Tony Peak's Blog, page 13
June 10, 2014
Uncovering the Positives of Dark Fiction
Those of us who write dark fiction must seem an insane lot. We imagine fangs puncturing necks, rotting corpses that stalk us, or murderers who collect the skulls of children. The grittiness, the detail, the shadows, the blood—all put to gleeful use in creating our stories. Yes, we love those things (in a fictional sense), and so do readers who enjoy our work. But what else can dark fiction do, other than frighten the child within us, or satisfy the beast just beneath our skin?
What do we want it to do?
The first—and easy—answer is: we want it to entertain us. That’s a given of fiction in general, so I won’t go further into that. What other expectations do we have of dark fiction? That it will give us the creeps, make us leave the light on when we finally manage to fall asleep? Perhaps. But, if that’s all I got from reading or writing this sub-genre, I’d be disappointed.
I expect dark fiction to make me appreciate life.
What? Horror and dark fantasy do something like that? You may ask how, or even why. There are plenty of other stories out there that are nothing but lazy Sunday afternoon fluff, taking few risks and giving the reader a happy (and uncomplicated) ending. Horror can be guilty of that too, in a similar vein: blood, guts, a few thrills, and an ending that resolves nothing. The dark fiction I’m referring to is the sort that takes risks, presses a weight down on your chest, and forces you to remember it long after you’ve read it. Not just because of gore or cheap scares, like a slasher film, but something that resonates deep within us.
Tragedies are the dark fiction of the pre-modern age. Read the Greek tragedies, or one of Shakespeare’s. Not many would classify these as dark fiction, but they certainly are: rape, incest, murder, and a tragic conclusion that people never forget. Even those who have never read Rome and Juliet, or Medea, know what happens at the end. Two lovers commit suicide; a mother kills her own children. Timeless tales that have survived the centuries. Why?
Dark fiction still explores the shadowy sides of our nature. We all know that life isn’t the clean, moral affair presented in modern advertisements, shouted about from pulpits, or ranted about from political podiums. Life can be harsh, unforgiving. For many people on this planet, it is hellish. Through dark fiction, we can explore those hells, and in so doing, discover something about ourselves. When someone else reads our work, they too might uncover personal details.
When I write dark fiction, I craft a world that is dangerous, merciless, and unfeeling. Grittiness is a must. Dirt, mildew, rust, ash…these embellish my world. I don’t shy from brutal violence or vulgar language, if I feel they serve the story. Darkness doesn’t always mean violence, though. I have to do better than that. There must a pall of hopelessness over everything. A resigned attitude among the majority, that no matter what happens, things will never change. Into this world I place my characters. I try to make them complex; I try to let them grow despite the hardships they face.
I hurt them, so that they can learn, heal, and get back up to carry on.
That inspires me. Would we survive these cruel worlds, never give up, and continue struggling? Even if we knew our efforts were in vain? These are the real questions dark fiction asks. It asks them without remorse, without compromise. Most of us who write and read these kinds of stories abhor violence, and would not want to live in these places. We don’t get off on sliced jugulars. Those things are mere set dressing. The real heart of dark fiction is our own. We want to see a character toil through hardships, undergo challenges that have no easy solutions, and still remain a good person. These stories answer the unspoken question central to all our lives: is all this worth it? Our existence? Family, writing, work, eating our veggies, getting out of bed, smiling at that stranger next to us on the sidewalk?
These are mundane concerns, while the characters in our favorite stories fight to survive, living on the edge of rationality and unfettered primal reactions. In this information age we often have the luxury of shutting out what we don’t like: different beliefs, rival sports teams, unpalatable music, and even other people. Characters in dark fiction have no luxuries. Resisting the apathy around them becomes the priority. Defending themselves and those they care about from violence, destruction, or the decay of their inner selves. Even those that give in still teach us what not to do. There is knowledge in failure.
And when our characters survive these obstacles, and are better for it, we have the answer to that unspoken question. It is worth it. No matter what happens, who we lose in life, how many scars our hearts, bodies, and minds endure—it’s worth every damn bit of it. Life exists only because it never gave up. No matter the odds, it kept going.
Out of darkness, light emerges. Without that darkness, there would be no light.
What do we want it to do?
The first—and easy—answer is: we want it to entertain us. That’s a given of fiction in general, so I won’t go further into that. What other expectations do we have of dark fiction? That it will give us the creeps, make us leave the light on when we finally manage to fall asleep? Perhaps. But, if that’s all I got from reading or writing this sub-genre, I’d be disappointed.
I expect dark fiction to make me appreciate life.
What? Horror and dark fantasy do something like that? You may ask how, or even why. There are plenty of other stories out there that are nothing but lazy Sunday afternoon fluff, taking few risks and giving the reader a happy (and uncomplicated) ending. Horror can be guilty of that too, in a similar vein: blood, guts, a few thrills, and an ending that resolves nothing. The dark fiction I’m referring to is the sort that takes risks, presses a weight down on your chest, and forces you to remember it long after you’ve read it. Not just because of gore or cheap scares, like a slasher film, but something that resonates deep within us.
Tragedies are the dark fiction of the pre-modern age. Read the Greek tragedies, or one of Shakespeare’s. Not many would classify these as dark fiction, but they certainly are: rape, incest, murder, and a tragic conclusion that people never forget. Even those who have never read Rome and Juliet, or Medea, know what happens at the end. Two lovers commit suicide; a mother kills her own children. Timeless tales that have survived the centuries. Why?
Dark fiction still explores the shadowy sides of our nature. We all know that life isn’t the clean, moral affair presented in modern advertisements, shouted about from pulpits, or ranted about from political podiums. Life can be harsh, unforgiving. For many people on this planet, it is hellish. Through dark fiction, we can explore those hells, and in so doing, discover something about ourselves. When someone else reads our work, they too might uncover personal details.
When I write dark fiction, I craft a world that is dangerous, merciless, and unfeeling. Grittiness is a must. Dirt, mildew, rust, ash…these embellish my world. I don’t shy from brutal violence or vulgar language, if I feel they serve the story. Darkness doesn’t always mean violence, though. I have to do better than that. There must a pall of hopelessness over everything. A resigned attitude among the majority, that no matter what happens, things will never change. Into this world I place my characters. I try to make them complex; I try to let them grow despite the hardships they face.
I hurt them, so that they can learn, heal, and get back up to carry on.
That inspires me. Would we survive these cruel worlds, never give up, and continue struggling? Even if we knew our efforts were in vain? These are the real questions dark fiction asks. It asks them without remorse, without compromise. Most of us who write and read these kinds of stories abhor violence, and would not want to live in these places. We don’t get off on sliced jugulars. Those things are mere set dressing. The real heart of dark fiction is our own. We want to see a character toil through hardships, undergo challenges that have no easy solutions, and still remain a good person. These stories answer the unspoken question central to all our lives: is all this worth it? Our existence? Family, writing, work, eating our veggies, getting out of bed, smiling at that stranger next to us on the sidewalk?
These are mundane concerns, while the characters in our favorite stories fight to survive, living on the edge of rationality and unfettered primal reactions. In this information age we often have the luxury of shutting out what we don’t like: different beliefs, rival sports teams, unpalatable music, and even other people. Characters in dark fiction have no luxuries. Resisting the apathy around them becomes the priority. Defending themselves and those they care about from violence, destruction, or the decay of their inner selves. Even those that give in still teach us what not to do. There is knowledge in failure.
And when our characters survive these obstacles, and are better for it, we have the answer to that unspoken question. It is worth it. No matter what happens, who we lose in life, how many scars our hearts, bodies, and minds endure—it’s worth every damn bit of it. Life exists only because it never gave up. No matter the odds, it kept going.
Out of darkness, light emerges. Without that darkness, there would be no light.
May 8, 2014
Building My Own Mythology
World building is a necessary ingredient for any form of speculative fiction that takes place in a different setting. The author creates his or her own history, cosmology, cultures, and a status quo that their characters will most likely disrupt. But what about a common mythology? This is something different than conventional world building. It is a theme, a shared set of criteria that can be expanded upon without detrimental effect to the overall setting. An example of this would be the Cthulhu Mythos as created by H.P. Lovecraft. Not simply a shared universe where anyone can play, but something that is timeless, adaptable to different writing styles, and open to interpretation.
I’m attempting this with my Meridian material. I know it may sound pretentious, but why not? Aim for the stars, and if you only get to the Moon, then great. Not only would this allow other authors to write their own Meridian stories, but it grants me great flexibility in what some may think is a limited setting.
Meridian is a metropolis built on a large island in the Styx, a great body of endless black water. There is no sun, stars, or other celestial bodies in the sky; nor is there weather, other than near-continuous rain. Steam-powered technology keeps the city lit and its various machines operational, but barely. It is a city of the dead; an afterlife abandoned by its caretaker, Charon, and ruled by whomever can master the magic of the Tarot. The only food available is small amounts of kelp, grown in the sewers and parts of the undercity. Meridian is held under a dark power than makes all its denizens belligerent, hungry, and amorous—but amplified to psychotic levels. This combination has led to rampant murder, cannibalism and sexual assault. A few factions hold sway, protecting their own while plotting against each other. Key among these is the Clowns, a mob of brutal hedonists loyal to the Clown Tarot; and the Mechos, a rigid sub-culture obsessed with becoming the ultimate society of clockwork cyborgs. There are others of lesser influence: Gutter Knights, Sky Gypsies, Orphans, Knaves, Harlequins, Blades of Charon, the Wretched, and the Bone Guild. All of them have one thing in common: trying to survive Meridian and its merciless temptations.
Though everyone is dead, few realize this, or remember their previous lives. None age, and escape from the city is almost impossible. Overcrowding has set in, and the Bone Guild has difficulty feeding everyone—even though they serve human flesh. This intensifies the pressure, as rival factions teeter on the edge of open war. The only thing holding it all together is the city’s most powerful cartomancer, an individual attuned to the Tarot and its magic. By influencing desires, thoughts, and occasionally fulfilling those desires, one can keep the mobs in check. But not forever.
There’s more to my Meridian setting, much that will only be revealed in the stories themselves, but those are the basics. Though seemingly a place of inertia, the city is dynamic for those trying to survive its streets and alleys. It isn’t a place for the weak. Now, these stories aren’t meant as veiled support for social Darwinism; weakness doesn’t always have to be physical. Those incapable of resisting the city’s temptations, who gorge themselves on death, blood, and sex at the expense of others, become monsters in all but name. The city has claimed them.
Now for the mythology.
For those living in Meridian, it’s not just a horrid place to live. As far as they know, it’s the only place to live. The only place that exists. All else is just a Sky Gypsy tale or a Charon legend. To them, it isn’t unusual that children remain the same age, or that new ‘arrivals’ keep appearing in back alleys. There’s no need of sleep, so everyone is perpetually awake. Imagine what that would do to the psyche. Those who are strong-willed, though, they are the ones I write Meridian stories about.
So what myths would such a place have? Rumors about people who have escaped Meridian. Old urban legends about individuals who built boats and paddled off into the Styx. Some mad genius who constructed an airship in the bowels of the city. A stairway somewhere in the undercity that spirals down and down, leading somewhere else. Even a man leaping off a pier and swimming through the dark, liquid oblivion. Then there would be tales of people who refused to eat human flesh and never ate again. Decapitated heads that were reanimated by the Mechos, or Sky Gypsy tattoos that were as alive as their host. Character straight from the Tarot, haunting the dank, cobblestone streets. Prophecies about a savior, or ancient narratives about other cities across the Styx. When you’re starving, trying to resist the urge to murder others, and wondering if the love you have for someone is simply Meridian’s dark lust, you might believe anything. Anything to alleviate the darkness within and without.
Now, you may ask, how do such details count as mythology and not simply more world building? The mythology is part of the world building, but it’s also beyond it. It’s a certain vibe, a mental wavelength that underscores the prose, the characters. It’s more than just dropping the name of such and such kingdom or god, like you might find in a fantasy setting. It’s not the inclusion of fantastic technology so often used in science fiction. My Meridian mythology could be applied to other locales. It needn’t be limited to that dark metropolis; characters could see shades of it in ‘our’ world, before they die. You could use these elements in any historical period, even a futuristic setting.
But just like all roads lead to Rome, and like all Shoggoths and Dagon neophytes lead to the Great Old Ones, so too would Tarot readings, powerful desires, and slit wrists lead to Meridian.
I’m attempting this with my Meridian material. I know it may sound pretentious, but why not? Aim for the stars, and if you only get to the Moon, then great. Not only would this allow other authors to write their own Meridian stories, but it grants me great flexibility in what some may think is a limited setting.
Meridian is a metropolis built on a large island in the Styx, a great body of endless black water. There is no sun, stars, or other celestial bodies in the sky; nor is there weather, other than near-continuous rain. Steam-powered technology keeps the city lit and its various machines operational, but barely. It is a city of the dead; an afterlife abandoned by its caretaker, Charon, and ruled by whomever can master the magic of the Tarot. The only food available is small amounts of kelp, grown in the sewers and parts of the undercity. Meridian is held under a dark power than makes all its denizens belligerent, hungry, and amorous—but amplified to psychotic levels. This combination has led to rampant murder, cannibalism and sexual assault. A few factions hold sway, protecting their own while plotting against each other. Key among these is the Clowns, a mob of brutal hedonists loyal to the Clown Tarot; and the Mechos, a rigid sub-culture obsessed with becoming the ultimate society of clockwork cyborgs. There are others of lesser influence: Gutter Knights, Sky Gypsies, Orphans, Knaves, Harlequins, Blades of Charon, the Wretched, and the Bone Guild. All of them have one thing in common: trying to survive Meridian and its merciless temptations.
Though everyone is dead, few realize this, or remember their previous lives. None age, and escape from the city is almost impossible. Overcrowding has set in, and the Bone Guild has difficulty feeding everyone—even though they serve human flesh. This intensifies the pressure, as rival factions teeter on the edge of open war. The only thing holding it all together is the city’s most powerful cartomancer, an individual attuned to the Tarot and its magic. By influencing desires, thoughts, and occasionally fulfilling those desires, one can keep the mobs in check. But not forever.
There’s more to my Meridian setting, much that will only be revealed in the stories themselves, but those are the basics. Though seemingly a place of inertia, the city is dynamic for those trying to survive its streets and alleys. It isn’t a place for the weak. Now, these stories aren’t meant as veiled support for social Darwinism; weakness doesn’t always have to be physical. Those incapable of resisting the city’s temptations, who gorge themselves on death, blood, and sex at the expense of others, become monsters in all but name. The city has claimed them.
Now for the mythology.
For those living in Meridian, it’s not just a horrid place to live. As far as they know, it’s the only place to live. The only place that exists. All else is just a Sky Gypsy tale or a Charon legend. To them, it isn’t unusual that children remain the same age, or that new ‘arrivals’ keep appearing in back alleys. There’s no need of sleep, so everyone is perpetually awake. Imagine what that would do to the psyche. Those who are strong-willed, though, they are the ones I write Meridian stories about.
So what myths would such a place have? Rumors about people who have escaped Meridian. Old urban legends about individuals who built boats and paddled off into the Styx. Some mad genius who constructed an airship in the bowels of the city. A stairway somewhere in the undercity that spirals down and down, leading somewhere else. Even a man leaping off a pier and swimming through the dark, liquid oblivion. Then there would be tales of people who refused to eat human flesh and never ate again. Decapitated heads that were reanimated by the Mechos, or Sky Gypsy tattoos that were as alive as their host. Character straight from the Tarot, haunting the dank, cobblestone streets. Prophecies about a savior, or ancient narratives about other cities across the Styx. When you’re starving, trying to resist the urge to murder others, and wondering if the love you have for someone is simply Meridian’s dark lust, you might believe anything. Anything to alleviate the darkness within and without.
Now, you may ask, how do such details count as mythology and not simply more world building? The mythology is part of the world building, but it’s also beyond it. It’s a certain vibe, a mental wavelength that underscores the prose, the characters. It’s more than just dropping the name of such and such kingdom or god, like you might find in a fantasy setting. It’s not the inclusion of fantastic technology so often used in science fiction. My Meridian mythology could be applied to other locales. It needn’t be limited to that dark metropolis; characters could see shades of it in ‘our’ world, before they die. You could use these elements in any historical period, even a futuristic setting.
But just like all roads lead to Rome, and like all Shoggoths and Dagon neophytes lead to the Great Old Ones, so too would Tarot readings, powerful desires, and slit wrists lead to Meridian.
April 8, 2014
Music to Write By: Enigma
I’ve been an Enigma fan since the late 90’s, and they’re still one of my favorite musical artists. Sexy, dreamy, dark, gothic, world, New Age—the label people slap them with is irrelevant. When I listen to them, I’m transported to some silky, unmade bed inside an open-air pagan temple atop a mountain during a sunset. That music was made for the bedroom, the twilight, the hypnagogic state between waking and sleep. It’s like entering a pre-coital trance, sans drugs; I can almost feel my pupils dilating. It’s no surprise then that I listen to Enigma whenever I’m writing dark, sensual, or transcendental (or all of those at once) material. Enigma could form the soundtrack to my Meridian stories, that dank metropolis adrift in the Styx. My favorite Enigma album is A Posteriori, with tracks such as ‘Dancing With Mephisto’ being the ultimate gothic seduction music (think cobwebs, wet leather, guttering braziers, red wine, and a blindfold). Other tracks, like ‘Dreaming of Andromeda’ or ‘Hello and Welcome’ sound like great gulfs of existential sadness and longing. The song ‘In the Shadow, in the Light’ from the Voyageur album, pines with a desperation that for me is profound. But the one song that grabs me the most is ‘Beyond the Invisible’ from the Le Roi Est Mort, Vive Le Roi! album. That one is like the piercing of the veil, the opening of an inner eye. So needless to say, despite my rational nature, Enigma brings out my hedonistic, mystic side. With plenty of bared flesh.
April 7, 2014
Interpreting Rejections
Keep tongue firmly in cheek, folks. Reposted from my Tumblr blog.
Are you still squirming before your desk in your underwear, tearing the wing off of that annoying fly, sobbing over the latest arrow to your writer’s heart? Come now, wipe the snot away, put that nineteenth piece of chocolate chip comfort food down, and pay attention. Here’s how to really understand what a rejection is telling you:
The Form Rejection (forma rejectio)
Dear [poor stupid and talentless sap], thank you for sending [OMFG you call this drivel a story?] our way, but I’m afraid it’s not for us [holy shit reading this was like sticking a hot poker into my eye]. Please submit more work in the future [please stop torturing me with your lame ass trunk stories that you workshopped three years ago].
If you get a personal rejection, it could be interpreted like this:
The Personal Rejection (propirus rejectio)
Dear [wanna-be bestseller], thank you for sending [WTF, you call this a title?] our way. While I found the setting descriptions interesting [geez, your worldbuilding is more self-indulgent and derivative than Robert Jordan’s], and the prose is solid [Hemmingway used more adjectives than you], I’m having trouble understanding your main character’s motivation [I couldn’t pronounce your character’s name, so I got bored]. Plus, I fear there was too much telling and not enough showing [Not enough exposition, too much set-dressing; I wanted to experience what your character felt but not REALLY go into detail]. I look forward to your next submission [LMAO because it might be worthy enough for me to wipe my ass on it next time].
Now dim the lights, listen to some gothic metal, wear your least flattering shirt, then guzzle down a few shots of whiskey, until you’re grinning so much it hurts your face. Then reply to that editor. In ALL CAPS, of course.
Repeat as necessary, and I guarantee you will soon be rejection free! Not to mention blacklisted. No one said this was going to be easy…
Are you still squirming before your desk in your underwear, tearing the wing off of that annoying fly, sobbing over the latest arrow to your writer’s heart? Come now, wipe the snot away, put that nineteenth piece of chocolate chip comfort food down, and pay attention. Here’s how to really understand what a rejection is telling you:
The Form Rejection (forma rejectio)
Dear [poor stupid and talentless sap], thank you for sending [OMFG you call this drivel a story?] our way, but I’m afraid it’s not for us [holy shit reading this was like sticking a hot poker into my eye]. Please submit more work in the future [please stop torturing me with your lame ass trunk stories that you workshopped three years ago].
If you get a personal rejection, it could be interpreted like this:
The Personal Rejection (propirus rejectio)
Dear [wanna-be bestseller], thank you for sending [WTF, you call this a title?] our way. While I found the setting descriptions interesting [geez, your worldbuilding is more self-indulgent and derivative than Robert Jordan’s], and the prose is solid [Hemmingway used more adjectives than you], I’m having trouble understanding your main character’s motivation [I couldn’t pronounce your character’s name, so I got bored]. Plus, I fear there was too much telling and not enough showing [Not enough exposition, too much set-dressing; I wanted to experience what your character felt but not REALLY go into detail]. I look forward to your next submission [LMAO because it might be worthy enough for me to wipe my ass on it next time].
Now dim the lights, listen to some gothic metal, wear your least flattering shirt, then guzzle down a few shots of whiskey, until you’re grinning so much it hurts your face. Then reply to that editor. In ALL CAPS, of course.
Repeat as necessary, and I guarantee you will soon be rejection free! Not to mention blacklisted. No one said this was going to be easy…
April 4, 2014
Developing Wordcount Discipline
Wordcount is something most writers don’t talk about. I hear far more about plot, characterization, prose, voice, style, revising, and all the other things you can find in a ‘how to write well’ sort of book. True, wordcount is low on the list of literary importance. You don’t need a mammoth wordcount to tell a good story, and it isn’t necessary for a writer to bang out 3,000 words or more every day to be successful. Each writer has his or her own pace, a ‘satisfaction point’—but can this thinking lower a writer’s productivity? Does it engender laziness?
We all wish we had more time to write. Those of us who have secondary jobs, or have yet to make any significant earnings from their writing, still has to put food on the table, pay the bills. Plus we all have family and friends we don’t want to shun (well, maybe a few we’d like to shun). These and other factors limit just how much time an author has to write on any given day. Sure, we can avoid social media and the internet, shut off our phones and the television, shut the bedroom door—all to seclude ourselves from the outside world while we write.
What about wordcount discipline? I’m not talking about writing every day. I’m referring to how much you get done during your specified writing time. Do you set a goal, or just hammer at the keyboard until you run out of time or story? This will differ from person to person, but the question remains: what are your expectations for how many words you can eke out of that imagination in a given period?
Mine are pretty high.
I’ve heard of famous writers who settled for only 500-1,000 words a day. Writers whom I admire. That doesn’t mean you should settle for the same output. These are individuals who don’t work for a living, and have much more time to write than a guy working fifty hours a week. Stephen King, an undisputed master of fiction, claims to write at least 2,000 words a day. Given his output, I believe him. I also believe him, because I’m capable of that too. Are you?
Don’t give me the excuse that “I only wrote 700 words today, but they are good words”. If it’s a first draft, then all of the words are crap until you polish them in the second and at least third drafts. Without exception. Now, if you only had time to write those 700 words, then fine. But most of us writers have more time than that. And writer’s block? I don’t believe it exists, any more than I think there’s a fat guy in red at the North Pole. Either you’re a writer or an excuse factory. Choose.
So now that I’ve stepped on a few author’s toes and riled you all up, you might wonder what my wordcount goals are. Here goes. This isn’t bragging, or creating a yardstick I think others should measure up to.
Once I’ve sat down to write, here’s the wordcount I make myself achieve before I stop:
Flash Fiction: I rarely dabble in this length, but it goes without saying that when I do, I finish it in the same session.
Short Story: At least 2,500 words; usually double that for me, and 99% of the time I complete the story the same day I start it. The other 1% only happens when the power goes out.
Novelette: Most of my novelettes end up being fewer than 10,000 words. 50% of the time I complete these in the same sitting. Otherwise, I write roughly half of the story, then complete the rest the very next day.
Novella: Usually try to finish these in a week. I don’t write many novellas; most fiction markets don’t accept such a high wordcount. If I have a story that needs to be this long, I bump it up into a novel. Then I really have fun.
Novel: Once begun, I always shoot for AT LEAST 3,000 words a day. For me, 3,000 words is the size of my average chapter. So a chapter per day. Usually I work on a novel’s first draft every consecutive day until it’s done. Just blast through it. No excuses. No regrets. No bullshit.
My personal best is 11,000 words in one day. I wrote the first draft of ‘Inheritance’, 97,000 words, in 13 days. I was unemployed at the time, true. But I didn’t stop to watch television, post on Facebook, or allow any other distractions to bother me. And yes, that first draft needed plenty of revising. Yet the overall structure, scene order, and characterization were all there. It wasn’t wasted work.
Oh, and my output with a day job? A 106,000 word novel within a month. How? Because when it came time to write, I did.
Again, this isn’t boasting. All of this work hasn’t made me rich and famous. I state these numbers to make a point: I use my allotted writing time to the upmost. Oh, sometimes I write awful stories, ones I’d never let anyone read. There are plenty of stories, though, that I am proud of. Stories I’ve gotten published. This isn’t a ‘quality vs. quantity’ comparison. It’s about getting the most out of what time you have.
Maybe I’m lucky; who knows. The question is: if I can do it, why can’t you? What’s stopping you from giving a more serious effort? If I ever reach the point where I’m happy with just 700 words a day, then I might as well give up. I have so many stories to tell, and never enough time to write them all.
So the next you time you sit down to write, don’t settle for a trifle. Get out as much as you can. It’s like exercise: this week you can only lift so much weight, but the next week, you’re able to lift a little more. And then a little more. It adds up. Don’t make it a numbers game, don’t focus on it as you write. Let the story flow. Ignore the pressure, learn to love that blank white page on the screen. Why? Because you’re about to fill it with something you think others would want to read.
Now quit reading this blog and write something.
We all wish we had more time to write. Those of us who have secondary jobs, or have yet to make any significant earnings from their writing, still has to put food on the table, pay the bills. Plus we all have family and friends we don’t want to shun (well, maybe a few we’d like to shun). These and other factors limit just how much time an author has to write on any given day. Sure, we can avoid social media and the internet, shut off our phones and the television, shut the bedroom door—all to seclude ourselves from the outside world while we write.
What about wordcount discipline? I’m not talking about writing every day. I’m referring to how much you get done during your specified writing time. Do you set a goal, or just hammer at the keyboard until you run out of time or story? This will differ from person to person, but the question remains: what are your expectations for how many words you can eke out of that imagination in a given period?
Mine are pretty high.
I’ve heard of famous writers who settled for only 500-1,000 words a day. Writers whom I admire. That doesn’t mean you should settle for the same output. These are individuals who don’t work for a living, and have much more time to write than a guy working fifty hours a week. Stephen King, an undisputed master of fiction, claims to write at least 2,000 words a day. Given his output, I believe him. I also believe him, because I’m capable of that too. Are you?
Don’t give me the excuse that “I only wrote 700 words today, but they are good words”. If it’s a first draft, then all of the words are crap until you polish them in the second and at least third drafts. Without exception. Now, if you only had time to write those 700 words, then fine. But most of us writers have more time than that. And writer’s block? I don’t believe it exists, any more than I think there’s a fat guy in red at the North Pole. Either you’re a writer or an excuse factory. Choose.
So now that I’ve stepped on a few author’s toes and riled you all up, you might wonder what my wordcount goals are. Here goes. This isn’t bragging, or creating a yardstick I think others should measure up to.
Once I’ve sat down to write, here’s the wordcount I make myself achieve before I stop:
Flash Fiction: I rarely dabble in this length, but it goes without saying that when I do, I finish it in the same session.
Short Story: At least 2,500 words; usually double that for me, and 99% of the time I complete the story the same day I start it. The other 1% only happens when the power goes out.
Novelette: Most of my novelettes end up being fewer than 10,000 words. 50% of the time I complete these in the same sitting. Otherwise, I write roughly half of the story, then complete the rest the very next day.
Novella: Usually try to finish these in a week. I don’t write many novellas; most fiction markets don’t accept such a high wordcount. If I have a story that needs to be this long, I bump it up into a novel. Then I really have fun.
Novel: Once begun, I always shoot for AT LEAST 3,000 words a day. For me, 3,000 words is the size of my average chapter. So a chapter per day. Usually I work on a novel’s first draft every consecutive day until it’s done. Just blast through it. No excuses. No regrets. No bullshit.
My personal best is 11,000 words in one day. I wrote the first draft of ‘Inheritance’, 97,000 words, in 13 days. I was unemployed at the time, true. But I didn’t stop to watch television, post on Facebook, or allow any other distractions to bother me. And yes, that first draft needed plenty of revising. Yet the overall structure, scene order, and characterization were all there. It wasn’t wasted work.
Oh, and my output with a day job? A 106,000 word novel within a month. How? Because when it came time to write, I did.
Again, this isn’t boasting. All of this work hasn’t made me rich and famous. I state these numbers to make a point: I use my allotted writing time to the upmost. Oh, sometimes I write awful stories, ones I’d never let anyone read. There are plenty of stories, though, that I am proud of. Stories I’ve gotten published. This isn’t a ‘quality vs. quantity’ comparison. It’s about getting the most out of what time you have.
Maybe I’m lucky; who knows. The question is: if I can do it, why can’t you? What’s stopping you from giving a more serious effort? If I ever reach the point where I’m happy with just 700 words a day, then I might as well give up. I have so many stories to tell, and never enough time to write them all.
So the next you time you sit down to write, don’t settle for a trifle. Get out as much as you can. It’s like exercise: this week you can only lift so much weight, but the next week, you’re able to lift a little more. And then a little more. It adds up. Don’t make it a numbers game, don’t focus on it as you write. Let the story flow. Ignore the pressure, learn to love that blank white page on the screen. Why? Because you’re about to fill it with something you think others would want to read.
Now quit reading this blog and write something.
March 27, 2014
Writing Critiques from Friends & Family
All writers must deal with the opinions of their friends and loved ones. Often these honest, well-intentioned critiques offer more insights into the craft of writing than any editor could ever give. And they are always given with utmost kindness and plentiful smiles. Yes, I just lied twice—but here are some shining,
glorious examples that I have actually heard:
“You’re just wasting your time.” – Wow. So much to the point that it pierces your guts, rips through your body, and stakes you to the nearest wall. Gee, thanks. Maybe I should just masturbate to ape pornography in my spare time, would that be more useful?
“This is great!” – Either this is praise from someone who has never read quality fiction, or it is praise from someone who HAS read quality fiction, and is trying to tell you that your work is a pile of steaming literary shit. Or, rarest of cases, you might have written some really great material, but you’ll never believe them and it will become a trunk story.
“I haven’t finished it yet.” – If you hear this, then move on. Notice there’s no praise or criticism in this statement, but the underlying meaning is ‘your stuff is so fucking boring I’ll never finish it’. Perhaps they’re just not the reading type, you tell yourself. Truth is, they might not want to hurt your feelings while hoping you’ll never give them another manuscript. Ever. Because there’s no shortage for toilet paper.
“Wow, how did you do that?” – Don’t let this one swell your ego. Though often interpreted as flabbergasted praise from someone who’s never read anything over 2,000 words, it really means ‘wow, how many hours did you flush down the shitter to write this?’. Also, this is a typical response from a sports fan that actually knows how to read, but thinks reading is a waste of time. I shit you not.
“Hey, write a story about me!” – Oh boy. We’ve all heard this one. It translates into ‘spend more time with ME rather than torturing that keyboard’ or ‘if you’re going to waste time, at least do it while thinking about ME’. Someone’s feeling lonely. And jealous enough to ‘accidently’ delete all your documents.
“I didn’t like the ending.” – They probably wanted a happy conclusion, but they can’t understand that you’re too avant-garde for that kind of nonsense. Bet they hate foreign films too; American cinema almost always has a happy ending. Ugh.
“Why do you write such dark stuff?” – First of all, my stories are not ‘stuff’. So they fucked up right there. Stuff is the junk under a teenager’s bed or the flimflam in your dad’s garage. Second, ‘dark’ material is needed, because it often sheds light on aspects of the human condition that aren’t discussed by television’s talking heads, your mother, or those little shits that kicked sand in your face on the playground. Plus it’s an excuse to feature all the blood, nudity, sex, necrophilia, clowns, and ape pornography in your fiction without looking like a complete a weirdo. Just a cool weirdo.
“If you’re a writer, why do you still have a day job?” – This is the most insulting, and also the most difficult to explain to people. If you’re a writer, then you already know, so I won’t go into detail. Eventually, I start replying that I am a masochist for a dull, banal, mundane job, or that I work there for ‘story ideas’. Sometimes I even tell them I’m in a witness protection program because I wrote something more controversial than even Salman Rushdie. Because trust me, they will never believe the truth that not every writer gets to be King, Rowling, Meyer, or Patterson. Hell, sometimes not even a Gingrich (I still see ‘1945’ clogging up used book stores).
There you have it. And remember what Momma, from ‘Throw Momma From the Train’, said: “All I hear is type, type, type, type! You sit there typing all day like a fat little pigeon.”
Yes, breath deep, and enjoy that moral support!
glorious examples that I have actually heard:
“You’re just wasting your time.” – Wow. So much to the point that it pierces your guts, rips through your body, and stakes you to the nearest wall. Gee, thanks. Maybe I should just masturbate to ape pornography in my spare time, would that be more useful?
“This is great!” – Either this is praise from someone who has never read quality fiction, or it is praise from someone who HAS read quality fiction, and is trying to tell you that your work is a pile of steaming literary shit. Or, rarest of cases, you might have written some really great material, but you’ll never believe them and it will become a trunk story.
“I haven’t finished it yet.” – If you hear this, then move on. Notice there’s no praise or criticism in this statement, but the underlying meaning is ‘your stuff is so fucking boring I’ll never finish it’. Perhaps they’re just not the reading type, you tell yourself. Truth is, they might not want to hurt your feelings while hoping you’ll never give them another manuscript. Ever. Because there’s no shortage for toilet paper.
“Wow, how did you do that?” – Don’t let this one swell your ego. Though often interpreted as flabbergasted praise from someone who’s never read anything over 2,000 words, it really means ‘wow, how many hours did you flush down the shitter to write this?’. Also, this is a typical response from a sports fan that actually knows how to read, but thinks reading is a waste of time. I shit you not.
“Hey, write a story about me!” – Oh boy. We’ve all heard this one. It translates into ‘spend more time with ME rather than torturing that keyboard’ or ‘if you’re going to waste time, at least do it while thinking about ME’. Someone’s feeling lonely. And jealous enough to ‘accidently’ delete all your documents.
“I didn’t like the ending.” – They probably wanted a happy conclusion, but they can’t understand that you’re too avant-garde for that kind of nonsense. Bet they hate foreign films too; American cinema almost always has a happy ending. Ugh.
“Why do you write such dark stuff?” – First of all, my stories are not ‘stuff’. So they fucked up right there. Stuff is the junk under a teenager’s bed or the flimflam in your dad’s garage. Second, ‘dark’ material is needed, because it often sheds light on aspects of the human condition that aren’t discussed by television’s talking heads, your mother, or those little shits that kicked sand in your face on the playground. Plus it’s an excuse to feature all the blood, nudity, sex, necrophilia, clowns, and ape pornography in your fiction without looking like a complete a weirdo. Just a cool weirdo.
“If you’re a writer, why do you still have a day job?” – This is the most insulting, and also the most difficult to explain to people. If you’re a writer, then you already know, so I won’t go into detail. Eventually, I start replying that I am a masochist for a dull, banal, mundane job, or that I work there for ‘story ideas’. Sometimes I even tell them I’m in a witness protection program because I wrote something more controversial than even Salman Rushdie. Because trust me, they will never believe the truth that not every writer gets to be King, Rowling, Meyer, or Patterson. Hell, sometimes not even a Gingrich (I still see ‘1945’ clogging up used book stores).
There you have it. And remember what Momma, from ‘Throw Momma From the Train’, said: “All I hear is type, type, type, type! You sit there typing all day like a fat little pigeon.”
Yes, breath deep, and enjoy that moral support!
March 21, 2014
Favorite Fiction Fetishes
Every writer imbues their stories with things they like: a favorite adjective, turn of phrase, or trope. Often, we use them too much, which drapes our work in a musty shroud of monotony. We also have personal fetishes. These are beyond voice, style, idiom, or sub-genre. Sometimes we inject too much of what we like—or hate—into our fiction. I’ll discuss some of mine here. Well, those I can detect, anyway. Then I’ll tell you why I obsess over them.
The Eyes: Like a good movie, I want my dramatic scenes to be subtle, leaving the obvious unsaid. My method is for characters to make eye contact. I know this isn’t original, but I use it frequently. Maybe too much. The eyes are so important, though. I’m old fashioned; if someone won’t make eye contact with me, then I don’t trust that person. Those twin ocular organs can reveal so much. My characters glance at each other, look at the floor, roll their eyes, squeeze them shut, narrow them to slits, or glower at their enemies. Many writers do the same, but sometimes I prefer this ‘eye action’ to dialogue. That’s how real people communicate, especially when it comes to conveying unhappy or reluctant emotions. Who really comes out and says ‘I hate you’ or ‘I love you’? Few people do—but their eyes tell all. It became a fiction fetish for me after watching Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns. All those facial close-ups, crinkled expressions, and stony glares told so much without the characters uttering a single word. Yes, words are a writer’s fortes…but if you can say it with less…
Hot Liquids: Now, this is definitely fetish territory. Hot sensations shock a character, conveying passion, anger, or consummation. It is the opposite of cold, which often signifies a lack of emotion, death, or non-organic life. Combine hot with liquid, and what are the first things that come to mind? Blood, sweat, urine, semen, coffee, a steaming shower. Most of these are biological emissions. Blood from a gushing wound, or a woman’s cycle. Sweat from exertion, nervousness, or sex. Semen from male ejaculation, which might represent completion, seeding…or even rape and male domination, with all the evil that implies. Coffee scalds the mouth, fires the nerves—it’s like the drinker is imitating a vampire in sucking down hot liquid. And the steaming shower? It cleanses while burning. Though it can be shut off, the character remains under the shower head, purposely incinerating skin cells in an act of sado-masochism. Like they want to burn away an unwanted part of themselves. Now, most of these things have sexual connotations. Sex in my fiction is often about release, control, or rejecting the cerebral for the primal. There’s something about getting splashed with hot blood that is sexual, even bestial, illustrating how our rational minds can so easily give in to base desires. The act of killing, and the resulting blood, is comparable to copulation and the male orgasm, that ends with a hot spray. So hot liquids ultimately represents sex and death in my work—the gods still worshipped by modernity in every bikini billboard and action film.
The Truth Seeker: Many of my heroes and heroines fall into this fetish. Regardless of genre or setting, they always try to ‘find themselves’ while surviving a harsh reality. I can’t help it; I won’t write a character with no room to grow into something else. This is true for most writers and their main characters, but I tend to write about vagabonds in a greater system they can’t control. Outsiders who exists on the fringes. Examples are: a ranger who treads the frontier, embolden to no one; a drug-addict bounty hunter, sentenced to a world where the population hates her; a space salvager who travels the cosmic expanse alone, never staying on one world for long; a sell-sword who roams a blighted land, never satisfying his emotional needs; a suicide who enters a city of cannibals, but who refuses to eat flesh. What can I say? Happy heroes/heroines bore the shit out of me.
Antagonistic Lovers: I admit it: I loathe a tame love story. I’m not referring to a lack of sexual action, or the absence of ‘sparks’ between lovers. What I’m talking about is irritation, annoyance. People who don’t want to fall in love, who argue with their romantic interest. Couples who have so much sexual tension they could kill each other. They don’t come to blows (I’m not into that fetish) but they aren’t best friends. Yet, anyway. Why is this my fetish? Did Han and Leia in The Empire Strikes Back ruin me for life? I don’t know. Because it’s more interesting. More believable. Opposites attract. And I don’t like easy love. If something isn’t hard to attain, then where’s the dramatic impact once a character receives it? No, I’m not talking about the cliché ‘city girl meets cowboy’ drivel. I like two characters who have their own lives, ambitions, and weaknesses, and don’t want another person intruding into their world. They are their own people, and aren’t docile conformists. That’s the romance I like to write. Besides, what better way to show that they really love one another?
The Strong Woman: Male writers do this all the time: write female characters who kick ass, wear tight pants, a black leather sports bra, and have 36-24-36 measurements. It’s a fantasy for them. Women write strong heroines as well, and let’s admit it: they also pander to the fantasy kick-ass chick (I use ‘chick’ on purpose; sometimes these don’t feel like real women to me). I write strong feminine characters too, and yes, one of them wears tight, black leather clothes. But she is on Mars, and all that dust gets in everything…oh hell, I won’t even try to rationalize it. I find it sexy, okay? But sexiest of all is what else I add to such heroines: they are capable of doing things themselves, without the aid of a man. If she has sex, it isn’t because she’s a slut, or because I’m lewd and want a steamy sex scene. She has sex because she enjoys it like every other human being. I write her as self-conscious, because she’s lovely yet doesn’t see it (can’t stand the runway model arrogance). My heroines are liberated by their sexuality, not constrained by it. They are comfortable in so-called ‘men’s’ roles. There never is any doubt in their minds that they are the equals of men. That’s what I find sexy in a heroine. Call me crazy, but a subservient, brainless bimbo isn’t a turn-on.
These are just some of my fiction fetishes. I’m sure there are a few I’m unaware of. Since I recognize these repeated motifs in my writing, it’s time to try something different, so I don’t become stagnant. That is the real point of this exercise.
But I’ll keep the Strong Woman fetish. She’d beat the crap out of me otherwise.
The Eyes: Like a good movie, I want my dramatic scenes to be subtle, leaving the obvious unsaid. My method is for characters to make eye contact. I know this isn’t original, but I use it frequently. Maybe too much. The eyes are so important, though. I’m old fashioned; if someone won’t make eye contact with me, then I don’t trust that person. Those twin ocular organs can reveal so much. My characters glance at each other, look at the floor, roll their eyes, squeeze them shut, narrow them to slits, or glower at their enemies. Many writers do the same, but sometimes I prefer this ‘eye action’ to dialogue. That’s how real people communicate, especially when it comes to conveying unhappy or reluctant emotions. Who really comes out and says ‘I hate you’ or ‘I love you’? Few people do—but their eyes tell all. It became a fiction fetish for me after watching Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns. All those facial close-ups, crinkled expressions, and stony glares told so much without the characters uttering a single word. Yes, words are a writer’s fortes…but if you can say it with less…
Hot Liquids: Now, this is definitely fetish territory. Hot sensations shock a character, conveying passion, anger, or consummation. It is the opposite of cold, which often signifies a lack of emotion, death, or non-organic life. Combine hot with liquid, and what are the first things that come to mind? Blood, sweat, urine, semen, coffee, a steaming shower. Most of these are biological emissions. Blood from a gushing wound, or a woman’s cycle. Sweat from exertion, nervousness, or sex. Semen from male ejaculation, which might represent completion, seeding…or even rape and male domination, with all the evil that implies. Coffee scalds the mouth, fires the nerves—it’s like the drinker is imitating a vampire in sucking down hot liquid. And the steaming shower? It cleanses while burning. Though it can be shut off, the character remains under the shower head, purposely incinerating skin cells in an act of sado-masochism. Like they want to burn away an unwanted part of themselves. Now, most of these things have sexual connotations. Sex in my fiction is often about release, control, or rejecting the cerebral for the primal. There’s something about getting splashed with hot blood that is sexual, even bestial, illustrating how our rational minds can so easily give in to base desires. The act of killing, and the resulting blood, is comparable to copulation and the male orgasm, that ends with a hot spray. So hot liquids ultimately represents sex and death in my work—the gods still worshipped by modernity in every bikini billboard and action film.
The Truth Seeker: Many of my heroes and heroines fall into this fetish. Regardless of genre or setting, they always try to ‘find themselves’ while surviving a harsh reality. I can’t help it; I won’t write a character with no room to grow into something else. This is true for most writers and their main characters, but I tend to write about vagabonds in a greater system they can’t control. Outsiders who exists on the fringes. Examples are: a ranger who treads the frontier, embolden to no one; a drug-addict bounty hunter, sentenced to a world where the population hates her; a space salvager who travels the cosmic expanse alone, never staying on one world for long; a sell-sword who roams a blighted land, never satisfying his emotional needs; a suicide who enters a city of cannibals, but who refuses to eat flesh. What can I say? Happy heroes/heroines bore the shit out of me.
Antagonistic Lovers: I admit it: I loathe a tame love story. I’m not referring to a lack of sexual action, or the absence of ‘sparks’ between lovers. What I’m talking about is irritation, annoyance. People who don’t want to fall in love, who argue with their romantic interest. Couples who have so much sexual tension they could kill each other. They don’t come to blows (I’m not into that fetish) but they aren’t best friends. Yet, anyway. Why is this my fetish? Did Han and Leia in The Empire Strikes Back ruin me for life? I don’t know. Because it’s more interesting. More believable. Opposites attract. And I don’t like easy love. If something isn’t hard to attain, then where’s the dramatic impact once a character receives it? No, I’m not talking about the cliché ‘city girl meets cowboy’ drivel. I like two characters who have their own lives, ambitions, and weaknesses, and don’t want another person intruding into their world. They are their own people, and aren’t docile conformists. That’s the romance I like to write. Besides, what better way to show that they really love one another?
The Strong Woman: Male writers do this all the time: write female characters who kick ass, wear tight pants, a black leather sports bra, and have 36-24-36 measurements. It’s a fantasy for them. Women write strong heroines as well, and let’s admit it: they also pander to the fantasy kick-ass chick (I use ‘chick’ on purpose; sometimes these don’t feel like real women to me). I write strong feminine characters too, and yes, one of them wears tight, black leather clothes. But she is on Mars, and all that dust gets in everything…oh hell, I won’t even try to rationalize it. I find it sexy, okay? But sexiest of all is what else I add to such heroines: they are capable of doing things themselves, without the aid of a man. If she has sex, it isn’t because she’s a slut, or because I’m lewd and want a steamy sex scene. She has sex because she enjoys it like every other human being. I write her as self-conscious, because she’s lovely yet doesn’t see it (can’t stand the runway model arrogance). My heroines are liberated by their sexuality, not constrained by it. They are comfortable in so-called ‘men’s’ roles. There never is any doubt in their minds that they are the equals of men. That’s what I find sexy in a heroine. Call me crazy, but a subservient, brainless bimbo isn’t a turn-on.
These are just some of my fiction fetishes. I’m sure there are a few I’m unaware of. Since I recognize these repeated motifs in my writing, it’s time to try something different, so I don’t become stagnant. That is the real point of this exercise.
But I’ll keep the Strong Woman fetish. She’d beat the crap out of me otherwise.
February 17, 2014
World Building: Story Enrichment or Writer's Indulgence?
I love world building, and, I imagine, so do most other speculative fiction writers. We all want our own high fantasy re-imagining of what Tolkien accomplished, or craft a sci-fi setting in the same idiom as Star Wars and Star Trek. We also want our worlds to remain unique from our influences, which isn’t easy. Sometimes we spend hours thinking up names for kingdoms and planets, without pushing the limits of our ability to pronounce them. But the most difficult part of world building is: how far do we take it? How much do we create to embellish our stories…and how much is ‘too much’?
Readers of fantasy and science fiction expect a moderate amount of world building. That’s part of what makes these genres attractive; to read about characters in worlds different than our own. These readers are familiar with what’s come before, so yet another elf vs. orc saga or FTL military epic isn’t going to raise eyebrows—but they do require familiar concepts. One might then ask, why world build at all? Why not recycle what has already been done? Though some (untalented) writers do just that, readers want something different.
I’m one of those writers who create plot overviews and character bios before I pen a novel. True, most of it
gets changed/ignored in the course of writing said novel, but I like having a guideline. When I world build, I take this philosophy a step further. I write a chronology, glossary of terms, details on locales and cultures, and often draw a (crude) map of my setting, just so I’ll have a sense of geography. None of this is necessary to write a story, but I enjoy the process. In turn, I like to hint at all this hard work in the context of my story, by inserting descriptions of the setting I’ve made. Everything from clothing styles, how languages sound, and the way a mundane item is described (bungee cord becomes flexi wire) is meant to transport the reader to another place and time. This can be done to any fiction genre, but is really the icing on the cake when it comes to fantasy and science fiction.
But too much icing makes the cake too sweet.
I once said that I’d like to be the Ridley Scott of writers—that I create worlds. Ones that feel logical and complete to the reader, allowing for an even greater suspension of disbelief. While I’ve received praise for my efforts, I’ve also garnered criticism. Some of it may be personal taste, but the reader wants a story—not a travelogue of a world that I think is super cool. So like all other aspects of the writing process, world building requires moderation.
Some would suggest I stop fussing over the details and just write the damn story. Good advice, but the settings I create, I write multiple stories in. So it really helps to keep a glossary and a chronology. It’s convenient to have a map I can consult, and even add to, as needed. I like cohesiveness and continuity, and keeping track of my setting’s details aids in this. The real trick is adding just enough of all this information to the story.
Then there is a writer’s indulgence. Stephen King has said ‘kill your darlings’ and man do I need to take that to heart. Some of my novels have only gotten thicker with each revision, not tighter, and I keep tacking on things I think the reader should know. I try to convince myself that these are epics I’m writing, that a novel grants me a gargantuan canvas to paint my story on, that…yeah, you get the idea. Sometimes I get into world builder denial—and that’s when my rejection slips seems to pile up.
I don’t know about other writers out there, but maybe I need to rein in my world building fetish. Or should I? Epic fantasy has seen a resurgence, such as the works of Brandon Sanderson and George R.R. Martin. That doesn’t mean I should drown the reader in exposition or useless details, but it does give me hope that eventually my work will find the right audience.
That’s no excuse to keep writing fatter novels, though. Brevity is key, and the writer that can say it with fewer words is often the better one.
So world build large, write small. Then dream huge—and expect nothing. Somewhere in the middle, I’ll make it.
Readers of fantasy and science fiction expect a moderate amount of world building. That’s part of what makes these genres attractive; to read about characters in worlds different than our own. These readers are familiar with what’s come before, so yet another elf vs. orc saga or FTL military epic isn’t going to raise eyebrows—but they do require familiar concepts. One might then ask, why world build at all? Why not recycle what has already been done? Though some (untalented) writers do just that, readers want something different.
I’m one of those writers who create plot overviews and character bios before I pen a novel. True, most of it
gets changed/ignored in the course of writing said novel, but I like having a guideline. When I world build, I take this philosophy a step further. I write a chronology, glossary of terms, details on locales and cultures, and often draw a (crude) map of my setting, just so I’ll have a sense of geography. None of this is necessary to write a story, but I enjoy the process. In turn, I like to hint at all this hard work in the context of my story, by inserting descriptions of the setting I’ve made. Everything from clothing styles, how languages sound, and the way a mundane item is described (bungee cord becomes flexi wire) is meant to transport the reader to another place and time. This can be done to any fiction genre, but is really the icing on the cake when it comes to fantasy and science fiction.
But too much icing makes the cake too sweet.
I once said that I’d like to be the Ridley Scott of writers—that I create worlds. Ones that feel logical and complete to the reader, allowing for an even greater suspension of disbelief. While I’ve received praise for my efforts, I’ve also garnered criticism. Some of it may be personal taste, but the reader wants a story—not a travelogue of a world that I think is super cool. So like all other aspects of the writing process, world building requires moderation.
Some would suggest I stop fussing over the details and just write the damn story. Good advice, but the settings I create, I write multiple stories in. So it really helps to keep a glossary and a chronology. It’s convenient to have a map I can consult, and even add to, as needed. I like cohesiveness and continuity, and keeping track of my setting’s details aids in this. The real trick is adding just enough of all this information to the story.
Then there is a writer’s indulgence. Stephen King has said ‘kill your darlings’ and man do I need to take that to heart. Some of my novels have only gotten thicker with each revision, not tighter, and I keep tacking on things I think the reader should know. I try to convince myself that these are epics I’m writing, that a novel grants me a gargantuan canvas to paint my story on, that…yeah, you get the idea. Sometimes I get into world builder denial—and that’s when my rejection slips seems to pile up.
I don’t know about other writers out there, but maybe I need to rein in my world building fetish. Or should I? Epic fantasy has seen a resurgence, such as the works of Brandon Sanderson and George R.R. Martin. That doesn’t mean I should drown the reader in exposition or useless details, but it does give me hope that eventually my work will find the right audience.
That’s no excuse to keep writing fatter novels, though. Brevity is key, and the writer that can say it with fewer words is often the better one.
So world build large, write small. Then dream huge—and expect nothing. Somewhere in the middle, I’ll make it.
January 24, 2014
Writing the Sequel to a Novel...that Hasn't Been Published
For a writer, it’s already hard enough remaining dedicated to a story or project that hasn’t seen the light of (a published) day. We write, revise, agonize over, and revise again these fictional escapades we someday hope the rest of the world will want to read. So why do the same amount of work for the sequel to a novel that hasn’t received representation from an agent, or a contract from a publisher?
Maybe I’m just crazy.
Some would call it a labor of love, or just another example of a writer’s self-indulgence. Or perhaps it’s over-confidence. In my case, all of those statements are wrong. Wrong, I say! Truth is, the sequel has already been written, and the final novel—the completion of the trilogy—is already in my mind. I know how the saga will end, I know where I want it to go. Sure, in the process of writing and revising multiple drafts, details will change. But the overall story is still there, demanding emancipation from my brain. Who am I to deny it?
The first novel, “Inheritance’, is the initial installment in my Scion: Cradles of Life trilogy. A science fiction space opera, it uses ideas that have floated around in my head for decades. There’s literally a lifetime of mental gestation involved. ‘Inheritance’ is complete, has been through six drafts, workshopped, and has been read/critiqued by several fellow writers. Its sequel, ‘Progeny’ is complete as well, but only in first draft form. The final volume, ‘Origin’, has yet to be written.
Conventional writing wisdom would say to shop the first novel around to agents and publishers, and if it gets accepted, then work on the sequels. That’s sound, pragmatic advice. But I’m ignoring it.
Sure, there are other novels I’d love to write. A Wages of Cinn novel, a Slumber novel…and most certainly another Meridian novel. But the Scion story needs to be told first. It’s what occupies my mind, and my current thoughts return to those characters more than any others. As every writer knows, when inspiration comes, it shouldn’t be snubbed.
I’ve heard that some agents/publishers eagerly accept a trilogy or series that is complete, and hey, if that’s true, then I’m all set. Wrong. I will never assume that my trilogy might garner that sort of interest. I don’t want to set myself up for disappointment.
So what I am really doing? Spurning common sense, I’m forging ahead with a project that might never get published. It’s one thing to slave over a novel that never gets sold, but three? That takes extreme dedication. Or madness, as I alluded to earlier.
My reason is simple: it’s what I want to do.
Come on, don’t roll your eyes or snort. I’m not trying to climb the pedestal of artistic integrity or make a self-serving statement.
Writers fret too much over what will sell, what will this agent think of my manuscript, how long has it been since that publisher received my submission—we’re swamped with anxieties. But we shouldn’t be when it comes to the actual writing. Often we need reminding why we chose to be a writer in the first place. Maybe it was fame and fortune, but most people probably did it for the same reason I did.
We all want to tell a story. Something that matters to us. A story that, even after we’ve completed the fifteenth read-through, the scenes and characters still resonate. Our hearts still swell with emotion in the right places, and after the story’s conclusion, we still experience that feeling of accomplishment and closure.
So I’m going to finish my trilogy. If it sells one day, great. If it doesn’t, I’ll still have told a story that I’m proud of, and my children might read someday. Being a writer isn’t about making cash or pleasing others. It’s about being true to yourself.
Maybe I’m just crazy.
Some would call it a labor of love, or just another example of a writer’s self-indulgence. Or perhaps it’s over-confidence. In my case, all of those statements are wrong. Wrong, I say! Truth is, the sequel has already been written, and the final novel—the completion of the trilogy—is already in my mind. I know how the saga will end, I know where I want it to go. Sure, in the process of writing and revising multiple drafts, details will change. But the overall story is still there, demanding emancipation from my brain. Who am I to deny it?
The first novel, “Inheritance’, is the initial installment in my Scion: Cradles of Life trilogy. A science fiction space opera, it uses ideas that have floated around in my head for decades. There’s literally a lifetime of mental gestation involved. ‘Inheritance’ is complete, has been through six drafts, workshopped, and has been read/critiqued by several fellow writers. Its sequel, ‘Progeny’ is complete as well, but only in first draft form. The final volume, ‘Origin’, has yet to be written.
Conventional writing wisdom would say to shop the first novel around to agents and publishers, and if it gets accepted, then work on the sequels. That’s sound, pragmatic advice. But I’m ignoring it.
Sure, there are other novels I’d love to write. A Wages of Cinn novel, a Slumber novel…and most certainly another Meridian novel. But the Scion story needs to be told first. It’s what occupies my mind, and my current thoughts return to those characters more than any others. As every writer knows, when inspiration comes, it shouldn’t be snubbed.
I’ve heard that some agents/publishers eagerly accept a trilogy or series that is complete, and hey, if that’s true, then I’m all set. Wrong. I will never assume that my trilogy might garner that sort of interest. I don’t want to set myself up for disappointment.
So what I am really doing? Spurning common sense, I’m forging ahead with a project that might never get published. It’s one thing to slave over a novel that never gets sold, but three? That takes extreme dedication. Or madness, as I alluded to earlier.
My reason is simple: it’s what I want to do.
Come on, don’t roll your eyes or snort. I’m not trying to climb the pedestal of artistic integrity or make a self-serving statement.
Writers fret too much over what will sell, what will this agent think of my manuscript, how long has it been since that publisher received my submission—we’re swamped with anxieties. But we shouldn’t be when it comes to the actual writing. Often we need reminding why we chose to be a writer in the first place. Maybe it was fame and fortune, but most people probably did it for the same reason I did.
We all want to tell a story. Something that matters to us. A story that, even after we’ve completed the fifteenth read-through, the scenes and characters still resonate. Our hearts still swell with emotion in the right places, and after the story’s conclusion, we still experience that feeling of accomplishment and closure.
So I’m going to finish my trilogy. If it sells one day, great. If it doesn’t, I’ll still have told a story that I’m proud of, and my children might read someday. Being a writer isn’t about making cash or pleasing others. It’s about being true to yourself.
December 12, 2013
How Dungeons & Dragons Made Me a Better Writer
Yeah, I should be writing about the holidays, and how an author should never take any (from writing). Stephen King has expressed that far better than I can, and I’ve already spoken my X-mas piece in my other blog, 'Samuqan Says'. So I’ll touch on something that’s been on my mind lately, but still relates to my writing: the days when I played Dungeons & Dragons (D&D).
Mentioning D&D will garner a variety of reactions: gamers will fondly sigh, literary types will snort, and conservatives who neither read nor think will still decry it as Satanism. But I trust that those of you who read and write speculative fiction will understand.
So how does the grandfather of role-playing games (RPGs) pertain to my fiction writing? Aside from the obvious—that I write speculative fiction, which includes high fantasy and sword & sorcery, the idioms of D&D—running and playing all those adventures, modules, and boxed sets taught me several things about plot, character, and how (not) to please an audience. Useful things for any writer, regardless of genre.
Yes, useful even if you write Bizarro fiction. And if you played with my old gaming friends…especially if you write Bizarro fiction.
My first real experience with D&D was as the Dungeon Master (DM), the player who controls the monsters, tells the story, and acts as rules arbitrator. That can be quite a bit of work, and let me tell you, creating a world for an RPG and peopling it with characters is the same thing I do as a writer when I compose a new story. The main difference is, with D&D, I worry about game balance and how a character will affect it. With fiction, a character also has to entertain a reader, tug at their emotions, and be accessible in some way. Plus you don’t have to create a set of RPG stats for a fictional character…well, unless you really want to. ;-)
As far as world-building, I started during my D&D days. I’m sure many other authors who were/are gamers have done the same thing. And just like me, I’ll bet many have mined their old RPG data for character and place names, and setting details. For example, much of the material in my Scion science fiction setting (Aldaakians, Sarrhdtuu, the Vim, etc.) came from an RPG I had written myself. I called it ‘The Last Eternity’. Yeah, cue the sarcastic ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’. Of course, the game mechanics didn’t function, but years later all that work still paid off. People who’ve read my Scion material have enjoyed those elements, without ever knowing their origin.
Many editors will advise fantasy writers not to submit a story about their ‘D&D game’. That’s understandable, but it’s also not entirely fair: several of my published pieces used material I had created for an old RPG character or setting. The idea is not to try to market a contrived tale of your D&D adventures, but rather to draw inspiration from what drove you to play an RPG to begin with. If, like me, you have a trunk load of unused material that can feed a setting, so much the better.
Now about characters. Yes, I too practiced what all DMs do in the early stages of their gaming: create invincible, cool characters that have all the powerful magical items and kick-ass stats that would make one of the Knights of the Dinner Table blush. These characters are more like avatars of that DM’s self-empowerment, and are usually abused in game play. My old gaming friends still roll their eyes at the mention of Drake Steele or Victor Drago, as well they should. But in time I realized that awesome stats do not make a character—it’s how the players interacted with a character that mattered.
So in a story, crafting a hero or heroine that is a master of swordplay, or a formidable magician, or any other extraordinary vocation, is never enough. While everyone likes to root for a winner, I often find the best characters, the ones people really relate to, are the ones who aren’t cool, popular, or the strongest. The ones who don’t possess 24-inch biceps or 38-24-36 measurements.
Then there’s pleasing your audience. Here, D&D and fiction writing are far different on the surface: in an RPG, the Dungeon Master has to cater to the players. After all, the players, not the DM, are the focus and heroes of the story. Sometimes that means babysitting the less mature players (and yes, I’m referring to adults here—you wouldn’t believe some of my gaming experiences), and sometimes it means thinking on your feet. These things contribute to the energy of face-to-face, table-top RPGs, and wouldn’t be the same without them. In fiction writing, none of these concerns exist. At the onset, as an author, I’m out to please myself by writing a story I myself would like to read.
That might sound self-indulgent, but it isn’t. A novel is a massive undertaking, and you must be dedicated to it at every stage—from first draft to polish pass. Yet in this process, a writer must cut out self-indulgences (as Stephen King dubs it, ‘kill your darlings’). The novel should still be something you’d want to read yourself, but revised so that the story has taken point of place over the author’s ego. In this regard, writing and gaming are related.
Oh, I could list many examples, but here are two that bear mentioning. In one RPG session, where I was the player and not the DM, the guy running the game seemed dead-set against the players enjoying his campaign. Strict on rules, stingy with rewards, lacking charisma, and describing an unimaginative plot—it was agony playing this guy’s D&D campaign. Not everyone’s cut out to do this sort of thing—much like writing. But the problem was, the guy knew he was antagonizing his players, knew we loathed his game…but refused to change it. Needless to say, we finally stopped playing it and moved on.
The same is true with a story: if you’re unwilling to heed constructive criticism, are too lazy (or arrogant?) to revise your work, or know that you need to hone your craft but refuse—then readers won’t read or enjoy your work. Just like we didn’t enjoy that guy’s campaign. Don’t be that guy.
The second example is from one of my own D&D campaigns. On the other side of the spectrum, I gave in to the players far too much. It was my fault—give them an inch, and they’ll take the kingdom. I allowed a certain player to use a wraithform spell to turn himself to mist, enter an opponent’s body via their ear, then re-materialize inside that opponent’s body—thus killing that opponent. If I’d been a smarter DM at the time, I’d have ruled that the resulting effect also killed the player’s character. But I didn’t, because I wanted to please my players. Something similar like this happened in another of my campaigns, and with the same player. Again, I allowed it, and the campaign suffered for it.
The lesson? Never budge when it means compromise will ruin your vision. Don’t water down a character or a scene in your story just to be politically correct, or to please a few critics. Maintain what you want your story to be. Not every agent or editor knows what’s best for your work. Resist making changes that detract from or distort what your original vision was. That doesn’t mean ignoring spot-on criticism, but once you’ve been writing long enough, you’ll know the difference. And never make changes for appeasement.
The challenges of running a D&D game, and writing a story, share key similarities. Though in execution and content they are different platforms of entertainment and expression, both are united in the need to maintain a balance. A badly-run campaign and a poorly-written novel can both be avoided, if one does the work, develops a thick skin, and isn’t afraid to stand their ground.
Now, one of these days I might tell you about all those awful, tedious gaming sessions, the dirt on players who went too far, a particular elven ranger everyone hated (who killed the villain before we got there), the blue inked d20 that never rolled a single frigging 20, the real alcoholic content of Dragon Piss, a dwarf thief who liked to accessorize everything in alligator leather (too much), or certain Donjoned gnomes that copulated with ogres…but only after I’ve regaled you with the many good times I had, and how those remain with me as I continue to write new stories.
Mentioning D&D will garner a variety of reactions: gamers will fondly sigh, literary types will snort, and conservatives who neither read nor think will still decry it as Satanism. But I trust that those of you who read and write speculative fiction will understand.
So how does the grandfather of role-playing games (RPGs) pertain to my fiction writing? Aside from the obvious—that I write speculative fiction, which includes high fantasy and sword & sorcery, the idioms of D&D—running and playing all those adventures, modules, and boxed sets taught me several things about plot, character, and how (not) to please an audience. Useful things for any writer, regardless of genre.
Yes, useful even if you write Bizarro fiction. And if you played with my old gaming friends…especially if you write Bizarro fiction.
My first real experience with D&D was as the Dungeon Master (DM), the player who controls the monsters, tells the story, and acts as rules arbitrator. That can be quite a bit of work, and let me tell you, creating a world for an RPG and peopling it with characters is the same thing I do as a writer when I compose a new story. The main difference is, with D&D, I worry about game balance and how a character will affect it. With fiction, a character also has to entertain a reader, tug at their emotions, and be accessible in some way. Plus you don’t have to create a set of RPG stats for a fictional character…well, unless you really want to. ;-)
As far as world-building, I started during my D&D days. I’m sure many other authors who were/are gamers have done the same thing. And just like me, I’ll bet many have mined their old RPG data for character and place names, and setting details. For example, much of the material in my Scion science fiction setting (Aldaakians, Sarrhdtuu, the Vim, etc.) came from an RPG I had written myself. I called it ‘The Last Eternity’. Yeah, cue the sarcastic ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’. Of course, the game mechanics didn’t function, but years later all that work still paid off. People who’ve read my Scion material have enjoyed those elements, without ever knowing their origin.
Many editors will advise fantasy writers not to submit a story about their ‘D&D game’. That’s understandable, but it’s also not entirely fair: several of my published pieces used material I had created for an old RPG character or setting. The idea is not to try to market a contrived tale of your D&D adventures, but rather to draw inspiration from what drove you to play an RPG to begin with. If, like me, you have a trunk load of unused material that can feed a setting, so much the better.
Now about characters. Yes, I too practiced what all DMs do in the early stages of their gaming: create invincible, cool characters that have all the powerful magical items and kick-ass stats that would make one of the Knights of the Dinner Table blush. These characters are more like avatars of that DM’s self-empowerment, and are usually abused in game play. My old gaming friends still roll their eyes at the mention of Drake Steele or Victor Drago, as well they should. But in time I realized that awesome stats do not make a character—it’s how the players interacted with a character that mattered.
So in a story, crafting a hero or heroine that is a master of swordplay, or a formidable magician, or any other extraordinary vocation, is never enough. While everyone likes to root for a winner, I often find the best characters, the ones people really relate to, are the ones who aren’t cool, popular, or the strongest. The ones who don’t possess 24-inch biceps or 38-24-36 measurements.
Then there’s pleasing your audience. Here, D&D and fiction writing are far different on the surface: in an RPG, the Dungeon Master has to cater to the players. After all, the players, not the DM, are the focus and heroes of the story. Sometimes that means babysitting the less mature players (and yes, I’m referring to adults here—you wouldn’t believe some of my gaming experiences), and sometimes it means thinking on your feet. These things contribute to the energy of face-to-face, table-top RPGs, and wouldn’t be the same without them. In fiction writing, none of these concerns exist. At the onset, as an author, I’m out to please myself by writing a story I myself would like to read.
That might sound self-indulgent, but it isn’t. A novel is a massive undertaking, and you must be dedicated to it at every stage—from first draft to polish pass. Yet in this process, a writer must cut out self-indulgences (as Stephen King dubs it, ‘kill your darlings’). The novel should still be something you’d want to read yourself, but revised so that the story has taken point of place over the author’s ego. In this regard, writing and gaming are related.
Oh, I could list many examples, but here are two that bear mentioning. In one RPG session, where I was the player and not the DM, the guy running the game seemed dead-set against the players enjoying his campaign. Strict on rules, stingy with rewards, lacking charisma, and describing an unimaginative plot—it was agony playing this guy’s D&D campaign. Not everyone’s cut out to do this sort of thing—much like writing. But the problem was, the guy knew he was antagonizing his players, knew we loathed his game…but refused to change it. Needless to say, we finally stopped playing it and moved on.
The same is true with a story: if you’re unwilling to heed constructive criticism, are too lazy (or arrogant?) to revise your work, or know that you need to hone your craft but refuse—then readers won’t read or enjoy your work. Just like we didn’t enjoy that guy’s campaign. Don’t be that guy.
The second example is from one of my own D&D campaigns. On the other side of the spectrum, I gave in to the players far too much. It was my fault—give them an inch, and they’ll take the kingdom. I allowed a certain player to use a wraithform spell to turn himself to mist, enter an opponent’s body via their ear, then re-materialize inside that opponent’s body—thus killing that opponent. If I’d been a smarter DM at the time, I’d have ruled that the resulting effect also killed the player’s character. But I didn’t, because I wanted to please my players. Something similar like this happened in another of my campaigns, and with the same player. Again, I allowed it, and the campaign suffered for it.
The lesson? Never budge when it means compromise will ruin your vision. Don’t water down a character or a scene in your story just to be politically correct, or to please a few critics. Maintain what you want your story to be. Not every agent or editor knows what’s best for your work. Resist making changes that detract from or distort what your original vision was. That doesn’t mean ignoring spot-on criticism, but once you’ve been writing long enough, you’ll know the difference. And never make changes for appeasement.
The challenges of running a D&D game, and writing a story, share key similarities. Though in execution and content they are different platforms of entertainment and expression, both are united in the need to maintain a balance. A badly-run campaign and a poorly-written novel can both be avoided, if one does the work, develops a thick skin, and isn’t afraid to stand their ground.
Now, one of these days I might tell you about all those awful, tedious gaming sessions, the dirt on players who went too far, a particular elven ranger everyone hated (who killed the villain before we got there), the blue inked d20 that never rolled a single frigging 20, the real alcoholic content of Dragon Piss, a dwarf thief who liked to accessorize everything in alligator leather (too much), or certain Donjoned gnomes that copulated with ogres…but only after I’ve regaled you with the many good times I had, and how those remain with me as I continue to write new stories.
