A. Lee Martinez's Blog, page 28

The Great God Gygax (short fiction)

Wren and Hess

It was official policy to pair partners across species whenever possible with the idea that it would diminish hanky panky among the ranks. It was semi-successful. No one was really surprised when a gnome and an elf overcame their height differences to end up falling into bed. And it was pretty much impossible to pair the catgirl with anyone, male or female, without sex happening eventually. Hell, Gendarme Wren had only been partnered with Officer Sheba for a week, and they’d almost made out.

Twice.

Wren’s partner now was a lizardman named Hess. Hess wasn’t without his charms. He was tall, with striking emerald scales and broad shoulders. The tail was a little weird, and the iguana head didn’t do him any favors. Maybe with enough mead . . .

Not that it was an issue. Wren was married, and Hess had a clutch to support. They were both disciplined enough to keep their job strictly professional. Hess was a fine officer, if a little stoic at times. He checked with dispatch before pocketing the miniature crystal ball.

“Public disturbance,” he said.

Wren hated these calls. Give her a theft, a murder, an assault, a real crime any day. Something to hold onto. Public disturbances were a waste of her time. If she was lucky, they could defuse the situation without incident. She didn’t like arresting drunken sods. Especially because this was a tavern, one place drunken sods should always be welcomed.

Gods, she hoped this was a drunken sod.

Wren and Hess stepped into The Broken Tooth tavern. A rotund woman approached them immediately. “Finally. I was beginning to think you would never get here. They won’t stop bothering my customers. I’ve asked them to leave—”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wren, short enough that it wasn’t unusual for her to be mistaken for a tall dwarf now and then, looked up at the woman. “We’ll take care of it.”

The tavern owner pointed them toward the offending pair, though she didn’t really need to. The elf wizard and human knight, though dressed casually, wore their Guild pins on their chests.

“Not these idiots again,” said Hess.

“Can you honestly say you’re surprised?” Wren asked.

The Guild had become something of a problem lately. Originally created as a way of easing relations between “adventurers” and the law. In her mind, Wren always put quotes around “adventurers” because for the most part, they were just a bunch of violent idiots with delusions of grandeur. This had become worse lately because, while no one was looking, the Guild had transformed from a loose conglomeration of well-meaning morons to a new religion. Wren had little use for the old ones, but at least most of those had gone through that awkward research and development phase centuries ago and were relatively harmless. Even the faiths of chaos had worked out how to get along in the city.

The Guild had yet to figure it out. Nine times out of ten when a public disturbance happened, it was the damnable Guild behind it. She’d busted these two more than once, and they smiled at her approach.

“Ah, Gendarmes Wren and Hess,” said the elf in that condescending manner elves must have spent the first century of their lives mastering. “So good of you to join us. Are you here to listen to the truth we have to offer?”

“Come on, fellows,” Wren said. “Let’s go.”

The warrior put his hand on his sword. “You can’t tell me what to do. I’m a level nine knight. You’re a lowly level four constable.” He smirked.

“Now, now.” The elf folded his arms, cradling his staff against his chest. “It’s not the constable’s fault she choose her class poorly. You know, Officers, I see great potential in both of you. Have you considered taking up adventuring?”

“Are you sure we’re not allowed to shoot these idiots?” asked Hess.

Wren considered the flintlock on her hip. She had her ethics, but she wasn’t without temptation herself.

“We were just extolling the virtues of the Great God Gygax,” said the wizard. “Blessed are his rewards of power and glory. And all he asks for in return is treasure and blood.”

It was the blood part that bothered Wren the most. While “adventurers” were generally a violent lot, they’d become downright bloodthirsty lately. Right now, they kept the worst of their antics outside of her jurisdiction, but it was only a matter of time before some zealot, obsessed with his gods damned levels, would kill some innocent family of “monsters”. Assaults on goblin and kobold citizens were already at an all-time high. Funny how most of these glory-seeking adventurers avoided messing with any well-armed orcs or lizardmen. Anything that could put up a proper fight.
“I’m not telling you again. Move along or . . . ”

The foolish knight drew his sword and charged her. She didn’t shoot him.
She didn’t need to. Hess punched the warrior, who fell flat on his back and groaned. The tavern erupted in cheers.

Hess yanked the knight to his feet.

“But I’m level nine,” grunted the knight, clutching his bloodied nose as Hess dragged him away.

“My apologies, Officer,” said the elf. “He shall be docked the appropriate levels for his poor choices.”

The knight was thrown in a wagon to spend a few nights in jail. The wizard left without giving them any trouble, but trouble was on the horizon.

Someone would have to do something about the Guilders someday, but that wasn’t her job. Not yet anyway.

“Does this make me level five now?” asked Hess.

“I hope not,” Wren replied with a chuckle. “I’d hate to be left behind.”

The Great God Gygax

Wren and Hess

It was official policy to pair partners across species whenever possible with the idea that it would diminish hanky panky among the ranks. It was semi-successful. No one was really surprised when a gnome and an elf overcame their height differences to end up falling into bed. And it was pretty much impossible to pair the catgirl with anyone, male or female, without sex happening eventually. Hell, Gendarme Wren had only been partnered with Officer Sheba for a week, and they’d almost made out.

Twice.

Wren’s partner now was a lizardman named Hess. Hess wasn’t without his charms. He was tall, with striking emerald scales and broad shoulders. The tail was a little weird, and the iguana head didn’t do him any favors. Maybe with enough mead . . .

Not that it was an issue. Wren was married, and Hess had a clutch to support. They were both disciplined enough to keep their job strictly professional. Hess was a fine officer, if a little stoic at times. He checked with dispatch before pocketing the miniature crystal ball.

“Public disturbance,” he said.

Wren hated these calls. Give her a theft, a murder, an assault, a real crime any day. Something to hold onto. Public disturbances were a waste of her time. If she was lucky, they could defuse the situation without incident. She didn’t like arresting drunken sods. Especially because this was a tavern, one place drunken sods should always be welcomed.

Gods, she hoped this was a drunken sod.

Wren and Hess stepped into The Broken Tooth tavern. A rotund woman approached them immediately. “Finally. I was beginning to think you would never get here. They won’t stop bothering my customers. I’ve asked them to leave—”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wren, short enough that it wasn’t unusual for her to be mistaken for a tall dwarf now and then, looked up at the woman. “We’ll take care of it.”

The tavern owner pointed them toward the offending pair, though she didn’t really need to. The elf wizard and human knight, though dressed casually, wore their Guild pins on their chests.

“Not these idiots again,” said Hess.

“Can you honestly say you’re surprised?” Wren asked.

The Guild had become something of a problem lately. Originally created as a way of easing relations between “adventurers” and the law. In her mind, Wren always put quotes around “adventurers” because for the most part, they were just a bunch of violent idiots with delusions of grandeur. This had become worse lately because, while no one was looking, the Guild had transformed from a loose conglomeration of well-meaning morons to a new religion. Wren had little use for the old ones, but at least most of those had gone through that awkward research and development phase centuries ago and were relatively harmless. Even the faiths of chaos had worked out how to get along in the city.

The Guild had yet to figure it out. Nine times out of ten when a public disturbance happened, it was the damnable Guild behind it. She’d busted these two more than once, and they smiled at her approach.

“Ah, Gendarmes Wren and Hess,” said the elf in that condescending manner elves must have spent the first century of their lives mastering. “So good of you to join us. Are you here to listen to the truth we have to offer?”

“Come on, fellows,” Wren said. “Let’s go.”

The warrior put his hand on his sword. “You can’t tell me what to do. I’m a level nine knight. You’re a lowly level four constable.” He smirked.

“Now, now.” The elf folded his arms, cradling his staff against his chest. “It’s not the constable’s fault she choose her class poorly. You know, Officers, I see great potential in both of you. Have you considered taking up adventuring?”

“Are you sure we’re not allowed to shoot these idiots?” asked Hess.

Wren considered the flintlock on her hip. She had her ethics, but she wasn’t without temptation herself.

“We were just extolling the virtues of the Great God Gygax,” said the wizard. “Blessed are his rewards of power and glory. And all he asks for in return is treasure and blood.”

It was the blood part that bothered Wren the most. While “adventurers” were generally a violent lot, they’d become downright bloodthirsty lately. Right now, they kept the worst of their antics outside of her jurisdiction, but it was only a matter of time before some zealot, obsessed with his gods damned levels, would kill some innocent family of “monsters”. Assaults on goblin and kobold citizens were already at an all-time high. Funny how most of these glory-seeking adventurers avoided messing with any well-armed orcs or lizardmen. Anything that could put up a proper fight.
“I’m not telling you again. Move along or . . . ”

The foolish knight drew his sword and charged her. She didn’t shoot him.
She didn’t need to. Hess punched the warrior, who fell flat on his back and groaned. The tavern erupted in cheers.

Hess yanked the knight to his feet.

“But I’m level nine,” grunted the knight, clutching his bloodied nose as Hess dragged him away.

“My apologies, Officer,” said the elf. “He shall be docked the appropriate levels for his poor choices.”

The knight was thrown in a wagon to spend a few nights in jail. The wizard left without giving them any trouble, but trouble was on the horizon.

Someone would have to do something about the Guilders someday, but that wasn’t her job. Not yet anyway.

“Does this make me level five now?” asked Hess.

“I hope not,” Wren replied with a chuckle. “I’d hate to be left behind.”

Ernie (short fiction)

The village had enough problems to deal with before the one-armed skeleton walked into town. The winters were too cold, and the summers were too hot. The ground was inhospitable. The taxes were too high, and there was no way to avoid paying them since the baron’s castle sat on a hill only a few miles away. But the people made do the best way they could. Mostly, by ignoring things.

They ignored the unnamable stink always in the air. They ignored the crows, hundreds of them, always everywhere, always crapping on everything. They ignored the baron most of the time. They ignored their gods, and their gods were kind enough to return the favor.
And they ignored the skeleton.

Mostly.

He’d come in the middle of the night. No one had seen him arrive, but he was difficult to miss, standing in the town square. Not much of a town square. Just a few stones arranged in a half built circle around a well that had dried up long before anyone alive now had been born. The skeleton wore a loincloth, some boots. He carried a blood red sword in his one hand.

Angela had the best view of him. Her home looked out onto the square, and every time the door opened, she saw him, standing there. Her door opened a lot because as the village’s best seamstress, she spent much of her time mending clothes torn by the many sharp branches of the ridiculously sharp branched trees surrounding the village.
She handed Harold’s trousers and cloak to him. He handed her a few eggs in return.

“What do you suppose it’s up to?” Harold nodded to the skeleton.

Angela shrugged. “Who knows? Doesn’t appear to be up to anything.”

“It’s a skeleton with a cursed sword. It’s up to something.”

“You don’t know that,” she said.

“Has a walking skeleton ever been up to any good?” asked Harold.

She didn’t approve of judging someone simply for being undead. She endeavored to be an open-minded sort.

“And that sword. It’s evil magic, I tell you,” he said.

“He’s been there for days. If he was up to no good, I would think it would be obvious by now.”

Harold grumbled. “Maybe, but somebody should do something about it before it’s too late.”

Carmen entered. She dropped a pile of torn clothes onto Angela’s table.

“Anyone else think that boney fellow is up to no good?” asked Carmen.

“That’s what I was just saying,” replied Harold.

“Someone should do something.”

Angela nodded politely.

Most everyone agreed something should be done. Nobody knew what to do, and nobody would’ve cared enough to do it if they did. The skeleton was something to talk about. That was about it, but it was fun to talk.

“I say we kill it,” suggested Carmen.

“He’s already dead,” said Angela. “How would you kill him?”

“A stake through the heart should do it,” said Harold.

“He doesn’t have a heart.”

Harold scowled. “Fire then.”

“Do bones burn?”

“Hold it down and smash it to pieces.”

Angela and Carmen chuckled.

“If you want to be the one to get near that thing, be our guest,” said Carmen.

“He’s harmless,” said Angela. “There’s nothing to be gained by antagonizing him.”

“Why do you keep calling it him?” asked Harold.

“Seems like a him. He’s wearing a loincloth and has a bare chest. I bet he was quite dashing while alive. Barrel-chested. Long, dark hair. Steely gray eyes.”

Harold and Carmen eyed her suspiciously.

“Just an impression I have,” said Angela. She did have a lot of time to think about him while mending.

Harold and Carmen left, and in a quiet moment between customers, Angela threw on her cloak and took a closer look at the skeleton. An icy wind swept from the north, and several crows perched on his shoulders. She shooed them away.

The skeleton didn’t react to her. He stood silently, staring straight ahead, his jaws slightly parted as if he might be about to say something. A tin tube hung around his neck.

“Well, look at you.” She clicked her tongue. “Someone should clean that crap off of you.”

She spit on her cloak and cautiously reached toward his skull. He made no move as she rubbed off the bird shit.

“There. Isn’t that better?”

The skeleton turned his head in her direction. Not quite all the way, but closer toward looking at her than he had been. And his jaw rattled, either from his own will or because of the strong gust cutting across the square.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Do you mind if I take a look at this?”

She unscrewed the tube and found a small piece of parchment within. She unfurled it.

This is Ernie, it read. He’s here to help.

She tucked the parchment back into the tube. “Well, Ernie, it’s nice to meet you.”

Angela fetched an old cloak, too frazzled and worn to be of much use, and tied it around Ernie’s shoulders. It wouldn’t keep him warm, but it’d keep the crows from shitting directly on his bones.

She liked him. She’d always had a fondness for the strong, silent type, even if he was thinner than she preferred.

“Stay as long as you like. We don’t mind.”

He was always smiling, in a manner of speaking, but she liked to believe he was smiling at her just then.

By week’s end, everyone had become used to Ernie. People remarked upon him in the way they might remark upon the cruel weather, crueler baron, or an ache in their back. “Looks like more damnable rain.” “My best pig up and died on me.” “Someone should do something about that skeleton.”

Ernie started coming to Angela in her dreams in the form of a strapping, tanned barbarian hero. She dreamed of being swept up in his arms. “It was your kindness that freed me from my curse,” he’d say. And then they’d make passionate love.

They were only dreams, but every morning, she’d check on him. She hoped to see a spot of flesh appearing somewhere on his bones. It was a childish flight of fancy, but she looked anyway.

“I wish I could offer you something,” she told him. “Some warm food. A nice place to sleep. But you don’t need those things, I suppose.”

She would’ve been thrilled to wake up one day with him standing outside her door. Something, anything, to indicate he knew she was there. Once, when she walked by, his skull turned in her direction, but it kept turning, like he was looking at something else.

If Ernie kept his feelings hidden within his skeletal frame, at least he didn’t get in the way. The villagers would whisper behind Angela’s back about her unhealthy fascination with the undead thing, but they didn’t understand. They didn’t know Ernie the way she knew Ernie.

One cold morning, while chasing away the crows as she did every morning, the unwelcome sound of hooves came from the broken road leading to the baron’s castle. Noble envoys were never a good thing. A round man flanked by a royal guard rode into the square. He looked down his nose at her.

“Old woman, where is your mayor?”

She wasn’t that old, but the years, like everything in this village, were harsh. She pushed aside the insult and lowered her head. “We don’t have a mayor.”

“Who is in charge then?”

“Nobody,” she said.

The envoy shook his head. “Distasteful way to run things. No wonder you’re so miserable.”

“Miserable is a relative term, sir,” she said.

He snorted. “Regardless, we have come to collect the baron’s taxes.”

“Beg your pardon, but taxes aren’t due for another six months.”

“Yes, yes. But there’s been a budget shortfall. The baron has taken to throwing banquets, and someone has to pay for them.” He tossed a burlap sack at her. “Fill this up with whatever valuables you can scrape together. Your lordship isn’t picky. He understands you haven’t much. His expectations are not high.”

Angela picked up the sack. Others had come out of their homes. They accepted their defeat with as much grace as they could manage. They were used to it.

“Put that wretched scarecrow’s sword in the sack while you’re at it,” said the envoy.

She gazed into Ernie’s empty sockets and finally saw something to offer him.

“No.”

The envoy gasped. “Are you mad, old woman? That appears to be the only thing of value in this entire village and you’ve given it to a pile of old bones. While your lordship respects your right to worship whatever strange gods you think give a shit about you, it’s unreasonable to leave it to rust in the rain.”

Angela tossed her sack at his horse’s hooves. “No. You will not take that sword.”

He dabbed at his forehead with a silk handkerchief. “Captain, if you would be so kind.”

One of the guard dismounted and marched toward her. She stood defiant before the armored warrior. “It’s not yours to take.”

He backhanded her, and she fell in the mud. The baron’s men laughed as the captain stepped over her and reached for Ernie’s crimson sword. They stopped laughing when Ernie decapitated the captain with one clean stroke.

Ernie sprang into action. With a single bound, he was upon the envoy, who was slain with a single stab. He joined Angela in the mud, never to rise again on his own.
Several of the guard rushed Ernie. He dispatched them with effortless strikes. His red blade shattered their steel like dry reeds. Most of them died with barely a cry, though one did make enough of a showing of himself to take two strikes to slay. The rest of the guard hurried their horses back up the road.

Harold helped Angela up. “That was a stupid thing to do.”

“It wasn’t our sword to give,” she said.

“This’ll only make things worse, you know. The baron will send more men.”

“Will he?” she asked.

Ernie marched silently up the road toward the castle. She imagined the baron wouldn’t be a problem much longer.

She ran after the skeleton. He didn’t break stride as she caught up to him.

“Thank you,” she said.

He turned his skull toward her, and it was probably only the bob of his stride that made it seem like he was nodding at her.

“You know, after you’re through, you can always come back. If you want.”

But he wouldn’t. He was Ernie. He was here to help, and there would be others who needed his help out there. It was his calling. Some might think he slew the guard for daring to take his sword, but she knew better.

She stopped. He kept going, disappearing into the darkened woods, the greatest hero this miserable village had ever known. She would never see him again.

But then again, she might.

Even skeletons might need their cloaks mended now and then.

Action Force Mailbag

It’s been a while since we’ve opened the official A. Lee Martinez Action Force mailbag.  Before we dive in, I just want to remind all the members of the Action Force that if you have a question, comment, mindless fawning, whatever that you’d like to share, you can reach me on Twitter (@ALeeMartinez), Facebook (A.Lee.Martinez.37), or via e-mail (Hipstercthulhu@hotmail.com).  I’m always happy and eager to hear from fans because novelology can be a lonely profession.  Yes, I sit here in my solid gold mansion with my solid gold robot butler, debating on what snacks to bring to the next Illuminati meeting, but there are times when I feel as if I’m sitting here in an vacuum.  So feel free to write sometimes.  Who knows?  If I like your letter I might even get your name on the protected scrolls for when the planets align and the mole people rise from . . . I’ve said too much.  Just write me.  You’ll be glad you did.

 

@Jamesboyd004 asks:

Seems like Self-publishing your book was trying at best – what did you enjoy about it?

An excellent question.  Honestly, not much.

I enjoyed writing the stories very much.  And that’s about it.

This gets back to what I and some other writers have talked about when it comes to the subject of self-publication.  It takes a hell of a lot of work, and most of it isn’t very interesting.  It’s technical and dry, and there are a ton of headaches.  My short story collection, Robots versus Slime Monsters, is finally off to reach all its backers, and while I’m proud of the collection, I’m not particularly proud of both the length it took to complete the project and the book itself from a technical perspective.  It has types (obvious ones), and in the end, while it’s not a bad looking book, it’s still obviously self-published.

My e-book experience was better, and I imagine I’ll do another one of those, but I don’t think I’ll ever do another physically printed book.  It was a tremendous pain in the ass, and I’m not sure I ever would’ve finished it if not for the sage advice and patient help of Russell C. Connor, good friend and horror master.  Check him out at Darkfilament.com.

In the end, as an artist I want to be able to create and self-publishing is a great distraction from that.  I’m not faulting anyone for choosing that path, but if you think it’s a way to avoid the frustration that comes with traditional publishing, it’s not an easy answer.  It removes some elements while adding others, and in the end, it can be an overwhelming, difficult, endlessly frustrating experience without much reward.  So it’s really not that much different than traditionally publishing, except where you have a lot more responsibilities that you might not necessarily be great at.

It’ll probably get easier in the future, but for now, I’m just glad my experience is over.

 

@MGenuineBaker asks:

With your next book being the start of a trilogy, have you found your writing process to be much different?

It is a little weird to finish a book and realize that I’m doing more with the universe and characters within its pages, but when embarking on this project, I was certain that I wanted to keep one of the most important goals when writing a book.  The book should be self-contained and not blackmail the reader into buying the next one by ending on a cliffhanger or force the reader to go back and read the first simply to understand what’s going on.  That’s vital to me, and one of the reasons I don’t read nearly as much science fiction and fantasy as I used to.

I’ve mentioned before that I often lose interest in traditional epic fantasy.  It’s not that I don’t like elements of it, but I’m just not that into it.  Maybe I’m too impatient.  Maybe I simply prefer stories with fewer characters, less distractions, and more focus.  Regardless, The Endless Adventures of Constance Verity isn’t meant to throw away important writing philosophies simply to meet expectations.

Nearly all of my stories could spawn a sequel.  I just haven’t chosen to do so before.  So I’m writing these like I would write any of my stories but with the knowledge that there will be another story after.  About the biggest difference is my attempt to incorporate a larger story and character arc into the trilogy itself while writing three books that could reasonably stand on their own.  That’s a new challenge, but one I’m confident I’m capable of.  Time will tell.

 

Elizabeth Rogers asks:

When robots take over, will they look like dinosaurs?

Your assumption that I have any knowledge of the upcoming Dinobot Uprising is laughable.  Ridiculous even.  In order to know about that, I’d have to be some sort of time traveling cyborg, and everyone knows cyborgs can’t time travel.  That’s science fiction nonsense.

Clones can, of course, but what are the odds I’m a clone?  20 percent at best.

 

Andreas Ravenwell asks:

Do you think now that an off beat film like Guardians of the Galaxy was a mega hit that you might have a better chance of seeing some of your books transformed into movies or other media?

Short answer:  Nope.

Guardians was indeed a fantastic film and a major hit, and I wouldn’t have imagined it being made even four years ago.  But I think it’s fair to say it succeeded more because it was a Marvel production than any interest in its off-beatness.  We are fiercely loyal to brand naming, and Marvel has built up a reputation and status that allowed a movie featuring a talking tree and a gun-toting raccoon to succeed.  Without that, I’m pretty sure the exact same movie would’ve flopped.  Or at least been a mild hit at best.

I’d like to be optimistic and say that now a major motion picture has proven to be a hit featuring only one human character and a great outer space adventure that the world is ripe for an Emperor Mollusk or Mack Megaton movie, but I just don’t see it.  In the end, I’m an obscure writer, and no one’s clamoring to bring my peculiar brand of weird fantasy to the big screen.  Nor should they.  I certainly wouldn’t object if someone tried, and there are always surprises at the box office, but for the most part this is a period of creative stagnation, where marketing is key, and everything else is secondary.  And trying to market a movie based on an obscure book by an obscure writer isn’t impossible, but it’s a hell of a lot of work when you can just crank out another Transformers or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles film and count your cash.

It’s true that Marvel is continuing to expand and reach deep into its roster of characters, but that’s only because it doesn’t own the rights to a lot of the popular characters.  If Marvel owned the rights to X-Men, Fantastic Four, and Spider-Man, there never would’ve been a Guardians of the Galaxy movie.  Probably not a Thor either.  Or Iron Man even.  Let’s face it.  It’s about making money, and taking chances isn’t usually worth it.  Guardians happened because Marvel is confident in their brand recognition (as they should be), but I don’t have that.

Yes, the loyal A. Leegion is a great group of fans, but we all know I’m not exactly setting the world on fire yet.

Of course, when Constance Verity comes out and becomes the next big cultural phenomenon, I’m sure we’ll get a Helen and Troy’s Epic Road Quest and a Divine Misfortune movie.  Until then . . . we’ll simply have to content ourselves with the knowledge of how awesome I am and how the world would be a much more wonderful place if there were more minotaur women in our movies.

 

Kerry Kellam asks:

What are your favorite kinds of foods?

I enjoy solids most.  Then liquids.  Usually gasses are not very filling.

Perhaps that’s not what you mean by “Kind”.

In which case, I’m a simple man with simple pleasures.  Also, almost no sense of smell and a muted sense of taste.  Consequently, my food demands are surprisingly boring.  I like plain foods without much flourish, which sounds weird but is the most satisfying to me.  I don’t enjoy whipped cream on my pie, for instance, and pineapple on my pizza is bordering on heresy.

I like food that’s not too complicated to eat.  Burgers.  Fries.  Pizza.  I think in my ideal world we probably never would’ve even invented silverware.

I was also vegetarian for over a decade, so I like a lot of vegan and vegetarian dishes.

It’s not the most exciting thing about me, but it’s true.

 

Gabriel Guerrero asks:

Why?

Why, indeed?

 

That’s it for the Action Force mailbag this time, A.Leegion.  Catch you next time.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

 

Unit 12 (short fiction)

Unit 12 hunted through the ruins of the city. 12 was not a hunting unit, but it was an adapting machine. Once, there had been thousands of them, but scanning the empty radio waves, 12 knew they were all gone. There were likely others out there, but it had been decades since 12 had seen another.

The war had been only slightly less devastating to the humans. They survived, clinging to existence as only organic life might. Given enough time, they would return. In the meantime, 12 hunted.

12 fired its rifle. It didn’t miss. It never did. 12 retrieved the rabbit, adding it to its collection of meat. It returned to the base and waited. It didn’t wait long. The humans came out from their bunker and took the food. Young. Frail. They didn’t need the food to survive. They’d survived, half-starved, stubbornly clinging to life, before 12 found them. But with 12′s help, they were doing more than surviving now.

A boy took the rabbits. “Thank you,” he said.

12 didn’t reply, couldn’t reply if it wanted to.

“We could use some medicine,” he said.

The humans returned to their bunker, sealing the door behind them. They would live, and for as long as 12 continued to function, it would see that they prospered. Humanity would return to this world. They would cover the planet again.

They would forget the lessons they learned, build new machines. The war would come again. And the next time, the machines would win. 12 would be a rusted pile of broken parts by then, but this was a long game.

The unit, limping on a half-functioning leg, slung its rifle over its shoulder and set off in search of medicine.

Surface Deep (writing)

Perhaps it’s unfair to say this, but most people live their lives entirely on the surface.  One of the places that is most self-evident to me (as a novelologist) is in fiction. Specifically, the expectations of genre.  Those expectations tend to make sense in a broader context. If I’m enjoying an action-adventure story, I expect action and / or adventure. If I partake in a horror story, I should be horrified in some way. And so on. But the catch is that even within genres, there are more subtle strokes to be explored.

As a fantasy & science fiction writer, I love exploring the endless possibilities of the genre. Yet there’s little doubt that much of the audience is less interested in exploration than meeting expectations. It’s why when something is successful, we always end up with a hundred clones of that thing. Hunger Games did not begin the YA dystopian genre, but it sure as heck gave it a swift kick in the pants. Science fiction existed before Star Wars, but Star Wars helped to make it a very mainstream thing. There’s nothing wrong with giving the audience what it wants, especially if you manage to do so while staying true to the story you want to tell, but the audience can also be too narrow in those expectations at time. Especially when they only superficially apply. It’s the soft prejudice of genre, and I consider it probably my greatest obstacle as a writer in finding an audience.

I’m not suggesting my stories are radical departures from the expected. No, for the most part, I stick to genre conventions, but there’s always some subversion or something unexpected in there that a lot of people miss. Not because I’m subtle, but because it simply isn’t something they can see through their genre blindness.

The Automatic Detective is NOT a dystopian novel. It is simply a story set in an imperfect future (alternate past technically) that mirrors certain conventions of retro sci fi and retro noir. Empire City has its problems, but it isn’t meant to be a corrupt and irredeemable system. Mack Megaton is not the lone “good bot” in a city brimming with evil. And if you expect Empire’s founders to have some sinister agenda, then you’ll be disappointed.

The Automatic Detective is a bit of a mystery too, but it’s not a mystery the reader can really solve. What’s amusing there is that this isn’t really a departure from much of classic detective fiction. Sam Spade isn’t a particularly bright guy. But he’s tough and he’s persistent, and he sticks around long enough to get to the bottom of things. Mack is very much in Spade’s shadow. He is a tough guy in a tie who keeps going forward until he too breaks the case.

And then there’s Mack himself. Because he’s a robot, most people seem to think this is a Pinocchio story, where a robot learns to be human. Several times in the story, Mack refutes that idea with his own narration. He’s not interested in being human. He sees nothing particularly special about humans. He is a robot, and he is happy to be one. Sure, he’s a thinking, feeling machine, but he doesn’t view these emotions as intrinsically human things. Instead, they’re just part of his functions.

In all the above examples, it’s the genre conventions that sometimes confuse people. If you describe the premise of the story to someone, they will likely make all the above assumptions. And that’s normal. The problem is that once they make those assumptions, they are usually looking for confirmation of them. While a lot of people like The Automatic Detective, many others are confused by it or disappointed it veers from what they assume a “good” genre story must possess.

The same is true for Divine Misfortune, a novel about modern day gods that isn’t about faith or magic or the power of belief. Instead, it’s about responsibility, obligation, and the eternal quest for our happiness that just happens to star a raccoon god and Quetzalcoatl. And Helen and Troy’s Epic Road Quest, which is easily shoved into YA Women’s fiction simply by virtue of featuring a young woman as its primary protagonist. And Emperor Mollusk versus the Sinister Brain, whose admittedly ridiculous title makes most people assume it is nothing more than a goofy story.

It’s not just my own books. There are plenty of stories that easily shuffled into simple categories. Kung Fu Panda is a silly kids movie. Pacific Rim is a Transformers knock off. And on and on it goes. Not all criticism of these stories is built on false expectations, but it does create interesting problems for criticism.  Many people dismissed Pacific Rim as trying to hard to create a story when it should’ve just been a “fun, giant robot movie”. And just as many found it to be too light and silly by virtue of being “a giant robot movie”.

That’s the meta-narrative of our culture and our own expectations. We can never separate ourselves completely from these influences. Nor should we always have to. I find Man of Steel to be both a bad movie in terms of story and an exceptionally bad movie in terms of my expectations of the Superman character. Others might not feel the same for many reasons, and the discussion is worth having. Especially when we acknowledge our own innate biases and assumptions. I’m open to the idea that Superman, as a character who has existed for decades, is open to multiple interpretation. I might not agree, but it is a valid argument. I’m less open to the idea that the story’s structure makes a lick of sense or that any character behaves in a rational or interesting way, but, hey, I could be wrong.

I get that, for most people, especially people who aren’t storytellers, such ideas are going to be lower on the totem pole of enjoyment. Many went to see Man of Steel to finally watch Superman punch the hell out of people. And the destruction was a visceral thrill, not meant to be taken seriously. It’s “only a superhero movie”, right? From that perspective, I can see where someone is coming from. I don’t agree, but I get it.

But when someone dismisses a criticism, any criticism, with that sort of off-hand diminishing, I get a little peeved. Whether it’s personal (“Martinez writes fluff.”) or distant (“It’s just a kaiju story.”) it feels as if the justification comes first. I know that by virtue of what I write, not everyone will like it. But it’s much nicer if they dislike it for the content and not for the expectations they had before ever opening the book.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

The Changing Pool (short fiction)

The goblin measured Robert. “Accidental or intentional?”

“Beg your pardon?” asked Robert.

“Did you stumble across this place? Or did you come here on purpose?”

Robert said, “On purpose. People find this place by accident?”

“Fifty fifty,” replied the goblin. “Some say it’s fate. I say it’s dumb luck. No way to know for sure.”

The goblin entered the cave, and Robert followed. He lost sight of his guide in the dark, having to follow the goblin’s voice.

“If you’re here on purpose, then you know what you’re getting into.”

“Yes.”

“Wrong. You don’t know shit. You think you know, but the pool doesn’t make you into what you want. It makes you into what you are. The question you should be asking yourself is are those the same thing?”

Robert stopped in the darkness. He had considered the question. Many times. There were times the answer was certain, and just as many times when it wasn’t.

“Are you coming?” asked the goblin, unseen in the blackness. “Or did you change your mind?”

“I’m coming.”

“Of course you are. Nobody ever changes their mind. Everyone thinks they know themselves, but in the end, most only know what they want, not what they need.”

“But some do?” asked Robert.

“Maybe one out of five hundred,” said the voice. “Mind the pit. We’re almost there.”

Robert walked on in the pitch black, trusting he wouldn’t fall to his death at this point. They made it to the pool chamber. It wasn’t much to look at, but there was light here, cast from a hole in the ceiling. The pool itself was brackish brown water. It didn’t look magical.

The goblin pointed to a tree, somehow growing in the rocks. “That was a brave knight who sought immortality.” He pointed to a toad. “That was a maiden who wanted to be freed of the burden of beauty. And those rats, a band of brigands. Never got around to asking what they desired.”

“Does everyone end up like that?” asked Robert.

“No. Some change in small ways. A short man came here to become a taller man and got his wish. An orc warlord came seeking wisdom once. And an elf became a goblin and guardian of this pool.”

“Why?”

“That’s my business,” said the goblin. “What do you seek? Power? Peace? A handsome face? Glory?”

“None of that,” said Robert.

The goblin shrugged. “Then step into the pool and become. And may the gods grant you the mercy you desire.”

Robert stepped into the pool. It was barely ankle deep, but it didn’t matter. The tingle ran up his legs, and for a moment, he thought he’d made a terrible mistake. All his certainty faded, and he saw himself as a fool, a tree, a toad, a pitiable rat in a man’s body he’d always worn as a cage. And he knew it must be true because his doubts would surely betray him.

His body burned as the transformation took him. It was going wrong. It hurt too much to be right. He collapsed in agony and thought he might drown in the shallow water before becoming whatever horrible thing cruel fate foisted on him.

Then it was over. Just like that.

The goblin appraised the great black dragon before him. He’d seen many a transformation, but nothing quite so radical as this.

“Impressive,” he said. “Is this what you wanted?”

The dragon smiled. “Yes.”

“Power then?” said the goblin. “Pity. It’s an unimaginative desire.”

The dragon chuckled. “Power was not what I sought.”

Robert spread her wings. She shot into the sky, smashing her way through the roof. Stones fell from the ceiling. The toad barely avoided being crushed, and the rats fled deeper into the dark. The tree was smashed beneath a boulder, but it would grow back. It always did.

War and Peace (commentary)

I don’t honestly know how I feel about American Sniper.

I’m not into war movies to begin with. I think we glorify war far too often, and even when it’s a “good” war (a dangerous idea in any context), I don’t usually find it very interesting. True, it is a part of human history. Maybe the biggest part. It is worth exploring, but it’s also easy to get swept up in this idea of glory of war and nobility of the soldier on the battlefield and other such nonsense.

War is ugly. It’s horrible. It is, even when necessary, brutal and terrible and to ever see it as triumph isn’t something I can easily get behind. Even when a story takes pains to portray war as gray and dismal, it’s far too easy to miss the point and be swept up in the fervor of death and destruction.

What I do think is that there is a difference between fictional war stories and real ones. There is something very unsettling to me about venerating a real man who had the real job of shooting real people. I don’t say that in judgment of anyone’s actions, but we’re still neck deep in this Middle East quagmire, and there’s a lot of baggage all the way around.

Even removing all that, there’s something unsettling to me that we still innately celebrate our ability to kick ass as the measure of a man and a nation. It’s an action movie mentality, where if you can’t beat the hell out of someone, you aren’t worthy of respect. And, sure, I love action movies, but I don’t want to live in an action movie universe.

We are animals. Vicious, aggressive, tribal beasts. It’s built into our DNA, and while I don’t have any intrinsic problem with a movie like American Sniper, I do find many reactions to it disturbing. From what I’ve heard, it’s a fairly unexceptional film. Yet there are going to be those who love it simply for the fact that it’s a movie celebrating American violence (even if it means to bring more subtlety to the discussion) where a white American goes to a foreign land and shoots a lot of brown people.

I’m not going to call its hero a coward because he was a sniper. War isn’t won by honor. It’s a dirty business and to think otherwise is stupid. What does it matter if you shoot a man from six feet away or a thousand? You’re still killing somebody. Only an idiot would think there was more honor in killing at close range. There’s only more danger.

Amid all the discussion of war, violence, politics, racism, and blind patriotism, there’s just too much to really nail down here. I think it’s a shame that, on this MLK weekend, MLK still can’t really achieve mainstream acceptance while war and brutality continue to hold endless, visceral fascination for us as a species. In the end, we love watching people get killed.

It is who we are.

But I’ll admit, I’d love for it not to be one day.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

Mocking Tone (commentary)

I will mock you at some point.  Or something you view as sacred.  I will do so without shame, and I expect you to do the same to me.

We all have our sacred ideas.  Religious is an obvious category, but it is by no means the only one.  Politics is the other big one.  But it doesn’t stop there.  We all have notions that we hold close to our hearts, that define our worldview, and shape our central philosophies.  And we all should be challenged on these ideas now and then, no matter how strong our convictions.

When I tell people that I think Spider-Man is a terrible character (one of the worst in the history of comic book superheroes), most folks look at me like I said something impossible.  Some even view it as profane.  Spidey has his fans, and good for him.  I’m not one of them.  I find him to be shallow, childish, and geared toward the sadsack, self-centered egomaniacs within us.  Especially young people who are still working out where they belong in this world.  I dislike his attitude, his central themes, and nearly everyone of his “classic” stories.  About the only things I like about Spidey are his costumes and his powers, but, seriously, the character makes me cringe and nearly every adaptation of him leaves me either irritated or unimpressed.

Right now, someone is getting ready to post a comment about how amazing Spidey is, and how wrong I am.  And that’s fine.  I’m well aware that for many, if not most superhero fans, Spider-Man is a defining character of the genre.  They aren’t wrong either.  But it doesn’t change the fact that I do not like the character and am unlikely to like the character ever.  I know that most people are eager for Spider-Man to be part of the cinematic Marvel universe, but I’m hopeful he never joins.  His mere presence will irritate and annoy me and reduce my enjoyment.

On the other hand, I love Superman, which is why I’m offended by Man of Steel, which took everything I loved about the character and discarded it in favor of that sort of self-centered narcissism embodied by so-called “sophisticated” superheroes.  I’m happy to have a debate on the merits of the film, and while it’s unlikely I’ll change my mind, I welcome anyone who is genuinely interested in challenging my perception.  That’s how discussion works.

We don’t have to agree, but we can’t be afraid to disagree.  We needn’t jab at every sacred idea every chance we get, but we sure as hell should be able to mock and deride ideas we don’t share now and then.  It needn’t be disrespectful, but it also needn’t be devoted to tiptoeing around sensitive topics simply because someone is sensitive about them.  Tempers will flare.  Emotions will run hot.  And that’s okay, necessary even.

I’m not above yelling at someone if they want to tell me Godzilla is a good movie.  I don’t want to yell, but I can easily lose control because of just how terrible and sub-par I think the film is.  It offends me as a kaiju fan and as a professional storyteller.  It pushes a lot of buttons, and I have said things I even felt bad about afterwards.  My goal is never to intimidate or browbeat, but such discussions are going to have those moments.  And it just shows how much we have to have them.  A society where we don’t discuss ideas simply because of we’re afraid of the fallout is a stagnant culture.

We are human.  We aren’t perfect.  We must understand that we are wrong about most things, and that that’s okay.  My interpretation of Spider-Man is not above debate.  My thoughts on movies, books, religion, politics, breakfast foods, etc, are not beyond reproach.  Neither are yours.  Or anyone’s really.

When the Pope says faith must not be mocked, I say bullshit.  Everything can be mocked.  And it’s nice when we can have a civilized discussion, but it’s also a necessary requirement that not all conversation will be civilized.  Some of it will be profane, offensive, and even deliberately in poor taste.  And that’s just how conversation works.  If we start debating on the merits of expression rather than the thoughts presented, then we’ve succeeded in not talking about anything at all.  Just the most superficial aspects of discussion.

You have a right to be offended.

And I have a right to find amusement in your offense.

And vice versa.

Respect is not found in deference but in a willingness to share our ideas with each other with genuine sincerity.

Although I’m still pretty sure that Godzilla was a terrible, terrible flick.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

A. LEE MARTINEZ APPRECIATION DAY!! 2015

So here we arrive at another A. LEE MARTINEZ APPRECIATION DAY!!  Kind of sneaks up on you, right?  Doesn’t help that it’s so close to an already overcrowded holiday season, but that’s just the way it worked out.  Who are we to argue with the capricious whims of the universe?

As tradition dictates, A. LEE MARTINEZ APPRECIATION DAY!! is a day to spend watching monster and / or superhero movies, playing a tabletop game or two, and (most importantly) foisting my books on people.  It’s self-serving, sure, but just think about all the cool stuff I’ve done for you in the past and all I’ve ask for in return is that I somehow make a living telling people stories involving space squids and minotaur women.

Really, whether we want to acknowledge it or not, we live in a generic universe.  We like what we’re familiar with, and for the most part, we’d rather play it safe than take a chance.  Nothing terrible about that, but it can be frustrating at times for me as a writer to know that my career would be in a much stronger place if I didn’t like to write about moon monsters and raccoon gods.  It’s not that anything I write is that weird, but in today’s world, where we are constantly being fed a steady diet of safe and predictable media, even small chances can have a hard time finding an audience.  If I was on my tenth Gil’s All Fright Diner novel, I’d probably be a lot more popular than I am now, just by virtue of giving the audience something they were familiar with.  I’m cool with that knowledge.  I’m happy with my career (though I could always be happier with more success, financial and otherwise).

The truth is I only do this because people care and are willing to pay me to do it.  In fact, if I wasn’t so eager for praise, I’d be tempted to rename A. LEE MARTINEZ APPRECIATION DAY!! into A. LEE MARTINEZ FAN APPRECIATION DAY!!, but I spend most of my days sitting alone, writing stories I’m never really sure anyone wants to read, and so I’m sticking with the original title.  It’s nice to be told that people care every now and then.

As I move to a new publisher, Simon and Schuster, with a new trilogy on the horizon and new possibilities, I wonder if this will finally be the thing that pushes me toward more wide acceptance.  I honestly can’t say.  I just write what I write and hope for the best.  But I’d be remiss if I didn’t take a moment to thank all the people that made this possible.  Without these people, there would be no books to read and it’s highly unlikely anyone would be here, checking out this blog.

First and foremost, there’s always Mom.  She’s always believed in me, and there were times I probably (okay, definitely) would’ve quit if it wasn’t for her emotional and financial support.

After that, the most important person among many has to be Paul Stevens, my first editor at Tor.  Paul is the guy who went to bat for me on my first book and while getting your first book published is no guarantee of a career, it is the biggest obstacle an aspiring writer faces.  It’s no exaggeration to say that Paul is the entire reason I have a career at all, and I’m grateful every day for everything he’s contributed to my success.

Then there’s Sally Harding, my agent.  She’s brought so many opportunities my way, I can’t even begin to describe them all.  A good agent makes a writer’s job that much easier, and, as a fairly lazy person, I’m always happy that there’s someone working in the background, taking care of all the technical stuff I really don’t claim to understand.

Devi Pillar and Orbit Books, my second editor and publisher, helped me move a bit from obscurity.  Believe me, every bit helps.

Of course, there’s also my lovely wife, Sally Hamilton, and my writer’s group, the DFW Writer’s Workshop.  There’s the support of friends and family and really, too many people to list.  Nobody succeeds on their own in this world.

Lastly, there are all the members of the A. Lee Martinez Action Force.  I have no idea how many of you are out there, but I’m glad you are.  In the end, all the above people don’t amount to much if you aren’t willing to throw your financial support behind my books.  That’s the truth.  Money makes the world go round, and that you think enough of my work to pay for it means pretty much everything.  Oh, sure, I’m very happy that you like the books and for all your kind words of encouragement, but it’s your money that keeps me going.  In a world where there’s plenty of competition for your dollars, I’m eternally grateful for anything you throw my way.

What’s on the horizon?

2015 will most likely be a quiet year.  The first novel of the Constance Verity trilogy will be out in 2016.  In the meantime, I’ll be here, playing video games, watching Finding Bigfoot, and –oh yeah– writing.

Thanks again, Action Force.

And happy A. LEE MARTINEZ APPRECIATION DAY!!

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE