were it not for the internet. It’s not the medium that counts. Sure, I love to walk into a book store, inhale the scent of unread volumes, feel the pages between my fingers, enjoy the weight of a hardcover in my hand. But I don’t read and write to experience those sensations. Those things are ephemeral, really. What matters is your story, your work. With the internet, that work can reach more people than ever before.
Bradbury feared that more screens and more internet meant less reading. For some, this is true, but these people probably didn’t read much to begin with. Then there’s writers who seem more focused on posting self-promoting snippets on Twitter than actually composing a new piece. Or the ones who crow about writing a mere 500 words that day, as if that were an accomplishment, then make twenty posts on Facebook they’ll forget about in a week. I understand some people may only have time to wrench out 500 words from their brain that day. Part of being a successful writer is knowing how to manage one’s time. To make the most of the all-too short period when your mind in wrapped in your fiction. Like anything else, you’ll do it if you really want to.
Logging out of Facebook or other sites and services is a no-brainer when you’re writing, but one needn’t become a short-term Luddite and turn off every device in the house. For me, the internet and my devices augment my writing experience. Typically, when I write, I have research books opened on the counter, maps spread out, Wikipedia up on the web browser, a Dictionary.com app open on my phone, and atmospheric music playing from the computer. Oftentimes I’ll still grab my hardcopy of the Oxford Thesaurus. And if I’m writing anything about the Late Bronze Age, you bet your ass my books by Nancy K. Sandars and Manuel Robbins are there on my desk. All of this while I type away at the manuscript. Desperate to fill that blank page: the true enemy of the writer, not technology.
This may not work for everyone. The addiction to Facebook can be great, and receiving constant notifications or texts are annoying when you’re in the middle of writing one hell of a sex scene. It’s best to use what you need, and tune out the rest. Do I require all of these tools to write? Of course not. Sometimes, late at night, I write in silence, without any device at my disposal. Other times, I compose a few hundred words on my phone or tablet while away from my comfortable writing lair. I can then upload that to a cloud drive, email it, or share it with fellow writers via social media. Kinda hard to do that with a traditional notepad and pen. Plus, ape scrawls are more legible than my handwriting. But each to their own.
So, yeah, Ray Bradbury was wrong—but only regarding those of us who accept what the 21st century has to offer. Many authors still use a typewriter, write drafts in notebooks, refuse to buy ebooks. That’s their prerogative. You’ll never hear me criticize them. Ray Bradbury was wrong to criticize people like me, who are using these tools to benefit my creations, not clog my mind with bullshit. People were cramming their heads with nonsense before the internet, even before television, so that’s won’t cease anytime soon. That’s what is great about being an author right now. There’s more choices, more markets, more tools. More readers, believe it or not. Shun them at your own risk.
To be fair, Bradbury grew up in a different world than we live in now. He rented a typewriter at UCLA to compose Fahrenheit 451, at the rate of a dime every thirty minutes. He loved libraries, and the feel, scent, and weight of hardcopy books. Libraries were all physical, unlike today, where much knowledge can be accessed online. You’d think a writer, especially one who wrote science fiction, would appreciate such informational access. Bradbury comes across as a curmudgeon instead, though he did have his own website in the last few years of his life. Still, he remained critical of this amazing digital tool, one that can be accessed literally anywhere you can receive a satellite signal. Many writers also consider it a bane, complaining about trying to get work done while posting on Facebook.
As a writer, I’ve found the internet indispensable. Submitting stories via email and website forms is far more economic and faster than snail mail. All of my acceptances have been due to this easy connectivity. I’m just as proud of my first fiction sale as I’m sure Bradbury was of his. I wouldn’t have gotten novels accepted were it not for the internet. It’s not the medium that counts. Sure, I love to walk into a book store, inhale the scent of unread volumes, feel the pages between my fingers, enjoy the weight of a hardcover in my hand. But I don’t read and write to experience those sensations. Those things are ephemeral, really. What matters is your story, your work. With the internet, that work can reach more people than ever before.
Bradbury feared that more screens and more internet meant less reading. For some, this is true, but these people probably didn’t read much to begin with. Then there’s writers who seem more focused on posting self-promoting snippets on Twitter than actually composing a new piece. Or the ones who crow about writing a mere 500 words that day, as if that were an accomplishment, then make twenty posts on Facebook they’ll forget about in a week. I understand some people may only have time to wrench out 500 words from their brain that day. Part of being a successful writer is knowing how to manage one’s time. To make the most of the all-too short period when your mind in wrapped in your fiction. Like anything else, you’ll do it if you really want to.
Logging out of Facebook or other sites and services is a no-brainer when you’re writing, but one needn’t become a short-term Luddite and turn off every device in the house. For me, the internet and my devices augment my writing experience. Typically, when I write, I have research books opened on the counter, maps spread out, Wikipedia up on the web browser, a Dictionary.com app open on my phone, and atmospheric music playing from the computer. Oftentimes I’ll still grab my hardcopy of the Oxford Thesaurus. And if I’m writing anything about the Late Bronze Age, you bet your ass my books by Nancy K. Sandars and Manuel Robbins are there on my desk. All of this while I type away at the manuscript. Desperate to fill that blank page: the true enemy of the writer, not technology.
This may not work for everyone. The addiction to Facebook can be great, and receiving constant notifications or texts are annoying when you’re in the middle of writing one hell of a sex scene. It’s best to use what you need, and tune out the rest. Do I require all of these tools to write? Of course not. Sometimes, late at night, I write in silence, without any device at my disposal. Other times, I compose a few hundred words on my phone or tablet while away from my comfortable writing lair. I can then upload that to a cloud drive, email it, or share it with fellow writers via social media. Kinda hard to do that with a traditional notepad and pen. Plus, ape scrawls are more legible than my handwriting. But each to their own.
So, yeah, Ray Bradbury was wrong—but only regarding those of us who accept what the 21st century has to offer. Many authors still use a typewriter, write drafts in notebooks, refuse to buy ebooks. That’s their prerogative. You’ll never hear me criticize them. Ray Bradbury was wrong to criticize people like me, who are using these tools to benefit my creations, not clog my mind with bullshit. People were cramming their heads with nonsense before the internet, even before television, so that’s won’t cease anytime soon. That’s what is great about being an author right now. There’s more choices, more markets, more tools. More readers, believe it or not. Shun them at your own risk.
August 10, 2014
Never Mind Voice, Just Write
Recently, a fellow writer friend asked me if she thought her work lacked ‘voice’. She’d received two rejections, with both turning down her stories for the same reason: the editors couldn’t connect with her ‘voice’. I advised her to ignore those rejections and keep writing.
Why? Editors and publishers are experts on what makes a story work, right? Wrong—at least regarding a subjective quality like ‘voice’. Most rejections are based on the editor’s preferences (and mood?) anyway, so turning a story down based on its lack of ‘voice’ was simply an evasive way of saying ‘we won’t publish this because we don’t like it’. Nothing but an opinion. There was nothing wrong with my friend’s authorial ‘voice’.
I keep mentioning ‘voice’ in quotes because it’s a vague term. Sure, there are plenty of how-to books and writing gurus who will tell you that voice is this little magical thing that all writers get once they’ve ‘learned’ their craft. That it’s vital, and without it their work will never sell. I’m not saying that ‘voice’ in fiction is irrelevant. Voice, style—whatever term is used to denote how an author presents their work—does indeed come with experience. It is a belletristic flavor created from word choices, point of view, what details are shown, which details are withheld, sensory descriptions, references to pop culture or obscure Baroque composers, a positive effulgence, a negative outlook—and many other things. So I’m not disputing its importance.
I’m saying that ‘voice’ isn’t something a writer should even focus on.
It comes naturally. ‘Voice’ is a subconscious ambiance draped over each sentence, each description, while the writer composes his or her work. It’s influenced by a writer’s passions or dislikes, their view on reality, favored colors, least favorite smells, their prejudices, even their own self-worth and confidence. It gestates within the writer’s psyche, and appears in prose not by design, but through expression. Therefore, ‘voice’ is an extension of an author’s personality. Humanity squeezed into words, phrases, and ultimately stories.
‘Voice’ cannot be taught, nor can it be cultivated. If you’re cultivating it, you’re most likely aping another writer’s style or a genre trope. Your work would be filled with stylistic clichés. Maybe even downright plagiarism, if you’re desperate enough. ‘Voice’ just happens.
Writers already have so much to agonize over. We all want to write great material. The hours spent revising manuscripts, crafting each sentence, cutting extraneous passages. We worry about rejections, our chances at a writing career, or maintaining that career. How many drafts has that novelette has been through, and hell, do I really have to revise it again? ‘Voice’ should not be added to this list of authorial anxieties. Whenever a literary demagogue spouts about the importance of ‘voice’, it only strengthens the assumption that ‘voice’ is a commodity that can be learned, honed, and sold in a convenient how-to volume on composition.
Don’t be fooled. Here’s how you attain your own, unique, authorial voice:
Just keep writing.
The more a writer, well, writes, the easier it is to transpose their ideas into words. Like anything else, the more you do it, the better you become. A writer’s personal idiosyncrasies have a stronger presence within each new story. The more often you confront that blank page, and leave it filled with paragraphs, the more confident you’ll become—at least subconsciously. With confidence comes familiarity, and then your ‘voice’ shows in everything you write. The gateway between your imagination and the empty page is wider, cleared of obstacles.
Can ‘voice’ change over time? Perhaps. Read Stephen King’s earlier work, then his latest, and you’ll spot differences—but there’s no mistaking that both came from the same mind. Some will disagree, but I’ll stick to my opinion.
In the end, there is no great ‘voice’. Oh, I have my favorites, but that doesn’t make them the best. Critics and fans may select their favorites and tout these as geniuses dwelling atop the pinnacle of literary expression, but again, that’s their opinion. I believe the strongest ‘voices’ connect with more readers, or perhaps even alienate them. Remember, it’s an extension of the author’s persona, and reader reaction doesn’t define whether it’s good or bad. Sales may define whether that particular ‘voice’ is successful, but as we all know, popularity rarely equates quality.
To close, I’ll say that ‘voice’ doesn’t always make or break a story. I’ll use H.P. Lovecraft as an example. Most critics, and many of his fans—including me—regard Lovecraft’s prose as meandering at best. Not all writers of his era wrote in that fashion, so his prose style cannot be completely ascribed as being a product of its time. It was his ‘voice’. Few like it, and fewer emulate it. But what Lovecraft had in spades was his ideas.
The sheer eeriness of his Mythos tales, the dark oceanic behemoths and blasphemous epochs they conjure in the reader’s mind—this is what Lovecraft is remembered for, and rightly so. In the decades since, other writers—many of them well-known, from Neil Gaiman to Elizabeth Bear—have written their own Mythos stories. Some are excellent pieces. One of my writer friends composes Mythos fiction, and he’s rather good at it. Most of these writers craft better prose than Lovecraft. They have more accessible ‘voices’, a more focused presentation. Yet they will never write better Mythos stories than Lovecraft himself.
Story is what always matters. Substance, not style. So stop worrying about your ‘voice’ and write the damn story, already. That’s my opinion. And like my own ‘voice’, it belongs to me, and no one else.
Why? Editors and publishers are experts on what makes a story work, right? Wrong—at least regarding a subjective quality like ‘voice’. Most rejections are based on the editor’s preferences (and mood?) anyway, so turning a story down based on its lack of ‘voice’ was simply an evasive way of saying ‘we won’t publish this because we don’t like it’. Nothing but an opinion. There was nothing wrong with my friend’s authorial ‘voice’.
I keep mentioning ‘voice’ in quotes because it’s a vague term. Sure, there are plenty of how-to books and writing gurus who will tell you that voice is this little magical thing that all writers get once they’ve ‘learned’ their craft. That it’s vital, and without it their work will never sell. I’m not saying that ‘voice’ in fiction is irrelevant. Voice, style—whatever term is used to denote how an author presents their work—does indeed come with experience. It is a belletristic flavor created from word choices, point of view, what details are shown, which details are withheld, sensory descriptions, references to pop culture or obscure Baroque composers, a positive effulgence, a negative outlook—and many other things. So I’m not disputing its importance.
I’m saying that ‘voice’ isn’t something a writer should even focus on.
It comes naturally. ‘Voice’ is a subconscious ambiance draped over each sentence, each description, while the writer composes his or her work. It’s influenced by a writer’s passions or dislikes, their view on reality, favored colors, least favorite smells, their prejudices, even their own self-worth and confidence. It gestates within the writer’s psyche, and appears in prose not by design, but through expression. Therefore, ‘voice’ is an extension of an author’s personality. Humanity squeezed into words, phrases, and ultimately stories.
‘Voice’ cannot be taught, nor can it be cultivated. If you’re cultivating it, you’re most likely aping another writer’s style or a genre trope. Your work would be filled with stylistic clichés. Maybe even downright plagiarism, if you’re desperate enough. ‘Voice’ just happens.
Writers already have so much to agonize over. We all want to write great material. The hours spent revising manuscripts, crafting each sentence, cutting extraneous passages. We worry about rejections, our chances at a writing career, or maintaining that career. How many drafts has that novelette has been through, and hell, do I really have to revise it again? ‘Voice’ should not be added to this list of authorial anxieties. Whenever a literary demagogue spouts about the importance of ‘voice’, it only strengthens the assumption that ‘voice’ is a commodity that can be learned, honed, and sold in a convenient how-to volume on composition.
Don’t be fooled. Here’s how you attain your own, unique, authorial voice:
Just keep writing.
The more a writer, well, writes, the easier it is to transpose their ideas into words. Like anything else, the more you do it, the better you become. A writer’s personal idiosyncrasies have a stronger presence within each new story. The more often you confront that blank page, and leave it filled with paragraphs, the more confident you’ll become—at least subconsciously. With confidence comes familiarity, and then your ‘voice’ shows in everything you write. The gateway between your imagination and the empty page is wider, cleared of obstacles.
Can ‘voice’ change over time? Perhaps. Read Stephen King’s earlier work, then his latest, and you’ll spot differences—but there’s no mistaking that both came from the same mind. Some will disagree, but I’ll stick to my opinion.
In the end, there is no great ‘voice’. Oh, I have my favorites, but that doesn’t make them the best. Critics and fans may select their favorites and tout these as geniuses dwelling atop the pinnacle of literary expression, but again, that’s their opinion. I believe the strongest ‘voices’ connect with more readers, or perhaps even alienate them. Remember, it’s an extension of the author’s persona, and reader reaction doesn’t define whether it’s good or bad. Sales may define whether that particular ‘voice’ is successful, but as we all know, popularity rarely equates quality.
To close, I’ll say that ‘voice’ doesn’t always make or break a story. I’ll use H.P. Lovecraft as an example. Most critics, and many of his fans—including me—regard Lovecraft’s prose as meandering at best. Not all writers of his era wrote in that fashion, so his prose style cannot be completely ascribed as being a product of its time. It was his ‘voice’. Few like it, and fewer emulate it. But what Lovecraft had in spades was his ideas.
The sheer eeriness of his Mythos tales, the dark oceanic behemoths and blasphemous epochs they conjure in the reader’s mind—this is what Lovecraft is remembered for, and rightly so. In the decades since, other writers—many of them well-known, from Neil Gaiman to Elizabeth Bear—have written their own Mythos stories. Some are excellent pieces. One of my writer friends composes Mythos fiction, and he’s rather good at it. Most of these writers craft better prose than Lovecraft. They have more accessible ‘voices’, a more focused presentation. Yet they will never write better Mythos stories than Lovecraft himself.
Story is what always matters. Substance, not style. So stop worrying about your ‘voice’ and write the damn story, already. That’s my opinion. And like my own ‘voice’, it belongs to me, and no one else.
