A. Lee Martinez's Blog, page 14
July 25, 2016
Jaylah Beyond (Star Trek Beyond review)
I watched Star Trek: Beyond this weekend, and I can say it is a pleasant, even entertaining diversion. It smartly ignores the two previous films (especially the dreadful Into Darkness), and is a solid film from top to bottom.
It is, however, almost completely unnecessary.
There’s not much new or different or challenging about the Star Trek universe. It’s a nice warm bath to sink into, a familiar setting that the audience expects little from, and that gives little in return. It’s comfort food, and perhaps that’s inevitable. It doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad (though Beyond is good). It just matters that it exists in a palatable form, a soothing cultural balm.
This doesn’t mean it’s bad. It simply means I question why it exists beyond that. Beyond is clearly made by people who have affection for the material. Co-writers Simon Pegg & Doug Jung aimed for everything that made the series charming with characters interacting in exciting, engaging ways. The whole thing is a checklist executed with grace and skill. There’s nothing to really pick apart here. Even the use of modern day music in the film works well enough. It’s a well-oiled machine, chugging along with perfect functionality. Yet I found myself disconnected with it for that very reason. I might have walked out with a pleasant, if slight, feeling of satisfaction without realizing why I wasn’t invested, too, if it wasn’t for one reason.
Her name is Jaylah, and she is the only thing in Beyond that grabbed my attention.
Jaylah (played by Sofia Boutella) is a survivor. From the moment she steps onto the screen, she’s captivating. First, by virtue of being an unfamiliar element in something so utterly familiar. Second, by being a solid character played with a stoic joy. Walking out of Beyond, I realized the only thing that really stuck with me about the whole affair was Jaylah because Jaylah was the only thing in the whole film that I discovered.
She wasn’t a Vulcan or a Klingon or a human, so I couldn’t shorthand her character by relying on her species. Her backstory is simple. Her motivations are direct. But her intelligence, her spirit, her abilities, were all there to be revealed as the film went on. Every moment Jaylah is on screen was a joy. I realized how much I liked the Star Trek characters when they interacted with Jaylah because she brought a fresh dynamic to otherwise predictable conversations. I found myself far more invested in her fight with her father’s killer than with Kirk’s final showdown with the generic bad guy played by Idris Elba. It’s completely superfluous, a cheat. But when she screams with primal rage at her opponent and launches herself at him, damned if I didn’t feel her fury in a way that was missing from nearly every other scene. Even in the end, when all the characters are gathered around, it’s really only Jaylah who interested me.
Part of this is that Jaylah is just a lot of fun. Boutella instills her with a sharp, temperamental pragmatism. Part of this is simply that she’s the only original hero in the whole thing that accomplishes anything, the only non-standard issue character who participates meaningfully in the story. And part of this is that while the movie is competent, it is also very, very safe.
With the unfortunate and tragic death of Anton Yelchin and the necessary exit of Chekov as a result, I’d be pleased to see Jaylah become a new member of the crew. After my rather “meh” experience with Beyond, I find myself uninterested in any further Trek outings. But if Jaylah should show up again, I might just come back.
Star Trek: Beyond is a serviceable film. It’s enjoyable, functional. It gets the job done, but the idea that science fiction should become an exercise in comfort rather than exploration (especially this particular science fiction) does bother me. I can’t recommend it. I can’t not recommend it. I can say it does its job and not much more.
But, damn, I do hope to see more Jaylah in the future.
Keelah Se’lai
Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,
LEE
July 7, 2016
Martinez on Chasing the Moon
With the release of The Last Adventure of Constance Verity (in stores now), I’ve been taking a walk down memory lane, discussing my previous novels, what I think about them, why I wrote them, etc. Today, we’re going to talk about Chasing the Moon, my eight novel.
Moon is a novel of horror. Specifically, cosmic horror which is a catch-all for stories involving forces beyond human ken that drive mortals to madness and / or swallow them whole. We’re not talking about serial killers or vampires or getting lost in the woods. We’re talking about existential dread, incomprehensible truths, and terrifying, inevitable doom. Moon is all about that stuff, and the only reason people tend not to notice is because it’s a relatively cheery novel.
More than any other novel of mine, Chasing the Moon doesn’t care that much about the plot. Oh, there’s a story, and it all ties together thematically. But much of it is a series of interconnected, related vignettes that all lead to the same conclusion: The universe is weirder than you can possibly imagine and even trying to imagine it is a dangerous act. The human race is insignificant and will most likely disappear one day without leaving behind so much as a footprint.
What makes Moon even more frightening, from a cosmic horror perspective, is that even the monsters and otherworldly creatures that populate the universe are in no better a position than we are. In Moon, even Cthulhu is mostly making it up as he goes along, unsure of any point, wondering why he bothers? Nobody, not the most clueless human, not the most powerful creature, really knows the answers why. None can say if there’s any reason for any of it.
But also, it’s a fun book.
Part of that is that the theme of friendship and community that fits in nearly all my books continues here. Diana steps into a world of weirdness, but rather than be overwhelmed by it, she deals with it as best she can. Along the way, she collects a series of allies, both human and inhuman. Her empathy is her greatest strength as it allows her to see horrific creatures as much like her. Everyone and everything in Moon is just trying to get by.
The flip-side is Vom the Hungering, the first cosmic horror we meet. Belied by his cute and fuzzy appearance, Vom wants nothing more than to devour everything around him. It’s Diana’s strength of will and empathy that help curb that instinct, and Vom himself admits that it’s far easier to destroy the universe when you don’t empathize with the little crawly things that call it home.
And then there’s Calvin, the “villain” of the piece, a thing incomprehensible trapped in human form on our world. But he’s not actually a villain. He just wants to go home, and if he should accidentally destroy billions of souls in the process, that’s not his fault. Heck, he isn’t even trying to escape. He’s just going to when the time is right.
Chasing the Moon has no real villain though. Nobody acts out of malice. Even the (sort of) werewolf cult that worships Calvin seeks to help the world survive as best they can manage. If there is a bad guy in this story, it’s that sense of dread futility and that gnawing fear that nothing we do matters. This is a story where you might be erased from existence tomorrow, and even your closest loved ones might not notice. History is a shape-shifting uncertainty, the future doesn’t exist, and the present is mostly a shared fever dream. The only reason it’s tolerable for our characters is that they A) don’t think about it too much and B) try to help each other through the madness.
It’s a crazy world out there, Action Force, and we all need someone we can rely on. That’s the central theme of Chasing the Moon, and it’s a mostly positive one. I’d like to think that even Azathoth, blind, idiot god dreaming creation, would agree.
Keelah Se’lai
Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,
LEE
June 30, 2016
Martinez on Divine Misfortune
With The Last Adventure of Constance Verity just over the horizon, we continue our trip down the A. Lee Martinez backlist, Action Force. Let’s talk about Divine Misfortune.
Misfortune is probably one of my most misunderstood books, and there’s no two ways about it. It’s all because of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. Misfortune will always sit in the shadow of Gods, and I long ago accepted there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it. For a lot of people, Gods will always be their “Story about gods”, with perhaps Terry Pratchett’s Small Gods being a close second. And I’ll admit that it bugs the hell out of me. Not because I have any problems with either of those novels. It’s simply that the themes of both novels have almost nothing to do with the themes of Misfortune.
I don’t usually indulge in a lot of upfront worldbuilding. I much rather have the world be a real place in the background, but for Misfortune, it’s vital to understand the differing influences and rules of that universe versus just about any other modern day story you might read about gods.
To begin with, most stories about gods in the modern day are all about faith. Most specifically, faith of humanity and how our beliefs empower and enable the gods. This is actually a fairly new idea, culturally, and in most ancient worlds, the gods didn’t need you to believe in them. They existed whether you believed in them or not. They were all the unknowable cosmic forces, both grand and small, that screwed with your life. You might offer them prayers and sacrifices in hopes of appeasing them, but you didn’t expect them to go away because you simply stopped believing in them.
Perhaps it’s simply a cultural evolution. Humanity has gained more and more power over our environment, our health, our world, for good or ill. The unknowable cosmic forces are still out there, but their domain is smaller than ever. I think we’ve come to believe in our ability to control our world and our future, and so we’ve come to this idea that we can control our gods. Zeus might be amazing, but he’s nothing without you. I wouldn’t call it egotism, but I’d say how the human race views the universe has changed over the centuries, and that’s reflected in our fiction about our gods.
And it is almost completely absent from Misfortune. The gods in that story don’t need you to believe in them. They exist. Everyone knows they exist. They aren’t impossible entities or unknowable. They walk among us, and to deny they exist would be to deny your friends or family, your house, the country of Portugal. These all exist, and there’s no point in debating it.
The deities of Misfortune do draw power from mortal followers, but they do so via process of tribute. The mechanism is hinted at in the novel, but it’s as simply as sacrifices and inconveniences offered up to the gods. Prayers are useful, sure, but so are blood sacrifices, weird ritualistic behavior, and even cold hard cash. It’s explicitly a transaction, like a car payment or a cell phone contract. This is why faith simply doesn’t exist within that universe, and why the official term for a god’s patrons is “follower”, not “worshipper”. Worship implies a sense of wonder and awe, but the mortals of this story know their gods too well. They see them as the flawed, foolish creatures they are and accept them because they have no other choice and as a convenient way of solving some problems and getting ahead.
Once you understand this, Divine Misfortune becomes its own story, and I think a great one. More than just about any other novel we’ve explored so far, this is a story about personal responsibility as embodied by its divine cast. Lucky (raccoon god of fortune), Syph (heartbroken goddess of love), Gorgoz (mad god of chaos), and Quick (down and out Mesoamerican god) are all wrestling with their own version of this.
Divine Misfortune has the smallest stakes of any of my novels. The universe isn’t in danger. The world is never threatened. The most at stake are a few mortal lives, which amounts to almost nothing to our cast. Or so it seems. It’s not unusual to have powerful, god-like creatures in my stories. It’s not unusual for those creatures to undertake an emotional journey to understanding and empathizing with tiny mortal creatures. (More on that when we get to Chasing the Moon.) The difference here is that is the entire theme of Misfortune.
The question all these gods must answer is “Just because you can walk away without consequence, should you?” Also, as Quick points out, there will be consequences. Even gods must learn to live with their decisions, and for immortals, that can be a hell of a long time.
I love the characters in Divine Misfortune. I love that Teri and Phil are happily married, and that their relationship feels natural. I love Lucky and Janet, how they grow because of each other. I love Gorgoz and Syph.
Most of all, I love Quick.
And I love the universe of Misfortune because it is so classically mythical and modern at once. I’ve always summarized Divine Misfortune as the meeting place of Ancient Legends and Modern Sitcoms. That might make it sound light and fluffy, but damn it, there’s some powerful themes at work here, if you’re willing to look for them.
No, Divine Misfortune isn’t American Gods, but I like to think too that American Gods is no Divine Misfortune. That’s wishful thinking on my part, but until the god of literary interpretation comes knocking on my door, it’s the best I can do.
Keelah Se’lai
Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,
LEE
June 29, 2016
A Serpent Eating Its Own Tail
June 23, 2016
Martinez on Monster
After publishing five novels with Tor Books, I moved to new publisher Orbit Books with Monster. This is my dip into the urban fantasy genre, and while I’d experimented with fantastic elements in the modern world in Gil’s All Fright Diner (which is technically rural fantasy though not sure that’s an official genre), I’d never tackled the specific assumptions and conventions of the urban fantasy genre.
Monster is solidly urban fantasy. It features a protagonist who lives in both the modern world and a magical one. He has magical powers and knows secrets that more mundane folks can’t understand. But there are some choices I made that think set it apart.
Monster himself isn’t some super powerful wizard or cool dude. He’s just a working stiff who happens to know how to do magic. Nobody in Monster’s world is glamorous. Everybody’s just trying to get by. Monster is a glorified dog catcher, and even his demon girlfriend is merely an employee of the Underworld. Judy, our second protagonist, is even less cool, stuck between forces beyond her ken.
Magic in the world of Monster isn’t some innate talent or secret society. It’s a skill. With a few markers and a sticky pad, Monster can accomplish amazing feats. The limitation is that it’s difficult to remember properly because of a fugue settled over the world. Most people can’t process magic, must less understand it. But if they manage to do something right, say the right words, write the correct symbols, it works as well for them as for anyone else.
Monster is unusual for an A. Lee Martinez protagonist because he’s a jerk throughout the story. He doesn’t grow. He doesn’t change. His problems spring from his own uwillingness to admit his mistakes and try to improve himself. He’s as close to a tragic hero as I’ve written at this point. It wasn’t my original intent, but as time goes by, I see Monster as a man who is doomed to be unhappy simply because of his inability to overcome his own myopic self-centered attitude. When confronted with the chance to be a better person, Monster doesn’t take it. It’s not that he’s a lousy person. He’s just not a great person. He’s not cruel or malicious, but he’s too self-absorbed to pay much attention to those around him. He gives very little to the world and then he’s surprised when he gets very little in return.
The other element of Monster was my dislike of the “Two Characters Fight Because They Like Each Other”. So Monster and Judy meet and immediately don’t like each other. Our expectation is that they’ll eventually get over that and perhaps even fall in love. And (spoiler alert) they never do.
I love that about the novel.
Monster is NOT a love story. From page one, it’s clear that Monster and Judy don’t get along at all, and as the story progresses, it becomes more clear that they never will. It’s only our conditioning that expects them to, and that’s just ignoring the truth: Monster and Judy can barely stand one another. This isn’t cutesy “Will they/Won’t they”. This is “They won’t” and “They never will” and “They never should”.
The novel still shares the common theme of cooperation and friendship. Even Monster isn’t friendless. Chester the paper gnome might be an employee, but he cares about Monster. And Monster, despite his shortcomings, does help Judy when he sees what’s at stake. He’s not eager to do so. He isn’t the guy willing to stick his neck out. But when he has no choice, he’ll rise to the occasion, and by the end, Monster and Judy, while not strictly friends, at least respect each other.
Yet Monster isn’t due for a happy ending. By story’s end, he’s still the same guy on the same path, and that destination is of a sad, lonely man who saved the universe once but is unlikely to save himself. That’s what separates him from Judy and from every other A. Lee Martinez protagonist. Even Vom the Hungering, who might very well eat the universe at some point, is trying to be a better person. But Monster doesn’t aspire. It’s why Judy is on her way to a brighter future while Monster carries on like he did before.
It’s not exactly a tragedy, but it kind of sucks for the poor guy. But sometimes, even a writer can’t save his creations from themselves.
Keelah Se’lai
Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,
LEE
June 21, 2016
Martinez on Too Many Curses
With The Last Adventure of Constance Verity due out in two weeks, I’ve been revisiting my backlist. Today, it’s Too Many Curses. I’ve written in the past about how Curses remains perhaps my most underrated novel by my own estimation, and when thinking about what I wanted to say about it, I realized I’d already said it. So here’s a repost of an older post that muses on Too Many Curses and why I love it:
I love Too Many Curses, my fifth novel. It is, however, probably my most obscure and least loved. There are a few reasons for this, but most practically, it was my last novel with Tor Publishing, which meant it didn’t get a lot of love from the publisher. They did eventually release it in mass market and on Audible.com, for which I am grateful. But it was my last book with the publisher, and I can’t blame them for not being terribly excited by it.
Beyond that, I think it’s just a tough book for a lot of people to get because it is so gosh-darned optimistic. Granted, I’m not renowned as a dark or negative writer, but Too Many Curses is deliberately a very positive book about a bunch of characters in way over their head and how through perseverance and pluck, they manage to save the day. It is a tale of genuine heroism through sheer determination and practicality, a theme that runs throughout the story. In a world that equates cynicism with sophistication, that’s always going to be a bit of a tricky sale.
At the heart of the novel is Nessy, as unassuming a protagonist as you can get. She’s small, inconsequential, with no great powers and a reserved stoicism. She has no greater dreams than to tend her castle. She takes pride in her job, and she believes in doing things right. She could easily be a doormat, and at first glance, one might even assume that she is. Many of the characters do, including Margle, her master.
We’re so trained to see heroes as awesome people or people who become awesome that Nessy is an intentional subversion of that. Nessy is awesome, and by the book, she’s become more awesome. But it is a reserved, quiet form of competence. She doesn’t have a magic sword. She doesn’t defeat the forces of evil with a smirk and a quip. By the end of the book, she has grown into a more capable, more confident person, but she hasn’t changed how she acts or views the world.
Nessy is defined by her own unshakable confidence in herself, and her belief that those around her are not her enemies. She lives in a castle full of curses, and she tries to do right by everyone and expects them to do right by her. This sort of optimism isn’t grounded in naivety, but in a belief that the world is a better place to believe in the good in people rather than assume the worst. With almost no exception, she greets every challenge with a dogged (pun intended) determination to rise to the situation as best she can, and by doing so, brings about the best in everyone around her.
The ultimate theme of Too Many Curses is that of family and the power of optimism. The world can be better if we strive to be better, and even a little kobold housekeeper can save the day (with some help of course) if she doesn’t give in to cynicism. It’s an idea that is difficult for people to accept, and reality isn’t always like that. But the job of fiction isn’t to tell us that the world sucks. It shouldn’t always be its job anyway. And in my worst moments, I sometimes think of Nessy and try to be more like her.
(And, yes, I know I created her, but it doesn’t mean she hasn’t grown into something bigger in my mind. She feels like a person, and one I would love to know.)
The entire point of Nessy is that we’re so often told that heroes are larger than life figures, who swoop in and save the day, often with their wits or martial prowess, that it’s easy to forget that most problems in real life don’t require us to be superheroes. I’m all for escapism, and I love a good action hero as much as the next fellow. But Nessy is something else, and I think she’s fairly unique in terms of fantasy literature, where often being able to summon dragons or slay sorcerers is the defining aspect of our heroes.
Nessy doesn’t slay. She doesn’t plot. She doesn’t scheme.
She works. She believes in others. She refuses to back down simply because something is difficult, and she places compassion and honesty as virtues. She’s never preachy about it. She doesn’t demand respect, but damn it, if you don’t respect her by the end of that book, I just don’t know how that’s possible.
I have a feeling that Too Many Curses will always be the obscure work in my catalog, and I’m fine with that. It’s a shame, but the book itself is one I’m immensely proud of. And I love Nessy more every year.
And you should too.
Keelah Se’lai
Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,
LEE
June 17, 2016
Martinez on The Automatic Detective
Hey there, Action Force. Let’s talk about The Automatic Detective today.
My fourth novel, Detective is the story of indestructible robot Mack Megaton and his exploration into the dark underbelly of Empire City. I label it retro-sci fi crime noir, and while I’m certainly not the first to set a story in a retro futuristic city or combine robots and crime fiction, I’d like to think I did something unique in Detective.
The thing that always bugs me about robot stories is that robots tend to either want to destroy all humanity or want to be human. It’s an egocentric way at looking at the universe, but since most stories are written by humans, I’ll overlook it. Mack, however, doesn’t want either. He just wants to function from day to day. He has nothing against people, but he’s a seven foot tall, superstrong robot, and he’s pretty happy with that.
Some people think the theme of Detective is a standard Robot Learns to be More Human trope, but Mack’s story is less about becoming human and more about finding your place in the world. Metaphorically, he’s a warbot made to lead a robot army, but before the story begins, he’s already rejected that objective. The question then becomes what is he supposed to do with his existence?
That sort of existential dread is tricky enough for you and me, but when you’ve been designed for a specific purpose and you no longer wish to fulfill that purpose, what’s next? Mack has it even trickier than most of us since as a robot he doesn’t need to eat or drink or bath. He has to pay for his electricity use, and he has an apartment (though he really doesn’t even need that). He doesn’t need to socialize. Aside from some basic maintenance, what does he have to motivate him? That question is at the heart of Detective‘s story.
I love Mack. Straight up, I love the guy. He’s among the favorite characters I’ve ever created, and his noir-ish robotic outlook was a great deal of fun to write. A big reason I wanted to write Detective beyond wanting to write a robot story was the chance to have fun with a weird sci fi setting that really doesn’t make sense (but does by its own rules) and to write cool tough guy dialogue from the mouths of robots and mutants. Empire City is honestly probably my favorite setting of all my stories.
This is a place full of ray guns, mutants, and brainy dames. Whether it’s Sanchez, the mutant cop of the High Science Crimes Division, or Joseph Jung, evolved gorilla, or Abner Greenman, alien mob boss, or Lucia Napier, super inventor and debutante, the book brims with great characters and cool action pieces. There’s fights and adventure and intrigue and through it all, Mack strides like a hard-boiled smashing machine, which is exactly what he is.
One of the weirder things about Detective is that it technically takes place not in the future but in an alternate past. Not many people figure that out, which is fine. It’s not important, but it is a fun fact.
I also wrote Detective because I wanted to write a story where a super robot gets in a lot of fights. So Mack does. He punches his way into and out of trouble, all the while wondering why he’s bothering? Until the end, when he puts it all together. It doesn’t matter if you’re a robot or a human. It doesn’t matter what you were made to do. His value is found in helping others, in accepting their help, and in building a family of sorts around himself. In that way, he’s not much different than any A. Lee Martinez protagonist.
Mack does have a secret origin. I’ve just never shared it. I probably never will. It’s not important. Like most of my characters, Mack isn’t defined by his past but by his present and his possible future. He’s human in all the ways that matter without having to envy us. And he’s also the guy you can call on to punch a giant slime monster in the face. And that’s pretty awesome.
Keelah Se’lai
Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,
LEE
June 13, 2016
Martinez on A Nameless Witch
I continue my self-examination of my own work with A Nameless Witch. Witch is probably my most “literary” novel. It certainly gets the most mixed reactions, especially with the ending, but why did I write it in the first place?
I don’t always have a great reason for starting a story. Often, it’s just a cool idea or a random character that pops into my head that I’m interested in exploring. From there, a story springs forth. But Witch was written with a very specific theme and as a very specific rebuttal to a trope I’ve always hated: Magic that can be counted by the Power of Love.
Plenty of stories seem to believe this, which always annoys the hell out of me because love isn’t stronger than a sword or a bullet. Love doesn’t counteract gravity or allow us to teleport. Love is an emotional response, and an important one. But it isn’t enough on its own to do much of anything.
The second theme that compelled me to write Witch was the notion that love conquers all, that there is no obstacle it can’t transcend, that if you can just love enough, you can make any relationship work, you can fix anything, you can endure anything. I hate to be the realist in the room, but while it’s a nice philosophy, it’s probably an impossible expectation.
With this in mind, I set out to write a novel exploring love, its strengths, and its limitations. Yes, Witch is a love story. It was always intended to be one right from the start. It’s also the first novel I wrote with a female first person narrative. The Witch of the story isn’t a typical woman, but it was still a concern when I started writing the story. It’s also the first (published) novel I’d written in first person. While I’m of the opinion that first person vs. third person is mostly a convention of storytelling and not much different in terms of actual storytelling results, I know some people disagree.
So with Witch, I set out to write a female narrated love story that dissects the notion that love can overcome anything. Is it my most complex novel? I don’t know. My novels tend not to be that complex, but its themes are perhaps more unconventional than my other novels. The result is a book that has received dozens of interpretations, and I’m okay with that.
Witch also won the Amelia Bloomer Award, an award given to noteworthy feminist fiction enjoyable by young adults by the American Library Association, which remains one of my greatest accomplishments as an artist.
On the surface, A Nameless Witch is another fantasy story about friends and family and the struggles we all bear to find meaning in our lives. It doesn’t start out as a love story, but eventually transforms into one. There’s still plenty of magic and adventure to be found, but even the Witch remarks that the adventure isn’t ultimately the point of it. (Though it’s some fun and cool stuff that I enjoyed writing.)
The cast features one of my favorite characters ever: Penelope the broom, who can move and not much else but manages to be one of the greatest characters I’ve ever created. (If you feel like more Penelope, check out my Robots vs. Slime Monsters short story collection, where she becomes the star of the show.)
A close second is Newt the demon duck, who simultaneously embodies all the childish and self-centered aspects of human nature while somehow being a guy I can’t help like.
The center of the story is the Witch and the White Knight, who struggle against strange emotions and growing closeness that could destroy them both. They simply can’t be together by virtue of who they are, and in a world where we expect star-crossed lovers to somehow make it work, we’re faced with two characters who don’t have any real chance together.
It’s difficult to talk about the novel without giving too much away, but I’ll just say that the ending of the book continues to divide the Action Force. Is it happy? Is it sad? Is it confusing? I’ve never thought so. I’ve always been firmly on the “Happy” ending side of that spectrum. It might not be the happy we’ve come to expect, but does that mean it’s “Sad”?
Maybe I’ll let the Witch herself have the last word:
“Because life is complicated and difficult. Anyone who says otherwise hasn’t truly lived.”
P.S. Don’t ask me what the Witch’s name is. I don’t know either.
Keelah Se’lai
Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,
LEE
June 10, 2016
Martinez on In the Company of Ogres
With only a few weeks until The Last Adventure of Constance Verity I’ve been looking back at my previous novels and discussing what I like about them. Is it a bit self-indulgent? Perhaps, but they say nothing sells your frontlist like your backlist, so I’m selling my frontlist. Today, we’ll explore In the Company of Ogres, my second novel. If you’ve read it already, maybe you’ll enjoy my insights. If you haven’t, maybe this will convince you to give it a shot.
In the Company of Ogres is probably my novel that most often gets compared to Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels. Both take place in a relatively traditional fantasy world with ogres and knights and magic. Both play with ideas and cliches of that genre. Both have humor. I’d say the biggest difference is that much of what Pratchett went on to write with the Discworld series was satire of our own society and culture, whereas Ogres sticks mostly to exploring fantasy tropes.
The word “satire” gets thrown around a lot. Along with “parody” and “farce”, and while for many people, the terms are seen as interchangeable, they aren’t meant to be. Satire is meant to deconstruct and dissect some issue of the real world through exaggeration. To be blunt, there’s really not much satire in Ogres. While its world and characters have elements in common with our own, they aren’t meant to be fantasy versions of real world problems. This isn’t a novel version of that Star Trek episode where there’s the black-and-white guys who are a metaphor for racism. Ogres is a fantasy novel about fantastic problems and how to deal with them.
As happens in most of my work, it’s sometimes mistaken for a parody, but that assumes I’m making fun of fantasy. I love fantasy. No story I’ve ever written has been intended to skewer fantasy in any major way. Yes, this is a point that will come up again and again as I talk about my work, and I’ll keep it short. Ogres isn’t out to make fantasy seem silly. Ogres is a fantasy with humor in it.
The convention that gets most tweaked in Ogres as the central theme is the idea of destiny. Or Destiny (with a capital D). I’ve never been fond of the trope that someone is destined for greatness, but this was the first book where I explored that particular crutch. Our hero, Never Dead Ned, is the typical unassuming loser who gets thrust unwillingly into a dangerous situation. He’s supposed to rise to the occasion, become a great leader, and perhaps show the world it was wrong to underestimate him.
As it turns out, the world was wrong, but it’s not Ned’s destiny to become the greatest hero in the world. Or even the greatest villain. Ned’s destiny is to be Ned.
Though it’s been nearly a decades since Ogres was originally published, I’m not sure how I feel about spoilers at this point. To play it safe, I’ll say that Ned has what I consider an anti-destiny. He isn’t meant to be amazing. He’s meant to be as uninteresting as possible. Yet even this ultimately ends up being a choice Ned has to make for himself. There are larger forces at work, directing him, but in the end, it’s Ned’s own decisions that decide his fate.
This theme is pretty essential to Constance Verity too, who wrestles with having adventure after adventure thrust upon her by forces beyond her ken. Yet it isn’t those forces that are solely responsible for who she is. Just like Ned, the things she can’t control don’t always have to define her.
Besides the themes of friendship and community that pop up in all my stories, the theme of what we do and don’t control and how we figure out hot to manage the unmanageable while holding onto ourselves is something that pops up often. Often, I don’t even plan it. It just sort of happens. Never Dead Ned might embody that question better than any character I’ve ever created.
But Ogres is more than Ned. It has a great cast and one of the largest I ever wrestled with. It was my chance to use all those fantasy monsters I love so much, and also, a chance to tweak them. Frank the very large ogre, Regina the Amazon, Miriam the siren, Gabel the orc, and a host of others show up and both play to and against expectations.
I’ll admit my favorite characters though are the goblins. Their reckless lust for life and devil-may-care attitude made them a hell of a lot of fun to write. Ace the roc pilot stays among my favorite characters, a strange mix of WW1 flying daredevil and dragon rider. The idea of this thirty pound goblin in charge of a ten ton monster always brings a smile to my face.
Ogres is probably “sillier” than Gil’s in a lot of small ways, but then again, maybe not. Both have their weird absurdities, and both accept those absurdities without feeling a need to justify it. It’s just the world these characters live in, and if you need a long-winded explanation for why, you’re probably going to be disappointed. I’ve always been less interested in worldbuilding than in characters and their struggles. It’s not that I don’t want the world to be consistent and appealing, but my focus will always be aimed at the characters rather than the place they happen to be standing.
There are no maps of Copper Citadel where Ogre Company dwells. There are no in-depth notes on orc culture or the breeding cycle of ogres. If you’re looking for a nuanced understanding of military tactics or chain of command, look elsewhere. This story is all about Ned and the strange cast around him because that’s what I think most stories should be about. I could be wrong, but as a friend of mine once remarked, “Tell me who this story is about and why I should give a damn.”
In the Company of Ogres is about Never Dead Ned and his struggle to make sense of an eternal life that seems to be going nowhere. It’s about love, hate, rivalries, and giant green birds that want to eat you. It’s about our desire for power and what we’re willing (and unwilling) to do to get it. It’s about a lot of things, but mostly it’s about doing the best you can in a weird world.
And that’s something we all have to deal with.
Keelah Se’lai
Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,
LEE
June 7, 2016
On Gil’s All Fright Diner
Greetings Action Force,
With less than a month until The Last Adventure of Constance Verity hits the streets, I’ve found myself in that strange position every lower mid-list writer ends up at. I have absolutely no idea if anyone is excited for this book or if anyone’s even aware of its existence. It could very well come out and make a splash or disappear with nary a ripple in the public consciousness. Something every writer learns at some point is that most of this is genuinely out of our control. For all the helpful tips about how to market and raise awareness, the internet is still a crapshoot and what works or doesn’t work is mostly a matter of chance. I’m sure you can find someone to disagree, but by my estimation, those are the lucky ones who managed to get noticed and assume it was because they did something right. They might even have, but it doesn’t mean that luck isn’t a huge factor.
I can’t control whether the universe notices or cares about what I write, but I can at least talk about my own feelings on it. And maybe the best way to convince someone Constance Verity is worth buying is to talk about what I’ve written before. Odds are good if you’re here, you’ve probably read one or two of my previous offerings.
Let’s talk about Gil’s All Fright Diner.
My first published novel, Gil’s is still probably what I’m best known for. It’s a quirky buddy comedy rural horror homage adventure, and I was fortunate enough that it was well-received both critically and commercially. Has it really been ten years since its publication? Where does the time go?
Gil’s created the expectations for who I was as a writer, and I still occasionally struggle against those expectations. Because there’s some crude language in the book (mostly from Earl the vampire), some people still think of me as a crude writer, even though most of my novels don’t feature much swearing. And because it has strong comedic elements, I’m forever stuck in the “Fantasy Comedy” category for a lot of folks. And, yes, I write some funny stuff, and every novel I’ve ever written has a lot of humor in it, but I’ve never intended to be a funny writer, which is often surprising, even to those who call themselves my fans.
Gil’s set the template for much of what I do in other ways as well. It’s a genre novel that subverts and tweaks conventions. Many people seem to think of these tweaks as elements of parody or farce. This isn’t true from a technical perspective, nor has it ever been my intent. I love the fantasy genre. I’m not trying to deconstruct or diminish it. I’m simply trying to do something a little different without tearing the whole thing to the ground.
I am not too cool for fantasy. I know that a lot of writers in the genre like to make a big deal about how they’re writing “realistic” fantasy worlds, which often translates into stories where the fantasy elements are deliberately underplayed or pushed to the wayside. But I love the fantastic elements of fantasy. I’m unapologetic in my delight for giant robots, monsters, and rayguns. And Gil’s shows that in full.
The novel is brimming with fantastic elements. Its protagonists are monsters (though not monstrous). Its setting is a small town full of the supernatural, where everyone has become so used to the unnatural that they’ve come to accept it in stride. That typical brand of nonchalance that pops up in my novels tends to convince people that I’m not taking it seriously. But I do take it seriously, and I do care a heck of a lot about the stories, the characters, and the worlds that I create. They aren’t just punchlines.
One of the reasons I rarely consider my stories “funny” is that while the humor adds a lot to the story and is a recognizable part of my style, all the stories could be written in more “straight” form and still work as stories. They might not be as delightful or engaging, but the framework of fantasy adventure still would function.
The problem is how to describe Gil’s (or much of anything I’ve written) without making it sound like silly comedy. I don’t always succeed at this myself. If you tell someone that this is the story of a vampire and a werewolf in the Southwest who find a town crawling with ghosts and magic who team up with a graveyard spirit, a ghost dog, a diner owner, and a sheriff to stop a teenage girl from destroying the world, they’re bound to think it’s a silly story.
Let’s not even bring up the zombie cows.
In the end though, Gil’s also set the common theme of everything I’ve ever written. It’s about two friends who fight and don’t always get along, who struggle with the expectations of being monsters. Duke and Earl struggle to maintain a friendship but it’s something that keeps them going. Loretta is running a diner in the middle of nowhere who struggles nightly against the forces of darkness through sheer stubbornness. Sheriff Marshall Kopp is the thin line between evil and his town who never makes a big deal about it. And everyone in Rockwood deals with life as best they can.
The most defining element to Gil’s will always be the romance between Earl the vampire and Cathy the ghost. It was an unexpected surprise even for me, and yet Earl overcoming his dislike of ghosts and Cathy’s stubborn resolve in the face of oblivion are essential to the story. I’ve loved their relationship for years, and it’s one of the best things I’ve ever written. Individually, Earl and Cathy and Duke could never save the world. Together, they can.
And that theme of togetherness, of working together, runs through every novel I’ve ever written.
Gil’s has its flaws. I’ve talked before about the reception of Loretta, and the cheap fat jokes thrown her way. It doesn’t always work, and it can even come across as insulting at times. It’s perhaps the jokiest part of the novel and often the least interesting. Loretta is a great character, and I love her. But the way the narration occasionally treats her doesn’t make me happy these days. Nobody’s perfect, and I don’t seek to expunge those problems or act like they aren’t there. I’ll gladly take the criticism, and I’ll acknowledge the missteps. Since then, I think I’ve avoided such simplistic and easy targets, and I’d like to think Loretta comes out better than worse. Still, it’s something that’s come to bother me about the story. But Loretta is more than a joke. She’s no pushover. She’s rough around the edges, but she’s hard as nails. She’s a woman with a lot to admire about her, even when the narration makes an easy target of her.
Is Gil’s the definitive A. Lee Martinez novel? I hope not. Not because I don’t like it but because I don’t like the idea of there even being a definitive A. Lee Martinez novel. I am not looking for a single magnum opus. I’m looking to create a body of work I can feel proud of, and I think, despite some flaws, Gil’s is a great book to start my publishing career with.
Keelah Se’lai
Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,
LEE
