A. Lee Martinez's Blog, page 55

Why Leia Matters

It's hard being a woman in mainstream fiction.  You WILL be defined by your sexuality at some point.  This is especially true in fantasy / science fiction.  Female superheroes often run around half-naked in heels while Batman, Superman, Spider-Man, etc. get to cover themselves from head to toe.  Even one of my favorite female characters, Dejah Thoris, is initially defined by how beautiful she is.  She gets more three-dimensional as the Mars books carry on, but at the beginning, she is there to be adored by John Carter for no other reason than she's very, very pretty.  Harley Quinn started out as an almost asexual being with a strange crush on the Joker to a woman running around in her underwear.  And so it goes.

To paraphrase Fight Club, given a long enough timeline, the odds of a female character being reduced to fanservice is 100 percent.

This is why Princess Leia is so damned important.  She is that rare female protagonist in mainstream sci fi that is more than just a pretty face.  Oh, I'm sure there are others, but not a heck of a lot that spring to mind immediately.  Leia dominates the mainstream in a way that few female characters can, and she did so for decades without having to be a sex symbol.  Yet like any female character, she has always struggled against the desire of society at large to box her into that package.  And Slave Girl Leia is where this becomes a problem.

Let's be clear.  In Return of the Jedi, I'm okay with Slave Girl Leia.  Is it pandering a little?  Yes.  For two movies, Carrie Fisher dressed like any of the male protagonists in a way that downplayed her girlishness.  Even in the first film, where she's dressed in a gown sort of thing, it doesn't reveal much.  This is why when we see her in Jedi it makes such a tremendous impression.  We have been conditioned over the years to assume only plain girls don't show off what they've got.  Yet Leia doesn't even show off a spot of cleavage in the first two films.  Furthermore, once she's out of her slave girl outfit in Jedi, she goes right back to her traditional style, which is practical clothes and a practical hairstyle.  Leia is a freedom fighter, and, unlike many female protagonists, you can see that by the way she dresses.

But despite a bit of pandering, Slave Girl Leia makes a certain sense.  Jabba the Hutt is a jerk, and it's exactly the sort of thing he would do.  It might be an excuse to get Leia half-naked, and that could be unforgivable.  Except that Leia then goes on to kill Jabba.  She is only his "slave" for as long as it suits her purposes, and when the time comes, she strangles the bastard with the very chain he used to "hold" her.  It is one of the defining moments of the entire Star Wars universe.  It reminds us that Leia is not merely a fetish in a metal bikini.  She's a fighter, a strong capable character who Jabba fatally underestimates.  It's also a great play on audience expectations.

Traditionally, Leia would need Luke or Han to rescue her.  That wouldn't be so bad in this case because the characters in Star Wars rescue each other all the time.  How often does Han pull Luke out of the fire (or stuff him in the tauntaun)?  If Leia was rescued, it wouldn't seem especially sexist or wrong in the story being told.  It would just be allies and friends helping each other.

But even so, Leia doesn't need you to rescue her in this situation, and it's one of the series's most wonderful moments.  It allows a strong character to remain strong.  And, if you think about it, the entire rescue of Han Solo puts him in the traditional female role.  He's blinded, mostly helpless, and accomplishes very little.  Meanwhile, Luke beats up a whole ship full of thugs.  And Leia, with nothing more than a chain and a will to fight, kills the first major villain of the film.

Though I have my problems with the Star Wars prequels, don't give a damn about the expanded universe, and think that Star Wars as a whole is an empty product at this point, I will say I enjoy the hell out of the original films and think this particular scene manages to make Leia both an icon of kickass and a sex symbol at the same time.  And that's quite a rare feat.

I know that Slave Girl Leia is a thing now.  Often, just an excuse for pretty women to dress up in sexy costumes for no other reason than we tend to want pretty women to dress up in sexy costumes.  And I'm okay with that because underneath it, emulating Leia isn't such a bad thing.  It reminds us that a woman can be sexy and still kick butt, and that just because she's half-naked that doesn't mean she's a victim or a toy.  (It's the same reason I love Power Girl, who is a sexy superhero but also, a strong character who kicks butt.)

And then along comes Kinect Star Wars for Xbox360, and I'm reminded why it's so tough being a female in this world.  Or any other.

For those of you who haven't heard, Kineck Star Wars is a game built upon the Kinect motion controller system based on games played in a Star Wars setting.  So you swing your lightsaber, you attack people as a rancor, and you otherwise play games based on Star Wars.  I have no problem with that.  It's not my bag, but so what?

The problem is that there are dance offs.  Putting aside how out of place these seem in the Star Wars universe or that it is something out of a fever dream to hear pop songs lyrically altered to a Star Wars theme, it's mostly silly and harmless.  Or it should be.  But then you watch as some of the defining elements of the Star Wars stories are gleefully marginalized by the entire thing.  Han Solo being frozen in carbonite was a defining dark moment for the films, and it is somehow cheapened by turning it into a dance number.  And was anyone yearning to watch Boba Fett shake his groove thang?

Worst though, by far, is a moment where Slave Girl Leia willingly takes off her chain and dances for Jabba the Hutt.  In one instant, everything wonderful about the character is taken away from her.  She stops being the strong character she was and becomes nothing more than the worst sort of fetish.

It is unforgivable.

It is also in incredibly poor taste when you think about it.  Star Wars shouldn't be about dancing girls parading themselves before a drug kingpin.  Even in the original Jedi, being a dancing girl at Jabba's palace is portrayed as a horrible fate.  If you're unlucky, you get fed to a rancor.  If you're really unlucky, you get stuck dancing for Jabba.  It is one of those rare moments where enslavement is portrayed as a genuinely terrible thing.

Now, it's a dance number.

There will be those who think I'm reading too much into this, and there's little doubt that this is a shameful moment in Star Wars history that will eventually be forgotten.  Just a silly little video game.  If Jabba the Hutt couldn't keep Leia down, this probably won't either.  But it doesn't change the fact that, for some, this will be their first exposure to Leia and a defining one at that.  One of the reasons Slave Girl Leia is acceptable is by the time we get to the metal bikini, we've already met her and know so much about her.  It is impossible for us to think of her as merely a sexual object, a bit of fanservice.  But this game takes all that and casts it aside.

Star Wars has committed a lot of sins in recent years, but nothing quite like this.  And we, as a society, are far poorer for it.

Keelah Se'lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

And may The Force be with you.

Lee

Vegetable Delight

What does it mean to be a "light" writer?  As someone who is often classified as "light", I've thought about this almost as much as what it means to be a "funny" writer.  Maybe it's time to share those thoughts.

The term "light" comes with certain expectations and baggage.  Nothing strange about that.  Every label given to us comes with that stuff, and you can't avoid it.  Labels are designed to make things easier, and while there's a lot of negative examples (hard and soft racism, cultural categorization, etc.), it's also a necessary evil.  The only problem is when labels become absolute or when they put up walls rather than help bridge gaps.

"Light" has multiple meanings.  First and foremost, it tends to mean "easily accessible".  That's not so bad.  I'd like to think I write accessible books that are easy to read.  It's one of my goals as a writer.  I'm never been devoted to manufacturing complicated language.  I enjoy a good turn of phrase and a poetic expression, but if a story is more determined to impress me with its vocabulary and powers of metaphor, I'm probably not interested.  No judgment on the quality of such stories.  Everyone has their own mind, their own desires, their own artistic appetites.  But for me, books that seem too "literary" (for lack of a better term) tend to lose me.  Not always, but often enough that I'm not surprised by it.

"Light" and "Literary" don't usually go together.  They don't have to be mutually exclusive, but they almost always are.  This brings me to the second definition of "light".  It often means "frivolous" or "frothy", an enjoyable but empty treat.  It's this definition that troubles me.  And I'm not just referring to my own novels, but to many fine stories I've enjoyed over the years.  Too often, accessible fiction is deemed weightless.  But accessible doesn't have to mean soulless.  And just because a story is hard to absorb that doesn't make it high art.

The mistake folks seem to make most often is assuming that anything readily consumed and enjoyed is somehow not good for us.  True art, like our vegetables, should be less tasty, more demanding.  If we like it, it has to be bad for us.  Often, high literature strikes me as deliberately inedible in order to earn its respect.  Not always.  Certainly, a story can be difficult to absorb (and often should be).  But just because a story is depressing or difficult to enjoy doesn't make it art, and just because a story is easy to read / view doesn't mean it's cotton candy.

Keeping with the vegetable metaphor, I like to think of my stories as "light and filling".  They're vegetables but properly prepared, sauteed and made yummy, but underneath, they still have nutritional content.  You partake of the meal gladly and afterward, maybe realize you ate something worthwhile.  Even if you don't, it doesn't change the fact that maybe someone slipped you some vegetables anyway and you're probably better off for it.  And if you just enjoyed the meal as a delicious snack, I can live with that too.

Making something easy to enjoy is not easy.  That's all I want to really say.  So if someone wants to label me a "light" writer because they gleefully read my books without hesitation, I take it as the grand compliment it is.  But if someone wants to suggest I'm "light" because my stories are simple to write, this is where we run into problems.  Despite the initial reactions one might get from hearing what my stories are about (space squids, country-fried vampires, minotaur teens with body issues), my stories have never been intended to be confectioneries.  They're tasty, sure, but they matter, if only to me.  (And, of course, you, my loyal fans.)

It's only a label, and I try not to take it too seriously.  Just something I thought I'd comment on.  Thanks for reading, folks, as always.

(Next post will be something NOT about writing.  Unless that's what you really, really want.  Never let it be said I don't listen to the people.)

Keelah Se'lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

Talking with Imaginary Friends

It's more important to be able to write a strong conversation than a strong plot.  If you want to write a good story, you first need to be able to write solid dialogue.  If you can do that, plot is relatively easy.

NOTE:  I said relatively.  It still isn't all that easy.

But in my limited experience, the stumbling block for aspiring writers is found in the subject of characters.  If the characters have any life in them at all, then most of your work is done.  A writer who has a solid flair for dialogue has a flat out better chance at getting published than one who crafts byzantine plots.

The best way to know if you know your characters is to have them simply talk to each other.  Can they chat freely?  Do they constantly refer to plot points rather than their own opinions.  Outside of the story you've placed them in, do they have any larger objectives, emotional baggage, an outlook beyond conquering their current predicaments?  If they don't, then you probably dropped the ball.

The test is to put two characters (any two you've created, even if they don't belong in the same story), stick them in a room, and see if they can freely converse.  You can't plan out the conversation.  That's cheating.  It's also entirely missing the point.  For fictional characters to have any semblance of life, they should be able to function spontaneously, just as real people do.  If your characters only work in the cozy predictability of their pre-arranged universe, they aren't really characters at all.  They're puppets, dancing to your tune.

All great characters have their own life.  Kermit the frog isn't a real person, but we can all imagine talking to him.  Bugs Bunny, Superman, Indiana Jones, Jane Eyre, and a thousand other classic characters all exist beyond their artist's imagination because they have managed to take on a life of their own.  Just as we know that calling Miss Piggy fat is sure to get you a karate chop, and that Optimus Prime is sure to say something inspiring in our darkest hour.  Or that Emperor Palpatine will say something snide and R2D2 will say something snarky.  Yes, even R2D2, with dialogue that is entirely beeps, is snarky.

Which brings me to my second point.  The specifics of the dialogue are less important than the general vibe the characters will put out.  If a character has a consistent vibe, then they will ring true.  This is why plot is lousy for creating characters.  Plot doesn't give a damn about consistency.  Plot just wants interesting stuff to happen.  And when characters work for the plot, they'll do pretty much any stupid thing to keep conflict going.  In one scene, they might be strong and self-reliant.  In the next, they might be timid and docile.  Whatever the plot wants.

Strong characters have a tendency to confound the plot.  Strong, consistent characters will often get in the way of keeping things interesting.  They have their own needs, and they couldn't give a damn about the plot.  You can force them to do what you want, but only if you're willing to jump into their heads and pull the levers and switches yourself, reducing them to automatons.  Honestly, many in your audience won't care.  Most won't even notice.  You can get away with a lot of forced characterization if the result is entertaining, but I prefer characters who have will of their own.

Again, I refer to the Star Wars prequels.  Not because they're bad films.  They are, at worst, average.  But they suffer because the characters lack that central characterization that makes them work.  No one in the prequel exists as a person.  All are merely living plot points being pushed around an outline.  Anakin falls because he's supposed to.  Amidala loves him because that's her job.  The Emperor is evil because evil is what he does.  And the Jedi are exterminated because story demands it.

And yet none of that matters.  This is because Star Wars cheats a bit by having a built-in fanbase that will like it no matter what, but it's also because the prequels are mostly excuses for cool lightsaber fights.  Nothing wrong with that.

(Apologies for the Star Wars negativity, folks, but they do tend to illustrate my points when it comes to lifeless writing.)

Good characters are consistent characters.  Consistent characters have solid emotional weight behind them.  They might not always have clear goals (just like real people), but they have reliable reactions.  Those reactions might screw with your story, but it's better to twist a story to fit characters than to twist characters to fit story because plot is far more flexible than characterization.

Done right, solid characters will carry a story, even if it isn't where you thought that story was heading.  Heck, sometimes a great character can make your story better than you ever thought it could be.  I'll give credit to my characters for doing a lot of the heavy lifting, for opening doors I never planned on going through, for exploring worlds I never intended.  Every time they do, I try to remember to thank them for it.  They might be a pain in my ass sometimes, but they usually know what they're doing.

And if they don't, I can always fix it in edits.

Keelah Se'lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

Sunshine and Rainbows

I like happy endings.  I like it when the guy gets the girl.  Or the girl gets the guy.  When the monster is killed and the day is saved.  I like it when the bad guy gets his just desserts, and our heroes not only triumph, but they come out stronger for it.

This is why I've decided to skip Mass Effect 3.  As much as I enjoy the series, I'm too afraid of how it all might end.  I've spent two games fighting the Reaper menace, and I don't want to end on an ambiguous shades-of-gray conclusion.  I want the Reapers destroyed, the civilizations of the galaxy united, and a new era of prosperity ahead of me.  Maybe that's old fashioned, but I don't play space operas to be depressed.  I didn't fight through two games to end on a bummer.  And I'm not looking for a subtle, life-goes-on ending.  I want triumph.  I want to set down the controller feeling that I've made the universe a better place.

From what I hear, that's just not going to happen.  Maybe I've heard wrong, but all I know for sure is that I'd rather not find out if there's even the slimmest possibility the game ends on a sour note.  So very deliberately, I've decided to not experience whatever ending the creators might give me.  I've created my own conclusion to the Mass Effect Saga, and by virtue of being both a professional novelologist and knowing my target audience (me) very well, it's suitably kick-ass and leaves me very satisfied.

The thing that troubles me about Mass Effect 3 is that, while I haven't played it, the creators keep responding to the fans' dissatisfaction by calling it "art".  That, more than anything, puts me off.  Because "art" is generally a bummer.  I don't know why that's true, but it is.  It's almost universal, across all cultures, that anything with a positive element is "popcorn" or "genre", but to be "art", you gotta harsh my mellow.

It's a false choice.  It implies that there's nothing to be learned from a story where someone doesn't die needlessly, where tragedy doesn't rear its ugly head.  That's fine.  But it really doesn't belong in a space opera where you play a one man (or woman) army who travels across the galaxy fighting for the greater good.

I'm cool with tragedies.  I even like some of them.  At the same time, I hate that we so readily dismiss happy endings as little more than cotton candy.  True, there are light and fluffy romantic comedies, action movies, and slice-of-life wackiness that serve a useful purpose in our world, and it's unfair to consider them worthless simply because they don't win Academy Awards or Pulitzer Prizes.  Yet not every happy ending is the stuff of fluff.  Not every story where a character grows and becomes a better person (and maybe saves the universe while they're at it) is empty of greater meaning.

In my own writing, happy endings are standard.  Maybe one day I'll write that story where everyone dies and nothing gets accomplished and nobody learns any lessons, but for now, you can be assured that my heroes won't need to die, and they'll probably be better off at the end than the beginning.  Monster is probably the exception, though while our title character doesn't learn much, our other protagonist does.  Chasing the Moon is a story about a cosmos too complicated and unknowable to ever truly understand, but our protagonist does make peace with that.  And A Nameless Witch doesn't end exactly the way most romances do, but it does end on a positive note.

The false choice is that a story either ends with sunshine and rainbows OR gray skies and heartache, but there are degrees.  A character doesn't have to get everything they want to have a happy ending.  All of my novels have happy endings, but it's not as if everyone gets a million dollars, a solid gold robot butler, and the immortality serum.  No, they usually triumph over whatever problems they're facing, learn something about themselves, and find themselves in better circumstances.  This might seem frivolous, but it isn't unrealistic.

While I often get dismissed as a fluffy writer, I don't write happy endings because I think the world is a nice place.  Far from it.  The world has a hell of a lot of problems, and it will continue to have a lot of problems.  People die needlessly.  Misery is all over the place.  And in the end, civilizations rise and fall with nothing much to show for it.  Heck, the dinosaurs were much cooler than we are, and look what happened to them.  Life is cruel.

But it isn't always.  Good things happen.  Stories that acknowledge this aren't empty of meaning, and sometimes, we triumph (often despite ourselves).  "Art" doesn't have to be vague or ambiguous.  It can be complex, thoughtful, and fun.  These are not contrary traits.

Believing this will probably keep me from ever being a "serious" writer, but I don't care.

Now, if you'll excuse me, Zala Shepherd has to attend a ceremony given by the leaders of the galaxy for her incredible victory over the Reaper menace.  She didn't do it for the glory, but hey, that's life as the greatest military hero in the universe.

Keelah Se'lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

Plans

I am not a planner.  Not in my life.  Not in novelology.

As the saying goes: "Life is what happens when you're making other plans."

It's odd to realize something about yourself so spontaneously.  It's always been true, more or less, that I play it by ear.   I didn't start writing with some grand ambition.  I started because I had no other big goals, and it seemed like a cool way to make a living.  I didn't give it much more thought than that.  I never envisioned myself as a semi-famous novelologist.  I never thought I'd achieve the level of success I currently have.  And, really, I'm just an obscure writer who most people have never heard of, but I pay my bills with writing and I've met a few cool people because of it.

When it comes to writing a story, I don't bother with outlines, character studies, or world building.  I sit down.  I start writing.  I see what happens.  There's always some germ of an idea to begin with: a character, a setting, a very broad plot.  For the most part though, it's just starting the journey and seeing where it's going.  (And then using the special magic of editing to tie it all together.)

When asked what I plan on writing next or where I see myself in five years, I can't say.  My efforts are less focused on the long term than the short.  I'm more involved in my life in a day to day basis than in pursuing some grand design.  It might not be the way everyone does it, but it's worked for me so far.

My personal philosophy is that life is a complicated mess, and any larger control we think we have over it is an illusion.  This doesn't mean we have no control.  It just means that if you think you know where you'll be ten years from now, you're either psychic, a genius, or fooling yourself.  Not that there's anything wrong with making long term plans.  If it helps you focus on your goals, go for it.  Maybe you have complete control over your destiny.  If so, congratulations.

As for me, maybe I'm zen.  Maybe I'm a pessimist who sees life as a chaotic jumble that we can never tame or comprehend.  (Kind of like Chasing the Moon, but with less monsters.)  Maybe I'm an optimist who believes in ignoring that and enjoying and appreciating every day.  Or maybe it's some other option I haven't considered yet.  I haven't given it much thought  Life might be a story, but it's always seemed one beyond our ability to grasp.

Hopefully, they'll fix it during the edits.

Keelah Se'lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

Finding Your Thark

There's storytelling.  There's plotting.  While they're loosely related, they are not the same thing.

Most books about writing I've glanced through tend to focus on plot, and there's a reason for that.  Plotting is a technical process.  It's definable elements like conflicts, goals, complications, and resolutions.  It's the blueprint of which many a story is built, and many writers even trade on their ability to create complex plots that fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.

But plot isn't all that important.

Like most things in life, our public perception and our reality are at odds when it comes to plotting.  Most of the time, when we talk about our favorite stories, we talk about the characters.  Those things we do remember aren't necessarily the twists and turns, but the way a character leaves an impression on us.  We think we want tightly plotted stories and surprises.  What we really want is a character we're interested in (likable or not), doing something worth watching.

If you think about classics of literature and fiction, they almost always have remarkably simple stories.  From myths to classics to even modern day tales, complexity is an overrated commodity.  It might make the writer and the reader feel as if a lot of work was put into the tale, but it doesn't always stand the test of time.  Of course, neither do many simple stories.  But still, put a simple story against a complicated one, and odds are good that the simple one will be told longer.

Disney built an empire on fairy tales, some of the simplest stories ever created.  It doesn't stop them from being popular to this day, and while we probably won't remember most of today's writers in a thousand years, it's a fairly safe bet that Snow White, Rapunzel, and Little Red Riding Hood will still exist in some form.

Plot is important.  Don't misquote me and tell your friends that semi-famous novelologist A. Lee Martinez says it isn't.  But if a story fails, it tends to fall on weak characters rather than the plot.

One of the reasons the Star Wars prequels are weaker than the original trilogy is because the original films are about the characters.  The storyline is so basic, you could write it down on a cocktail napkin.  Heck, there's three original films and two of them hinge upon destroying a deathstar.  So it's not as if there's a lot going on here.  But the deathstar is not what makes Star Wars great.  It's Han Solo, Darth Vader, and Chewbaca.  It's Princess Leia in a slave girl outfit strangling Jabba the Hutt to death.  It's Boba Fett, one of the most startling ineffective characters in all of fantasy fiction, who still manages to earn a place in our hearts because he looks cool and says a couple of awesome lines.

Heck, R2-D2 has more life and character than most characters in serious fiction.

Meanwhile, the prequels are thick with plotting (even if it doesn't always make sense) and filled with watered down characters.  Jar Jar Binks's crime wasn't being lame.  It was being the poor man's C3po.  Anakin Skywalker isn't compelling.  He's whiny.  And the Jedi are a bunch of sanctimonious jerks who come across as bumbling dunderheads.

The Rancor has more personality than anyone in the prequels.

Search your heart.  You know this to be true.

I liked John Carter quite a bit, and I can tell you why.  It's not for the story (which is fine), but for Tars Tarkas, one of my favorite characters of all times.  The movie shines for me whenever the chief of the Tharks is on screen.  To me, Carter will always play second fiddle to Tars, and that the movie captures Tars so well makes me easily forgive its flaws.

Edgar Rice Burroughs is my favorite writer, and honestly, it's because his characters are so damned fun and cool.  As a writer, Burroughs cheats a lot.  He'll contrive coincidences to get his characters out of trouble.  He doesn't world build in the classic sense because Barsoom (aka Mars) doesn't work in any realistic sense.  But none of that matters because he creates wonderful characters worth cheering for.  Tarzan is a rich and fantastic protagonist.  And while, honestly, John Carter is kind of a boring guy in the books, he's surrounded by an awesome supporting cast like Tars Tarkas, Woola, Dejah Thoris, and Kantos Kan.  He fights white apes and leaps headlong into adventure with a gleeful joy that always brings a smile to my face.

It's simple.  If a writer creates a rich, complex plot and fills it with flat, two-dimensional characters, it's hard to win over the audience.  But if a writer creates characters with appeal and plots them in a by-the-numbers story, the audience will usually go with it.  Although creating appealing characters isn't always easy, and one person's flat character is another's favorite.

People might knock Twilight, but it succeeded in creating characters that spoke to its audience.  As did Harry Potter, Star Wars, the plays of Shakespeare, the myths of old, our favorite bedtime stories.

And when I think of good writing, I don't think of story acts or plotting requirements.  I think of Tars Tarkas.  Once you've got him, most of your work is done.

Well, except for all the sitting down and writing, which is, in reality, the hardest damn part of novelology.  But nobody likes to read about that.

Keelah Se'lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

Snowball

Life is mostly a matter of getting the ball rolling.  If you can get it moving in the right direction and keep it moving in that direction, eventually momentum takes over and you really don't have to do much of anything.  But let's also be honest that some people have an easier time getting the ball over the hill.  Some people start at the very bottom of that hill.  And some start at the top.  There's not a lot we can do to change that, and if one is fortunate enough to have a head start in life, one shouldn't feel guilty about it.  On the other hand, you don't have to be a jerk about it either.

If you're born rich, you have certain advantages over people born poor.  If you're born white in America, success is easier to achieve than if you're born a minority.  And if you're a man, you're ahead of the game.  Can we accept this truth?  It doesn't mean that rich white guys are all lazy schmucks who fell into their success.  And it doesn't mean that being a poor black woman makes it impossible to succeed.  It just means that, despite what we would like to believe, we are not all created equal and we are not all blessed with the same opportunities or faced with the same obstacles.

This isn't a political issue.  Nor is it a liberal / conservative thing.  It's just a fact.  A cold, hard fact.  And this isn't even getting into the differences between individuals.  I was lucky enough to have a mother who was always there for me.  I was lucky enough to stumble into a writer's group that benefited me greatly with both moral support and professional guidance.  And I was lucky enough that my first book received a featured review in Publisher's Weekly and won an Alex award from the American Library Association.

Make no mistake.  There's a lot of luck in my success.  I wrote a good book, but lots of people have written good books.  Lots of people have even managed to get them published.  And while I'm secure enough to say that I'm doing well, making a living, and able to have this as my full time job, I'm also smart enough to say there was a hell of a lot of good fortune along the way.

Success is a strange thing.  To the successful, it just keeps coming.  To the unsuccessful, it remains elusive.

To0 often, successful people attribute their success to some fantastic effort on their part, some incredible work ethic, some undeniable talent.  That might be harmless except it makes it all too easy to look down on the unsuccessful, to see them as deserving of their failures.  We are hard-wired to see our success as the inevitable result of our efforts and to see our failures as happenstance and bad luck.  And we are hard-wired to see the exact opposite with every other human being out there.

Forgive the generalities.  There are many exceptions.

This doesn't mean that we should feel guilty for our successes or that we should consider ourselves destined to fail because we started out at a disadvantage.  But it does mean that success is often the byproduct of success and failure leads to more failure.  It's just the way it is, and if you happen to be successful, you should remember that.

I remind myself of it.  Every day.

And my success is due, more than anything, to many people who keep me aloft.  From my agent to my editor, my publisher and my family and friends, and, yes, even you, my fine fans.  Actually, especially you.

Thanks for all your support, everybody.  I'll try to stay worthy of it.

Keelah Se'lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

John Carter (Imaginedited)

Saw John Carter this weekend. I am a big John Carter fan, so I was on the fence before going to see the film. But I have been waiting for this for a long time. A chance to see the Tharks in all their glory, Woola and the white apes, and epic battles of Barsoom. I couldn't miss that.

As it turns out, John Carter is a solid film, a worthy effort. The film does one thing very right. It gives plenty of attention to the cool world of Barsoom. The Tharks (those giant green folks, for you Barsoom newbies) are fantastic, portrayed in all their brutal glory. And Tars Tarkas, one of the greatest characters in the history of fantasy, is everything I would want. Dejah Thoris manages to incorporate her original charm while being nicely updated for our times.

And Woola! Hands down, the best thing in the film is John Carter's loyal pet. And Woola has an even bigger part in the film than in the original books, so this is one are where the film improves upon the books.

Overall, I really enjoyed the film. And I enjoyed it even more once I ran it through a little A. Lee Martinez brand imaginediting (patent pending). It's a technique I learned from wise monks (who happened to be aliens) where one fixes slight problems with otherwise great films via the power of ignoring stuff.

To begin with, anything that takes place in a city on Earth can be completely ignored. It adds nothing to the story and only serves to create an unnecessary plot point. This means the bit where we go to Earth after starting on Mars is best forgotten about. Ignore this until we get to the part of John Carter in Arizona.

From there, everything is good. Then we get to the cave. In the original novel, the cave is a contrivance, a simple plot device that serves to get our hero from Earth to Mars. It isn't even a special cave, as in later stories Carter travels to and from Mars without it.

It's easiest to just think of the cave as a teleportation device. Later on, there is some nonsense trying to explain it as some sort of interplanetary telegraph. IGNORE THIS. Cave = Transporter. That's all you need to know.

Once on Mars, everything is fine. Except for the Therns, the race of white Martians, who are meant to be some shadowy conspiracy group working behind the scenes. The problem with this is that it makes the Therns look like idiots. They seem like less of a threat and more of a way to complicate the story (again, needlessly). They bear little resemblance to their original novel, and perhaps it was deemed that the story needed a "cosmic" threat, rather than being solely about Carter's adventures on a fantastic world.

My solution is to ignore the conspiracy element entirely and just think of the Therns as evil wizards working behind the throne. The actions of the villain can work just as well if we consider him in charge. And in my version of the film, the leader of the Therns dies, killed by Carter and Tars.

Finally, when Carter goes to the balcony, throws away the amulet, and declares himself to be "John Carter of Earth", the movie is over. Do yourself a favor and get up and walk out of the theater. You can sit there for another vice minutes, but there is absolutely no reason to. It answers questions we really don't have, resolve plot points we don't care about, and nothing can really top the image of John Carter, triumphant, with Woola at his side.

And with that, John Carter goes from a good film to an almost great one. There are still some pacing problems. The second act sags, but that's the way Hollywood writes movies at this point. I can only do so much.

Keegah Se'lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

Paper Souls

My stories are about characters.  I'm unlikely to wow you with my amazingly complex plots.  I'm not going to bowl you over with my astounding command of language.  And aside from a general theme of "Don't be a jerk", you probably aren't going to walk away from an A. Lee Martinez novel with a profound new insight into the workings of the universe.

But hopefully, if I've done my job right, you find characters you can empathize with.  Or at least enjoyed spending some time with.

It's an uphill battle sometimes.  Space squids and raccoon gods are the stuff of ridiculous fantasy.  I'll admit that.  And we, as humans, do empathize best with human characters.  My stories tend to be outlandish and absurd, and it's easy to mistake them as lampoons, spoofs, or just a silly little bit of fun.

I'll admit that more and more I find sit harder to take such assessment with a quiet smile.  It's never easy to have one's work dismissed as fluffy cotton candy.  Especially since I feel like my work has more weight than that.  I think, as character studies, you could do a lot worse than my stable of redneck vampire, soldier ogres, and cosmic eating monsters.  I'd put my characters up against any other writer's anyday, and I think they're a likable, well-rounded bunch.

Perhaps that's what bothers me the most.  I care about these folks.  I care about them as people.  I care about their struggles, their happiness, their pain, their mistakes.  And I think my protagonists have weight, regardless of whatever weird thing they might be.  I can certainly live with folks disagreeing, but I sometimes wonder if it's because I've failed as a writer or if it's simply just too much to expect.  I'm not calling myself a visionary (nor do I believe in such grandiose titles), but I am the guy who writes about weird creatures and expects them to be taken seriously.

I'm probably wrong to think so.  Or maybe I'm not as good a writer as I hope.

My goal in every story is to create characters that are relatable.  Emperor Mollusk might be an eight pound squid from Neptune, but he's also a guy just trying to make his way in this world.  Mack Megaton might be an indestructible robot, but he's also a being on the quest for purpose we all undertake.  And Quetzalcoatl might be a down-on-his-luck god, but he's also trying to turn that luck around while struggling with his own past failings.  The Witch with the Unspoken Name faces questions of love, family, and insurmountable limitations.  And Vom the Hungering is all about the desire to contain our own baser desires and bad habits.  His desires and habits just happen to involve eating everything.

Funnily enough, the struggles these characters go are usually handled with grace and wit.  I tend not to write sad sacks who sit around complaining about their lot in life.  Even Monster, who is by far my most unpleasant and unhappy character, doesn't spend a lot of time bemoaning his fate.  Too bad because he's the guy who could really use some self-examination.  But Monster's too busy living his life to bother with that.

And, really, that's what I write about.  Life.  Living.  And looking at my books, they might have exploding universes, monster gods, and robot fights, but they are, at their heart, stories about getting by and the small triumphs and tragedies that shape ourselves.  Yes, I'm suggesting that, despite it all, my stories are subtle explorations of the human condition through the eyes of weird creatures, aliens, and undead.  Many will no doubt disagree, but you can't please everyone.

I'd like to think out there though is someone who found something worthwhile in the struggles of an ex-supervillain from Neptune or the quiet optimism of a kobold housekeeper.  Maybe they won't be remembered forever as great literary characters, but that doesn't mean they're empty souls.  I know they matter to someone.  Even if that someone is only me.

Keelah Se'lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

The Numbers Game

We are rapidly reaching the point where majorities as we know it will no longer exist.  Heck, we're probably already past it.  We live in a world where more people have a voice than ever before, and the resulting din can sure get confusing.  But there's really no going back, and while the future is fraught with peril, it's not like the past was a utopian wonderland.

As a species, we wrestle with the limits of our own instincts in this new world.  And nowhere is it more clear to me than in the perception versus reality of the numbers game.  One Million Moms is a group of citizens who think gay Archie characters shouldn't be sold in Toys R Us stores. Putting aside the right or wrong of their opinion, the group is far less then a million moms.  But even if it were a million strong, it would mean almost nothing.

According to latest census information, the U.S. has about 311 million people in it right now.  For those of you bad at math, that means one million citizens make up less than 1 percent of the population.  So a million people is statistically insignificant.  That's not to say I don't think they shouldn't have a voice.  They should.  And they're certainly allowed to share their opinions with the world, but what does it really mean?

For my own career, if I sold a million books, I'd be incredibly successful, beyond my wildest dreams.  And it would mean that less than 1 percent of the population bought my books.  That's the numbers game, folks.  That's the way it works, and the truth is that we are all little fish swimming in a great big ocean.  Some of us get to the biggest little fish in our portion, but then we swim into the wrong territory and are quickly gobbled down.

Rush Limbaugh has said a lot of terrible, obnoxious things over the course of his career.  Most of these things don't get noticed by anyone outside of his audience.  But occasionally, some remark garners greater public attention and the backlash comes.  I get why Rush is surprised by this.  He daily speaks to millions of people who are hungry to hear what he has to say, and who will cheer him on.  So when he suddenly finds himself adrift in the larger current of popular culture, he doesn't understand what has changed.  After all, he talks to millions of people every day, and they love him for his opinions.  So something must be wrong when that changes.

I'm not interested in debating the merits of Rush Limbaugh (or anyone else right now).  It's obvious at this point that for every point of view, there's an audience out there somewhere.  Yet something can be "popular" in our world and remain niche.  And this seems more and more the case.  I've never seen a full episode of Walking Dead.  Haven't seen an episode of Game of Thrones.  I've watched exactly a minute of Jersey Shore. Yet all these things are undeniably popular.  I'm a semi-successful novelologist, and the vast majority of people have never heard of me, and if I have a long and successful career, most people probably never will.

That's the numbers game at work, and there's nothing wrong with acknowledging that, even if you can get a million people to agree with you, it doesn't add up to much.  People should feel free to share their opinions and otherwise contribute to and / or criticize the world they live in.  They just shouldn't be surprised that, even with an army of supporters behind them, they'll be eclipsed by a universe far more vast and unforgiving than they generally realize.

We aren't designed to view one million as a small number, but it is.  And it gets smaller every day.

But I'd still settle for selling half-a-million books because I'm humble like that.

Keelah Se'lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee