A. Lee Martinez's Blog, page 9

A Dance with the Senorita (short fiction)

Life in Rockwood

 

The Senorita had watched over Emilia Flores’s garden before there had been a garden. The old scarecrow had shown up not long after the first house had been built. No one could remember who put the Senorita up with her black flamenco dress stuffed with straw and her pumpkin head, painted black and white with her eyes closed and a wry smile across her lips. But she seemed to do no harm, and when the first house was torn down and a new one built in its place, pains were taken to not disturb the Senorita. And when Emilia had decided to plant a garden, beneath the Senorita’s watchful gaze seemed the right place for it.

The garden did flourish. Occasionally they’d find a dead rabbit or bird among the tomatoes and carrots. Emilia would remark that it was the Senorita taking her due, that death was part of life, and that there was no better metaphor than a garden. None questioned it, since Emilia made a heck of a rabbit stew.

So the Senorita held silent vigil over a small patch of peas and brussell sprouts and potatoes, and since Rockwood had more troublesome scarecrows to worry about, everyone let her be, though only one person ever visited her on those quiet, overcast nights when a chill wind swept across the desert and her painted white skull shone like a beacon in the dark.

Ignacio Flores parked his car on the road rather than risk making noise on the gravel drive. His costume tonight was a neatly pressed tuxedo. He carried a bag of candy in his right hand.

The lights in the house were off. His parents had always been early to bed, deep sleepers, but still he knew they wouldn’t like him out here. Not on a night like this. Not on this night.

“Hola, Senorita.” He bowed, setting his sack of candy down. He was too old for trick or treating, but he needed an excuse to wear the costume. He’d told everyone he was James Bond, and they’d bought it.

The clouds parted, and a sliver of moonlight shone down on the garden. The tomatoes were coming in nicely. Ignacio pushed the corpse of a grackle among the plants. “Tending your garden, I see.”

The Senorita smiled her unwavering smile as she stepped off her perched. She opened her eyes, and an ocean of darkness and stars swam behind them.

Ignacio held out his hand to her. “May I have this dance?”

She took his flesh and blood fingers in her delicate straw hand and stepped closer. The wind kicked up her black skirt. He put his hand on her waist and pulled her from her garden.

“If mom caught me out here…” he said.

The Senorita put straw to his lips. And she smiled as she always did. A coy, mysterious smile that asked more than it answered.

He twirled her at arm’s length, whirling her long skirt, before she fell backwards into his arm. She smelled like dry straw and old pumpkin innards and the warm, wet earth. Of roses and sweet, coppery dried blood and a hundred other scents of death and life.

She pulled back and spun off on her own. She used her white fan to cover her face, and he found himself drawn to her mysteries, even knowing the answers were beyond him.

She kicked her legs and whirled and slipped playfully around her garden. He watched, entranced. She was darkness in the dark, a shadow slipping into and out of moonlight. And he wished she would speak to him. Just one word. But he knew to hear it would be the end of him.

Still, he hoped to hear it tonight.

The Senorita slipped before him. She ran her scratchy fingers from his cheek to his neck to his chest to his stomach. She leaned in close, her pumpkin head so close to his lips.

She shoved him and danced away, and he could almost hear her laughing at him. He loved her, but she could never love him. The Senorita was beautiful, eternal. He was merely a plaything. More amusing than the grackles or rabbits, but not so different in the end.

But she did dance with him. She allowed him that small gift.

She spun forward and colliding with him. He continued the whirling motion, as he had a dozen times before. And they danced together, for a few more minutes. Until the chill left the air and the moon vanished behind the clouds.

The Senorita ran her fingers through his hair one last time and slipped into her garden. She climbed onto her post. Ignacio picked some straw from his collar, inhaled its sweet aroma, and tucked it in his pocket, musing on all the secrets she kept from him.

He thought about pulling her from that post, trying to convince her to share them, but his mother had raised him a gentleman. A woman was ready in her own time, and one day she would be ready for him.

“Adios, mi amor.”

He picked up his candy and headed toward the house. He didn’t look back. He could play coy too.

Smiling, the Senorita closed her painted eyes for another year.

What You Don’t Think You Think

I’m not one of those writers who thinks that, by writing stories, I’ve stumbled upon some grand secret of human nature. I do believe that creating art, in any form, even bad art, is good for you, and that if you take it seriously and think about expression of thought and self and perspective that this is generally a good thing. But I’d never claim by any means to be an expert on human nature.

But if you write enough stories and get better at it, you realize that what makes one fictional character seem more alive than another is often found in how much unconscious you give them. By that I mean how much is going on beneath the surface that they aren’t aware of.

This is trickier than we might expect since humans generally don’t acknowledge their subconscious as a motivating factor. The idea that most of what we think and do is completely beneath the surface and unseen, even by us, doesn’t feel right.

Who is in the driver’s seat, if not us?

Well, it is us, and it isn’t. It’s a tangled ball of instincts, emotions, assumptions, and hangups. We might call it the Id or whatever label you want to put on it but how much you can imply subconscious in a character’s actions can make all the difference.

Characters should rarely know everything about themselves, their motivations, their goals. Even a well-adjusted character has an ocean of unrealized thoughts churning below the surface. And these need not be complicated or confusing, but they’re there, and they decide everything.

Characters that are only about what they say and do are flatter and generally, more boring. They can still be serviceable and some stories work fine with those kind of stories. But most characters worth remembering have an unconscious at work, even if it’s never commented upon.

It’s really tricky to imply that unconscious, which is why characters in fiction often have at least some self-awareness. They might drop their guard at a moment and talk about themselves in a revealing way. They might acknowledge their screw ups. They might deny their problems so vehemently that it draws attention to them. It’s all about subtext in the end, and any character that just outright tells you how they feel and is right about it is either experiencing a moment of clarity or flatter than a pancake.

Of course, to understand a fictional character’s unconscious, we also have to acknowledge our own unconscious influences. And that’s a tough thing to wrestle with.

Dinner with Connie (short fiction)

Hey, Action Force. Here’s a short story set in the Constance Verity universe. Enjoy.

 

DINNER WITH CONNIE

Constance Verity

 

Connie was running late for dinner.

If it’d been just Byron, he’d have ordered out, but tonight was a big deal, so he decided to bake grandma’s classic lasagna. The recipe was pasta out of a box layered with tomato sauce out of a can layered with whatever sausage was around. Grandma had never been much of a cook, but it was easy and everyone in the family enjoyed it.

He was pulling it out of the oven when the doorbell rang. Maybe it was Connie, back from wherever. She might have lost her keys along the way. It’d happened before.

It was Mom and Dad and Dana. Mom was at the forefront, holding a hot dish in her hands. Her famous tuna casserole. Tuna from a can with macaroni from a box and whatever leftovers she had laying around. She was wearing her bright green blouse with all the frills because once, someone had told her green was her color. They were wrong, but no one had the heart to correct her.

“Mom, you didn’t have to bring anything.”

Byron reached for the dish, but she pulled it closer to herself. “Just in case. I’ll need to heat it up. Where’s your kitchen?”

She was already across the threshold and wandering around. It was all an excuse to snoop around a bit, but it was expected. He’d already locked up all of Connie’s dangerous artifacts and alien devices as a precaution.

Dad was next. He wrapped Byron in a bear hug and guffawed. “This is a hell of a place. She must be doing all right.” He set Byron down and slapped him on the back. “Way to go, son!”

Byron rubbed his shoulder. When he’d first been adopted, Hale’s size had been intimidating. He had images of this beast of a father standing over him like a tyrant. But Hale wasn’t that kind of guy, and he’d been a lot of fun to have as a dad. But even as an adult, Byron felt like a little kid standing next to his Dad.

“Oh, don’t be crass,” said Mom.

“Hey, it’s nice that she has money,.” said Dad. “Who’s complaining? I say let the woman take care of you, right?”

He laughed again, and Byron smiled despite himself.

“She’s not rich,” he said, although he didn’t know how much money Connie actually had. Just that she never seemed to care about it.

“Eh, close enough.”

Finally, Dana entered. She’d already been to the condo on more than one occasion, so she didn’t waste time appraising the place.

“Where’s Connie?” she asked, letting the question float through the room, but she was a little late as both Mom and Dad had already disappeared into the kitchen.

“She’s running a little behind,” he said, taking the bottle of wine from her before rushing off to check on their parents.

Mom was in the middle of peeling the tin foil to place her casserole in the microwave. Dad was checking out the appliances and nodded to himself with a wide satisfied grin.

“You don’t have to do that, Mom,” said Byron. “I made lasagna.”

“So people can have a little of both.” She slid the dish into the microwave and pushed the reheat button.

Dad said, “How much did this refrigerator cost?”

Byron shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Dad laughed and winked. “Nice.”

“So where is our boy’s best girl?” said Mom. “We can’t wait to meet her. I was telling your father on the way over her that the only other celebrity I’ve ever met was that lady from that commercial. You know that lady. The one who talks on the phone.”

Byron nodded. He knew of the lady on the phone from the commercial. It was one of Mom’s go to stories. “She’ll be here soon. Probably. And she’s really not a celebrity.”

“She has a bunch of Googles,” said Mom.

“You Googled her?”

“Just a little bit,” said Mom.

“She’s very pretty,” said Dad. “And how tall is she?”

“She’s average height,” said Dana, grumbling. “And she’s not that pretty. Above average at best.”

Byron ignored her.

“She seems tall in pictures,” said Dad.

“She seems taller than she is,” replied Byron.

“Well, we can’t wait to meet her,” said Mom.

Byron checked his phone. No texts. No missed calls, but she’d said she’d be here, and her last minute entrances were a staple of their relationship.

Mom put her hand on his phone and smiled at him. “I suppose it’s like being in a relationship with Wonder Woman. You have to expect missed appointments now and then.”

Her understanding came as a relief. And Dad was too busy admiring the condo to have anything negative to say. Byron hadn’t been too worried about them being critical. They’d never been hard on his girlfriends. Dana was the tough one to win over, and her big sister instincts remained on the defensive.

“Connie will be here,” he said. “She’s just late.”

“Where is she?” asked Dana.

“Oh, honey, I’m sure she has a very good reason,” said Mom.

“Yes, yes. What kind of tile is this? It looks expensive.”

“I don’t know, Dad.” He did know. He just didn’t feel like getting into the discussion.

Dad slapped him on the back again and winked.

“Connie is really cool and smart and funny,” said Byron.

“And not here,” said Dana. “Off saving the universe, I suppose, which is important, I guess.”

Byron burned his hand on the lasagna pan and sucked on his thumb as he grabbed the oven mitts. “Space mummies.”

“Is that a thing?” asked Mom.

“I don’t know. I might have misheard her. The call was a little garbled.”

“Oh my,” said Mom. “Well, it sounds exciting nevertheless.”

“How much does she get paid for doing stuff like that?” asked Dad.

“She doesn’t get paid for it,” said Byron. “It’s more of a calling.”

He checked his phone again. Nothing. Not that he expected anything, and he suspected Connie might not make it after all. He wasn’t worried. Much. She handled stuff like this all the time. Danger was her literal middle name. She knew how much this meant to him, but some things couldn’t be helped. The greater good and all that. Mom and Dad would understand. But Dana stood there, frowning.

“I can’t believe you two don’t have anything to say about this.”

“Your brother’s a grown man,” said Mom.

“With a girlfriend who spends most of her time in outer space and defuses bombs for a living.”

“Calling,” said Dad.

“She doesn’t spend that much time in outer space,” said Byron.

Dana folded her arms and shook her head. “How am I the only one who sees a problem here? He’s going to get hurt.”

Nobody said anything. Mom coped by checking on her tuna casserole while Dad took the opportunity to saunter out of the room.

“You’re out of line,” said Byron while Mom, humming, poked the dish with a fork.

“I’m just looking out for you,” said Dana. “Ignore the fact that you two don’t go together at all. She’s going to get hurt or get lost on some alien planet or something, and that’s going to suck for you.”

It was something he and Connie had already talked about on more than one occasion, and they’d worked it out, more or less. It was an ongoing discussion, but they’d figured out the big stuff. The rest was just details.

“Tell me you’re fine with it,” said Dana.

“I’m fine with it.”

“I get it. There’s this glitz and glamour with your cool adventurer girlfriend who does all this amazing stuff and then comes home to you. But–”

“But it’s really none of your business,” said Byron. “And it’s between Connie and me anyway.”

“So I’m supposed to not care?”

“Connie makes me happy,” he said. “Isn’t that enough?”

Dana lowered her chin. “I guess.”

“And, really, every relationship has issues.”

She shrugged and mumbled an agreement.

“Look, if you thought Connie was out to hurt me or use me, then maybe we could have this talk. But you know she loves me, right?”

Dana nodded. “Yeah, that’s pretty clear.”

“And I love her, and our life is complicated, but we’re making it work.”

“Her life is complicated.”

“It’s our life now,” he said.

“He’s right, Dana,” said Mom, surprising both of them. It wasn’t that Mom didn’t talk about feelings. She just didn’t usually pick sides. She’d mumble and wander away if someone asked if she preferred Coke or Pepsi.

“Okay,” said Dana, throwing her hands up. “You win. You love her. She loves you. You seem to manage things fine. But I still don’t have to like it.”

Something crashed through the living room windows. Byron recognized the sound because living with Connie meant hearing it a lot. A heavy buzz cut through the air as a bright blue energy bolt punched through the kitchen wall and melted the oven into a lump of molten slag.

Byron pulled Mom and Dana down, told them to stay low, and scrambled into the living room, where Connie was grappling a mummy in a retro-space suit, complete with bubble helmet and rocket pack.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I’ll need second.”

She threw the space mummy to the floor and knocked its raygun from its hand. The mummy swore in Coptic. Byron didn’t speak Coptic, but he knew swearing when he heard it. She twisted its arm behind its back. The dried withered flesh snapped, and her opponent scrambled free. She wrapped it in a scissor hold as it frantically reached for its gun.

“Oh my,” said Mom from behind Byron.

“I need my canopic jar,” said Connie. “It’s in the hall closet, the one with–”

“I know which one.” Byron ran to the closet and pushed aside a box of daggers. He found the jar under a golden fleece. He was gone only a few moments, but Mom and Dad and Dana stood in the kitchen entryway, watching Connie fight the mummy.

“Got it.” He held up the jar.

“Perfect.” Connie released her opponent and pulled a glowing knife from her utility belt. She jammed it into the clear helmet and yanked it out. “Open it.”

The space mummy howled as his unlife force poured from his eye sockets and mouth, slipping out of the hole in the helmet and rushing into the jar. In a few seconds the creature collapsed into a pile of dust in a spacesuit.

Connie slammed the lid shut on the jar and took it from Byron. “Perfect.” She set it on the coffee table, which had miraculously survived the fight unbroken. Not so for their couch, endtable, television, or two of the three lamps.

She straightened, brushed her hair out of her face, and smiled. Her own retro spacesuit was stained and battered, and she had a couple of scrapes on her cheeks, under her lip. “It’s a long story, but I’m here and ready for dinner. Byron, sweetie, could you maybe get some duct tape or something to seal that jar? Zyhotep of Osiris Station is a lousy party guest.” She extended her hand to Mom. “And you must be Barb. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Oh, no, no,” said Mom. “We hug in this family.”

She embraced Connie in her soiled spacesuit, and Dad laughed, slapping Byron on the shoulder, almost causing him to drop the jar containing the angry soul of an undead space tyrant.

Byron took the jar into the walk-in closet where he found some duct tape and proceeded to wrap it in several layers.

Connie appeared and kissed Byron, taking the jar from him. “So I’m going to drop this off with Susan Lash, rogue archeologist, in 2B real quick. Then I’ll come back, make myself presentable, and we can have dinner.” She gave him another quick peck on the cheek and disappeared.

Back in the dining room, Mom was setting the table, and Dad was appraising the silverware.

“She seems lovely,” said Mom. “And so pretty.”

“And she does seem taller than she is,” added Dad.

“I know, right?” said Byron.

While he was opening the wine, Dana leaned against the counter and sighed.“You were right,” said Dana . “She made it.”

“Told you so,” replied Byron.

“Just promise me you’ll keep your head down.”

“You know it, sis.”

Disenchantment and the Struggle for Relevance

My feelings on Disenchantment are complicated, but it comes down to this harsh truth: being cutting edge 30 years ago doesn’t guarantee you’ll be cutting edge today. Disenchantment feels like a show that would’ve been wildly creative a few decades ago, but is unremarkable now. And I hate saying that because it means admitting, as a creator, that I too probably have a limited shelf life.

There are always exceptions, but for the most part, staying relevant is tricky as an artist. It doesn’t help that many of the tropes Disenchantment takes aim at have been targeted more successfully by other comedic deconstructions. It really does feel like a show made by people who are just a step out of touch. As crazy as it might have seemed to have Princess Bean not be your typical princess, no princess is now you’re typical princess in fantasy fiction. Even Disney is eagerly deconstructing that old trope. And many others.

This isn’t just a function of Disenchantment’s creators being older and out of touch. Plenty of new writers think they’ve done something amazing when they’re far behind the curve. But Disenchantment feels like outsiders poking fun at a genre they don’t really understand. The Simpsons worked because it was a study in the family sitcom. Futurama worked because it understood science fiction tropes and how to subvert them. Disenchantment struggles because it doesn’t seem to grasp the genre it’s deconstructing.  What exactly is Disenchantment’s thesis statement? Why does it exist?

Yes, that’s pretentious artist speak, but it still matters.

The Simpsons started out as a takedown, deconstruction, and occasional reconstruction of the Family Sitcom, which had been a television staple for decades. In its beginnings, it took basic sitcom premises and either subverted or exaggerated them. Animation lends itself to such choices, and it was clear that Groening and the creators all understood what they were doing. The golden age of The Simpsons was all about that.

When people complain about The Simpsons losing its way, they’re usually talking about that period where the show ran out of classic sitcom tropes to explore and just fell into general wackiness. This was inevitable. Not only because the show kept running for decades but because the Family Sitcom isn’t nearly as relevant as it once was. It still exists, here and there, but it’s generally fueled by nostalgia. Certainly, it’s not the ubiquitous juggernaut of TV it once was. The Simpsons had a choice. Either circle around an outdated trope or move forward. Either was an imperfect choice, but I’d argue that the show made the right one. I’d also argue that The Simpsons is still funny, if a little slapdash and uneven. It’s just not funny in the way it was when it started.

Futurama is all about science fiction tropes, and if you listen to the commentary track on any episode, you’ll hear a writing staff that understands the tropes and ideas they’re exploring. For myself, when the show was canceled, I thought it was a good thing as they were probably running out of those tropes to explore. And then they moved to Comedy Central and proved that they had. The show started resorting to weird fantasy episodes and fell into general wackiness with a sci fi sheen.

With Disenchantment, it feels like a show that skipped right to the general wackiness step without ever stopping at the relevant exploration. It’s wildly inconsistent in even those elements it chooses to parody. Our kingdom is called Dreamland, which implies a sort of fairy tale send up. But it’s not very fairy tale. Instead, it’s a dark ages world where fantasy conceits take a backseat to cruel reality. And I suppose that could be something people might find interesting. In fact, they already do. It’s called A Game of Thrones, and it’s pretty popular from what I hear. And that seems to be the only reason Disenchantment exists. Because fantasy is popular now, but that’s hardly justification for a show without much to say.

There’s also the harsh truth that there’s a hell of a lot more competition in the animated sitcom arena. When The Simpsons premiered, they were the only game in town. Now, the field is crowded. There are plenty of shows exploring the animated sitcom format in various subgenres. Disenchantment just feels like another competitor, and not a very good one either.

And that really hurts to say because nobody wants to see great creators fail. And no creator wants to think about the prospect of their own possible failures. It’s simple for me to sit here and criticize Disenchantment for being okay, but it doesn’t change the fact that a lot of talented people are working on the show. And it just is okay. I’m reminded of my criticism of Incredibles 2, a film made by talented people that’s also guilty of being merely adequate. Or watching Steven Spielberg create the unexceptional Ready Player One. In all cases, these are artists who have created some of the greatest media of their times and now, they’re simply guilty of making something ordinary.

It’s a possibility that every artist has to face, but we labor on. And I hope that this is merely a hiccup for all these creators, who will go on to create relevant and amazing things in the future. But Disenchantment is just another okay creation from talented creators, and that’s a bummer.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

 

 

You Don’t Need That Premise

Constance Verity Saves the World (Constance Verity Book 2) is dropping on July 17th. It’s part of a trilogy, and you’ve all been bugging me a while to write a series, so here it is. Happy?

In all seriousness, I think the book is pretty awesome, and it’d be great if it made a big splash in the publishing world. So, hey, if you liked the first book, buy the next one. Or just skip ahead and buy this one. While it is a trilogy, each book is also meant to stand mostly on its own. So have no fear of getting stuck in a cliffhanger or an endless series. Look, I can’t make you buy the book but it’d be really cool if you did.

Enough of that.

Let’s talk about premise. What makes a premise work. What makes them not work. And why a great premise is not always your friend.

Science Fiction and Fantasy often begin with a premise. It might be something simple like “Plane crashes on an island of monsters” or complicated like, “A robot struggles with his place in society”. But almost always the jumping off point is that thing that helps to define it as Fantasy, though not always. Sometimes, the Fantastic elements (essential as they might seem) are set dressing. And usually, it’s not readily apparent because it’s more than enough to sustain a single story.

But then someone tries to make another story from the same material and, well, it becomes readily apparent what is vital and what isn’t. Often sequels or series fail because they mistake the set dressings and mechanisms for the central element of the story. The question of what is important and what is dispensable isn’t always obvious, but an easy way to explore this idea is to ask can this element be replaced and we end up with basically the same story.

Jurassic Park is about a park where dinosaurs are cloned and things go wrong. Do you know what element is least important to that formula? The cloning. Yes, it feels wrong to say that, but if we were to rewrite the story to that of an eccentric millionaire who discovers a lost island of dinosaurs and decides to turn it into a tourist park, does anything significantly change? In the first film, I would say no. The central theme of Humanity’s Hubris versus Nature’s Power remains intact, and every event in the film could still happen in the exact same way. Basically: Jurassic Park is about dinosaurs, not cloning. It was never meant to be about cloning. The cloning was simply a justification, and it works fine in the story. But it can easily be replaced with a dozen other justifications and the story wouldn’t change significantly.

Now with Fallen Kingdom, the films are about cloning. And while there’s still plenty of dinosaurs running around, the misstep is that cloning was never really an issue in Jurassic Park. In fact, bringing up cloning makes us ask questions. Like if they can clone dinosaurs, can’t they clone other animals? The sequels even begin to add genetic modification to the process, which brings up even more questions. In a world with this technology, wouldn’t there be incredible repercussions? Cloning like this is fraught with real world issues, but, really, we’re here to watch people run from dinosaurs. The premise of the series is, and probably should always be, “Dinosaurs are Neat?”, not “Are clones property?” That’s a fine premise for a story, but not a Jurassic Park story.

Incredibles 2 makes the same mistake by assuming “Superheroes are illegal” is its premise, but that was always a convention. The original film could be about a pair of older superheroes who’ve settled down to raise a family, and the father realizing that he’s unhappy with his choices. Most of the conflict could exist. Making supers illegal is just a convenient way of jumping right to the point in the conflict, but as a premise, it was never what defined The Incredibles. By choosing to make it the central conflict of the sequel, the movie makes a huge misstep. Not only is it stuck telling the same basic story (but worse), but it renders the plot and villain’s motivation and actions nonsensical.

One of the reasons I tended toward standalone novels up to this point was because it’s far too easy to get distracted by mechanisms and premises when exploring an ongoing work. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to avoid it, since so many other great writers fall into that trap. (Not that I’m calling myself great here.) I will say that the premise of Constance Verity, of a pulp-inspired adventurer trying to find balance is something I choose specifically because I thought it had legs.

In The Last Adventure of Constance Verity, the premise is used to explore Connie’s quest for work / life balance.

In Constance Verity Saves the World, the premise is used to explore Connie’s tendency toward self-reliance and isolation.

There are plenty of premises that would allow these thematic explorations, but those premises would be very different in tone and style. The absurdity of Connie’s constant adventures is a defining characteristic for her outlook and the world she lives in. It could be retooled, but change it too much and while the theme might remain, Connie and her world wouldn’t.

Ideally, premise and story work hand-in-hand, but it’s not always necessary. There are tons of moments in the Constance Verity books where something weird happens where something else weird could happen. Considering how often peril menaces Connie, nothing is off the table. So when I create a reference to something in her past or have her ambushed by a peculiar circumstances, I’m not usually concerned with them creating a logical continuity. By default, Connie’s world isn’t logical. It’s full of chaos and danger and that’s the impression you should get.

A friend of mine coined The A. Lee Martinez Rule: “I’m not going to explain everything to you, but I won’t cheat.”

And explanations are often overrated anyway. It’s like writers bending over backwards to explain how Bruce Banner could transform into the Hulk or how the batcomputer got in the Batcave. It’s not that a writer can do anything without explaining it, but that if you have to work that hard to explain it, maybe consider it simplifying it. A premise should open possibilities, not remove them. And a story should rarely (never say never) be a long form justification for a story mechanism.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

 

On Tropes

Tropes are those tools we use to tell stories. They’re ideas so ingrained and familiar that you don’t have to work that hard to understand them, and as a tool, they are just part of the trade. Humans have been writing stories for thousands upon thousands of years, and there really is nothing new to be done. Just variations of what already is. It is virtually impossible to subvert a trope without stumbling into another trope, and that isn’t a bad thing. Tropes themselves are not bad.

But creating an interesting story is all about creating with intention, and the insidious aspect of tropes is that they often pop up because they’re expected, not because they work or are necessary. My recent thoughts on The Incredibles 2 can be summarized thusly: A lot of tropes without intent equals a functional but forgettable story. This is a bit of a bummer since I love the first film precisely because of how carefully considered its chosen story beats are. There is nothing in The Incredibles that is there simply to be there. Everything, every line, every joke, every cliché, every subversion is designed to fit together, creating such a tightly constructed story that nothing is wasted. Incredibles 2 is just sort of there, and that’s okay. But that’s all it is.

Okay.

But I’m not interested in picking on any particular story. Especially a story whose only real crime is being an okay follow up to an amazing film. I’m here to talk about the perils of tropes. At my writer’s group (DFW Writers Workshop), we always have a steady stream of new writers, and one thing a lot of new writers (and experienced writers for that matter) do is imitate. We all do to some degree. It’s impossible not to. But imitation without intent is when we run into story beats that function without engaging. They don’t exist with thought, but because of expectations.

“Why does your superhero have to be conflicted?”

“Why is the protagonist’s marriage falling apart?”

“Why do these characters dislike each other?” 

“Just why?”

Now, the obvious answer to these types of questions is to talk about the events of the story.

“My superhero is conflicted because he worries about his family.”

“The marriage is falling apart because they want different things.”

“Because they’re jerks.”

“Just because.”

But those aren’t answers. Those are events, plot motion. Great stories are usually more than that. We’re often told that conflict drives stories, and it is a lot harder to create interesting stories without conflict (though it can be done), but conflict isn’t enough. Not to get back to criticizing The Incredibles 2 but it is most recent example. In the first film, why is Mr. Incredible so down? Because he’s a superhero not allowed to be super, which is the obvious answer, but the deeper answer is that he has a deep compulsion to help people, a love of the adventure of the job, and just a general joy in getting to use his abilities in a productive way. This is contrasted against his job as a nameless cog in an office whose job is to literally deny people the help they need. His ideal, the job he was once among the best of, was to stand in the spotlight, saving people through his outstanding abilities. His new life is everything the opposite of that. It’s not just that Bob Parr has a crappy job. It’s that THIS crappy job is the furthest thing from being a superhero.

Every aspect of The Incredibles is like this, and while it isn’t so intrusive that you’re reminded you’re watching a carefully constructed story, it is all there to be scene and absorbed. Yes, the crappy job, the mid-life crisis, the family conflict, the returning villain with an axe to grind, and much more are all tropes, but they are carefully chosen and molded. Incredibles 2 just sort of grabbed whatever was available (harried father, TV-themed mind control villain, teen angst, etc.) and jammed them together. They work, but there is nothing there to make them uniquely Incredibles.

At the DFW Writers Conference two weeks ago, acclaimed writer Scott Westerfeld gave a keynote about POV. His observation about clichés was that they don’t really belong to any character and that’s why they’re uninteresting. To paraphrase a great quote: “The basement was as dark as a cave.” works, but doesn’t tell you anything about the character who is experiencing it. But “The basement was as black as a Hollywood agent’s soul.” says everything.

The best moments in Incredibles 2 do that. I’d argue the only outstanding sequence in the sequel is Jack-Jack versus the raccoon because it’s the only scene that’s uniquely suited to the world of the film. It’s also full of creative energy. It’s several tropes: Child vs. Pest, Temperamental Child, and Superpowers, all put together in a way that makes it something you wouldn’t see anywhere else.

A creator only reaches the next level when they start applying tropes with intent. That doesn’t have to mean subversion or challenging the expected. It just means applying with intent and not out of reflex. New writers are often so busy learning the basics that they don’t have the energy or ability to focus on that, and that’s just part of the process of becoming a better creator. We can’t hit a homerun our first time at bat. But as their skill improves, so should their understanding of the deeper mechanisms of storytelling. Although some will never get past the stage of writing well and applying tropes as expected, which isn’t the worst thing.

But every writer (new or experienced) can pause to reflect now and then about the tropes they’re using. Otherwise, even a skilled creator can end up falling back into the expected without considering why? There’s nothing wrong with doing the expected or not doing it, but do either because you want to, not because you think you have to. Or, worse, because you never really thought about it at all.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

Star Wars and Overthinking the Race Issue

It’s time to talk about Star Wars and racism.

Yeah, it’s going to get a bit weird.

Race and racism (institutionalized or otherwise) is one of the most vexing issues any society struggles with. It’s a complicated, touchy subject in the real world and placing it in a fantastic context doesn’t really make it easier to discuss. There’s also the question of whether it empowers or trivializes that discussion to place the issue in a fantastic setting. I won’t dare to give any sort of definitive answer. But stories are created by humans, and humans struggle with racism, bigotry, and a million other issues that show up in our fiction, whether we like it or not. So here’s a quick disclaimer:

All ideas and conclusions put forth in this blog aren’t aimed at solving racism or offering any particular new insight into the problems of real world racism. Rather, it’s all about how fiction, even fantastic fiction, frames race for our shared culture. I’m just one writer discussing complex social issues via a series of movies about space wizards and broad “Good vs. Evil” themes. Keep that in mind.

Got it? Good. Let’s get to it.

One of my biggest pet peeves as a writer is Fantasy Racism. I don’t mean the appearance of racism in fantastic settings, although that’s not my favorite thing. I usually avoid any overt and obvious racism in my own work, not because I find it realistic but because it’s my story and if I don’t want there to be racism, there doesn’t have to be any. It’s a convention and an unrealistic one. But, like I said, there my stories so I can do what I want.

The Fantastic Racism I’m talking about is when a character is primarily defined by their fantastic race or species. This happens all the time. So often, we know the tropes by heart: Stubborn dwarves, Aloof elves, Brutish orcs, etc. We know them so well that we’ve transported them into space. Klingons are just space orcs, and Vulcans are space elves. It’s just built into how we characterize non-human characters.

And it, frankly, bothers the hell out of me. In Star Trek, a fictionalized universe devoted to a more inclusive tomorrow, we still have all Klingons be warriors, all Romulans be shifty, all Ferengi be greedy. There’s a trope called Planet of Hats that covers it. Whether it’s conservation of detail or laziness or just unintentional, Star Wars talks about a better tomorrow while simultaneously suggesting that one Klingon is pretty much interchangeable with another.

To be fair, we do this sort of shorthand all the time. The original Predator tells us nothing about the title character. We only know that he’s a sports hunter come to Earth to collect trophies. There’s no reason to assume that his entire culture is like this, or that the Predator homeworld might be full of peace loving citizens trying to shut down the trophy hunting hobbyists on their own world. By Predator 2, an ending gag suggests that this is a way of life for the race. Although, again, we’ve only seen a very small percentage of them at this point.

This extends to even human characters. The first Jedi we met culturally was Obi-Wan Kenobi. A desert dwelling loner who dresses and lives like a desert dwelling loner. Within a short time, all Jedi were defined by this aesthetic, which only really makes sense if you assume that disillusioned, in-hiding Jedi Master Obi-Wan is the default setting for an entire order of space wizards.

Shorthand. It leads to weird places.

Race in Star Wars is a peculiar thing. The series focuses almost entirely on humans, with a few token non-humans here and there. While there is a sense of a larger universe, if one goes solely by the films (and that’s all I’m going by. Sorry, cartoon and EU fans) aliens are mostly a special effect. They’re there. They make nice set dressing. Occasionally one speaks. But mostly they’re there to remind us this is a science fantasy setting. That’s not a problem in itself. But there is a shorthand at work in the Star Wars films, and it isn’t one I’m always comfortable with.

There’s a formula for a Star Wars alien, and it depends entirely on how important that alien is, the location, and whether we’re supposed to like that alien.

Jabba the Hutt is giant, slug-like, and doesn’t speak English. He also lives in a dark den full of weird aliens. This codes him as a bad guy.

Greedo is humanoid, but with a weird non-human face. He doesn’t speak English. We meet him a dark den full of weird aliens. This codes him as a bad guy.

Admiral Ackbar is a humanoid fish alien. He speaks English. He wears white. He sits on a brightly lit bridge. This codes him as a good guy.

The Cantina is dark and full of weird creatures. This codes it as a seedy, dangerous locations.

Dryden Voss’s space yacht is brightly lit, full of mostly humans with mostly humanoid aliens with human-like faces. It is a dangerous place, but it is also coded to be a more outwardly civilized place.

The bar we meet young Lando in is dark and full of strange aliens. This codes it as a scummy, lower class place.

If you take these locations and others at face value, you could safely assume that you were in a safer, more civilized portion of the galaxy depending entirely on how many human faces you see around you.

Of course, someone will point out that the Empire is full of humans, and this is coding for its fascist leanings. And that’s correct. Sort of. Like most decisions of this sort, it has a lot to do with the logistics of making a movie. Aliens of all sorts show up more frequently in the animated and EU stuff. And I get that. As a writer, one of the reasons I write novels is that it’s a lot easier to write a story featuring things like a squid in power armor and his loyal giant ultrapede than it is in a movie or TV show.

A big reason for all this coding, intentional or not, is simply practicality. The cantina is dark and filled with weird aliens because it’s not a hugely important scene and it’s easier to cram aliens FX in a dark room than in a bright location. Jabba’s palace is a controlled location, far easier to create with showcasing weird aliens (including Jabba) in mind. Lando’s bar in Solo is basically a set built around a table where a bunch of animatronic and CGI aliens can be more easily inserted. On the reverse side, Chewbacca is a character who is relatively low tech and able to operate under lights and without having to build a set around him. Same for C3-P0 and R2DT.

It still doesn’t help that Star Wars uses weird aliens as code for danger. It’s still just a wee bit xenophobic that there are no truly weird aliens in Star Wars that we’re supposed to like or identify with. It’s not a deal breaker necessarily, and it isn’t that the creators are trying to say anything while doing this. But then again, we say things all the time without meaning to. How many stories have we experienced where minority was code for criminal? And most of that was a subtle blend of indifference, stereotype, and harmful racism.

Recently, I watched a zombie film where the initial infected are Hispanics. My first thought was that this could easily be interpreted in a negative way. To the film’s credit, it does take the time to show that these characters have some depth (as much as most minor characters in a movie) and even portrays them as sympathetic to a degree. It made me more comfortable with the idea, and once they turn into zombies, they’re pretty much monsters but this is true of every character. (No, I won’t name the movie. It wasn’t very good, and I didn’t finish it.)

Watching Solo, I found myself less forgiving of the expectations and shorthand it relied on. A character like Rio or L3, who are complicated special effects, take a lot of work to implement. But this is a weak excuse since there are ways around that. There are ways to make characters cheaper, to make them easier to use. If you don’t do it, you don’t care.

And how many aliens are worth naming in the Star Wars film universe? (Again, not the cartoons or EU.) No, it’s mostly humans, and until recently, mostly white guys. And this wasn’t an overt choice, but it was a choice. And it’s a choice that affects everything around it. And it’s not like I’m the first guy to notice Star Wars‘s complicated relationship with race, stereotypes, and aliens. It’s easy to look at that stuff and say people are overthinking it, but that’s often a criticism from people who don’t want to think about it at all.

I’m not saying more aliens in Star Wars would solve racism. There’s every indication that many people have an easier time identifying with Chewbacca than a person of a different color or social background. And you really have to look no further than many of the complaints about the new films. A wookie is an alien being who doesn’t speak English, but fans can be more accepting of Chewie than of a woman or a black man. Because a wookie doesn’t threaten them. Racism and bigotry are huge issues, and Star Wars is more of a symptom of that than any sort of cause.

But I still like aliens, and I still like it when aliens are allowed to be weird. There’s a scene in the much-maligned Green Lantern film (which I liked quite a bit) where Hal Jordan arrives on Oa and is surrounded by all manner of aliens. And those aliens are weird, from insectoids to rock creatures to robots. And it’s a moment in the film that really excites me because it implies that the universe is huge and brimming with life forms and that those life forms are worthy of heroism in their own regard. Am I reading too much into it? Sure, but it does feel inclusive in a weird way.

And I’ve never really felt that in a Star Wars film, even in a fantastic way, which is a real shame.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

The Blog Post about Blog Posting

You don’t need to blog.

You just don’t.

If you are an aspiring writer, and you want to blog, go ahead and blog. But you don’t need to.

You can stop reading right here if you like because everything from now on is just a more thorough dissection on that statement.

Still there? Cool.

I’ve posted about this topic several times before, but every so often, it’s nice to have a reminder. Buckle up. This might be rough.

Nobody cares about your random thoughts on stuff. You are probably not that interesting. And even if you are, there is probably somebody more interesting and popular around the corner that people would rather pay attention to. The internet is not waiting to hear from you, and even if you do manage to create amazing content it’ll most likely get swallowed up and forgotten by the maelstrom that is internet culture.

And that’s okay.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t blog or be on social media. A lot of people do it just to keep in touch with friends and family, and that’s not a bad reason. But if you feel that it will make or break your career, you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. You’re also likely discouraging yourself from doing what you want to do to actually advance your goals.

Unless your goal is to blog, in which case, good job.

Now I’m a mildly successful writer. I manage to make a living at this, and so far, no one’s kicked me out of the secret writer clubhouse in the Amazon forest where James Patterson throws balled up papers with ideas at the plebes and J.K. Rowling sometimes shares her notes on which Harry Potter characters are secretly robots. (HINT: All of them.) I’ve got a movie going on in China and some other stuff in the fire. I’ve been published in multiple languages. I’ve had my own San Diego Comic-Con Panel, won an Alex Award, the Amelia Bloomer Award for Outstanding Feminist Fiction, and I once almost talked to George Lopez on the phone!

I have 2,000 Twitter followers.

Nobody cares, and that’s okay. I want people to like my books, not me. In my ideal world, nobody would know anything about me. The other day, I caught a tweet where someone thought I was a woman, and I felt no compulsion to correct them. I was just happy they liked the book.

This blog, which you are now reading, gets maybe 100 visits a day on a good day. It doesn’t seem to matter if I update it regularly or not. The content I create (including a ton of free short stories that are sitting right there for anyone to read) doesn’t get people excited often. And it’s just the way it is.

So blog. Or don’t. But don’t worry about your social media platform like it means anything.

Also, if an agent or editor doesn’t want you unless you’ve got an established social media platform, they are probably not the agent editor for you. Just saying.

Now, there are always exceptions. And you might be one of those exceptions.

But you aren’t.

I’m not telling anyone they shouldn’t engage in social media. Rather, I’d say that if you have a choice between social media and doing something actually productive, you should probably do the productive thing. And if, by some chance, doing social media is your way of being productive, go for it. I find that I do write more when I post regularly. The mere act of writing something, of formulating thoughts in cogent ways, gets my juices flowing. It’s weird, but it seems to be true.

So find what works for you, but if you find that social media is distracting you, get rid of it. It won’t hurt your career. I promise.

Now go on and do something worth doing.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

 

 

Dayfall at the Edge of Breakfast (short fiction)

DAYFALL AT THE EDGE OF BREAKFAST Super Janine
 Sometimes, you wake up and realize you’ve made a horrible mistake, and the only thing you can do is roll over and put off dealing with it for a few hours more. I glanced over at where Robert would be sleeping, but he wasn’t there anymore. I imagined he was off plotting his plans for world domination or bragging to his cohorts about his conquest last night.  God, I hoped he was planning world domination. The curtains of the dozen giant windows in the bedroom parted as soft music filled the room. I pulled the pillow over my face and suppressed a scream. I couldn’t believe I’d done it. It was such a cliché. Superhero and villain, archenemies, lovers.  Archenemies? That was a stretch. My team had stopped him from conquering the world once or twice, but who hadn’t? He had always been industrious. Lovers? It was just one night. I was getting ahead of myself.The doors opened with a soft click, and I heard the sharp tap of heels as Robert’s personal valet entered the room. She marched across the exquisite Italian tile and stood by the bed, not saying anything. The pillow covering my face, I couldn’t see anything. But I could sense her. Like a cobra, waiting to strike. I waited for her to say something. I waited a while more. But she just stood there, waiting for me.  I pulled the pillow away. Madeline was a striking woman, tall and lean. The snakes of her hair writhed around her green face. She wore sunglasses to hide her piercing blue eyes, able to kill a person at twenty yards, give or take. She smiled, revealing sharp teeth, but still not entirely unfriendly. “Robert was hoping you would join him for breakfast.” I pulled the blanket up higher to cover me, and if Madeline was judging, she hid it well. Even with the snakes and scales, she was beautiful. I wasn’t built like that. Never had been. It was stupid to feel self-conscious. Didn’t stop me from feeling it. The sun was high in the sky outside the windows. “What time is it?” “Eleven minutes until noon.” “Little late for breakfast,” I said. She straightened her jacket and folded her hands behind her back. “Shall I inform him you’ll be joining him?” I was hungry, and assuming Robert was nice enough to lend me a jet, it was still an hours flight from Apocolyptistan to home.I sat up, letting the covers slide down a little. Madeline might have been taller and slimmer and more alluring, but I could still break her in two if it came down to it. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” “Very good. Feel free to use the bathroom to refresh yourself. You’ll find your clothes, washed and pressed, in the wardrobe. No need to rush. Please, at your leisure.”  That might have been sarcastic. She was impossible to read. She turned and walked away, not tapping at all this time. I went to the window and surveyed the countryside. The grassy plains around Fortress Destiny were lush. A small village, looking like something out of an oil painting, sat on the horizon. Apocalyptistan was beautiful. Always had been. Robert had never been the kind of villain to strike out mindlessly. He’d always tried to make the world better. Sometimes, that involved lifting an impoverished nation into one of the most prosperous countries on earth. Sometimes, it involved creating robot armies and death rays. He was a complicated guy. I took a shower and got dressed. I didn’t hurry because I didn’t want Robert to think I was snapping to his command. Also, I wasn’t looking forward to the morning after. When I opened the bedroom door, Madeline was waiting for me. It might have been good timing, or she might have been standing there for the twenty minutes it took me to get ready. Either way, she said, “Right this way” before leading me through the castle.  Fortress Destiny was different in the daylight and also when I wasn’t smashing my way through it in a mad rush to destroy a doomsday device. The Grecian column I’d used as a baseball bat to crush a hovertank had been replaced, and all the fire damage from that time Reactroid had exploded hadn’t left so much as a radioactive scorch mark. But that had been years ago. Madeline led me to a quiet nook where Robert sat at a small table, swiping on a tablet. I still expected him to be wearing that cape, that metal skull mask that he shouldn’t have been able to make work. There’d always been some debate what he’d looked like under there, and a lot of people were disappointed when it proved to be just a face, neither especially ugly nor particularly handsome. His cheeks were too round to be suitably villainous, and he had a small scar over his right eyebrow that didn’t strike anyone as noteworthy. Without the powered exosuit and voice modulator and “I shall rule the world” dialogue, he was just a guy. He set down the tablet and stood as I entered. He smiled and I smiled back, despite myself. He gestured at a seat at the table, which Madeline pulled out for me. He waited for me to sit. He’d always been a touch old-fashioned. His first words were for Madeline, to have the kitchen make whatever I wanted for breakfast. I ordered scrambled eggs and toast, so as not to make a fuss, and after she left, Robert and I sat in silence, smiling awkwardly, for a few moments. “Well . . . . ” he said. “Well . . . . ” I replied. It was weird seeing Robert tongue tied. “I had a great time last night.” He put his hand on mine but glanced away at the same time, like he wasn’t sure what to do. “Me, too.” I put my hand on his, but it all felt strange.  I’d never been great at dating, and after getting my superpowers, I’d been too busy foiling giant robot attacks and alien invasions to think much about it. It’d been years since . . . . God, how many years? Better not to think about it. “Robert, I did have a great time last night, but I’m thinking–” “Bad idea,” he interrupted. It was a relief to hear him say it. Also, disappointing. “I know you’re reformed now, but–” “Oh, I’m not reformed,” he said. The admission derailed my prepared speech. I pulled my hands away, and it was his turn to be disappointed. “You’re not?” I asked. “Depends on what you mean by reformed, I suppose.”  He stood and turned his back to me, gazing out the windows. It was only then that I realized the view outside was of daybreak, that the clouds and birds hung suspended in the sky, unmoving. “Dawn is always my favorite time of day,” he said. “That’s why I had this room built. Never could get my time modulator to reverse temporal flow, but I can stop it. In this room. A perfect moment.” An edge crept into my voice. “Don’t tell me this was all sort of elaborate ruse to get me in a helpless position.” He turned and frowned. “No. How could you think that after last night?” “You just admitted you were still a bad guy.” “No, I said I wasn’t reformed, but I’ve never been a bad guy.” “The world you’ve imperiled might disagree.” He laughed. “If I’ve imperiled the world, it’s only because it refuses to accept my attempts to improve it.” Supervillain talk. What had I done last night? “My goals remain the same,” he said. “It’s only methodology that has changed. The robot armies, the doomsday devices, everything like that, it fell apart every time. No matter how perfect the plan, no matter how flawless my execution, there was always someone there to thwart me. And it dawned on me on this very moment that I’ve bottled in time that I could never win through brute force or intellectual superiority.” “So are you a villain or not?” “That’s a loaded term. One nation’s hero is another’s villain. But I’m not interested in the more flamboyant designs, if that’s what you mean. For now.” I still couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Was he warning me? Trying to win me over? Both? Madeline brought in my eggs and set them before me with a glass of juice. He dismissed her, and I ate as he stood at the window. “I get it,” I finally said. “Thanks for being honest with me.” “I’ll always be honest with you, Janine.” There was a sadness in his voice. He wanted to lie about it, and I wanted him to. It’d been a great night, and he was a great guy in so many ways. But he was who he was, and I was who I was. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask me to join you,” I said. “Would you have said yes?” I didn’t answer, and he smiled and winked. I’m not saying I would’ve gone for his “Together, we will rule the world” speech, but a girl liked to be asked nonetheless. “It was a lovely night,” he said. I joined him by the window and took his hand. “And a perfect morning.” And in that room, in that moment of time, we enjoyed it for a few hours more.

A Sea of White

I can always do better.

We all can.

As a writer, I’ve come to see is the lie of “Colorblind” writing. The idea presented is that if writers don’t deliberately describe a character, the audience is free to imagine that character in whatever fashion they might want. It’s a great idea in theory. One of the things I love about writing is how much I can allow the audience to do the work. My own style is often mistaken for YA-influenced because I’m not a big fan of overlong descriptions. It’s not because I am trying to write simpler. It’s because I honestly don’t give much of a damn about stuff like that, often finding it uninteresting in stories I read. When I describe something, it should matter. And if it doesn’t matter, I don’t tend to describe it.

This applies to my characters as well. I often don’t describe my protagonists unless they have something noteworthy about their appearance. And if they’re human, which they sometimes are, I don’t usually give them much of a description beyond the most basic. What’s interesting here is that I’m not one of those writers who actively imagines his human characters. I tend to keep them vague even in my own mind, unless it’s necessary to know something about them. Earl the vampire is scrawny and balding. Duke the werewolf is fat and unshaven. Nessy the kobold is a little brown dog-like creature. The Nurgax is a purple people eater. Vom the Hungering is a fuzzy mouth on legs.

But a lot of the ordinary humans don’t get much of a description, and if I had my druthers I prefer it that way. Picture the character with brown hair or blond, short or tall, skinny or fat, whatever. It doesn’t usually matter to me. But there’s a catch.

If you don’t describe a character, they will usually be imagined as white. It’s not simply a matter of bigotry. It’s a function of our own cultural programming. White is default. It’s just the way it is. For a long time, I didn’t worry about that.

I worry about it now.

As I’ve mentioned before, Phil and Teri Robinson from Divine Misfortune are meant to be black. Both solidly middle-class from middle-class backgrounds. They don’t “sound” black, and they don’t “act” black, but in my mind that was a product of their environment and background. It’s not necessarily realistic, though this is also a novel about gods hanging out in the modern world so realism isn’t always a concern. Still, there’s absolutely no indication that Phil and Teri are black. No descriptions. No comments from other characters. No jokes or asides. They’re black in the way that Dumbledore is gay, which is to say completely without consequence on the story they’re in.

And that’s a cop out.

Don’t get me wrong. I like Phil and Teri, and I think they’re good characters. I’m not interested in going back and making them more “urban” or whatever you would want to call it. That wouldn’t fit with who they are, and the voice would probably be all wrong because I’m not the person to be writing that story with any authenticity. It’s my universe, my rules, and there is nothing in Phil and Teri’s behavior I feel is a disservice to them. I like them fine as characters, but the fact that they are coded white in so many ways and that the story doesn’t actually challenge that assumption means that Phil and Teri aren’t black. They’re white, and there’s nothing in the text to say otherwise.

Like deciding Dumbledore is gay, it’s meaningless portrayal. In many stories, a character’s sexuality, race, etc might not be important, but if you don’t describe these things in the story, the assumption will be that they’re “normal”, and that means . . . well, we know what that means. It’s an insidious little world, an insidious little assumption that enables us to continue to see so many aspects of humanity and human behavior as Outsiders.

And writers who avoid addressing the issue explicitly are part of the problem. Writers like me.

If I could change Divine Misfortune, I’d go back and add some indicators of the Robinson’s ethnic background. It wouldn’t be relevant to the story. In my worlds, prejudice and bigotry tend to not be important because they’re my worlds and I’m allowed to do that. But it wouldn’t be hard to mention that the Robinsons aren’t white. And I’d do that.

Misfortune came out seven years ago (jeez, where does the time go?), and I’ve published four other novels, and it’s been mostly a non-issue. The protagonist of Chasing the Moon is described as blond, I believe. It’s been while, and, as I’ve said, the appearance of most characters don’t matter much to me. Emperor Mollusk and Zala are a space squid and a lizard woman, respectively, so it’s not a big deal.

In Helen & Troy’s Epic Road Quest, Helen is both ethnically Greek and magically a minotaur, and Troy is clearly Japanese-America. Both were deliberate choices on my part. Helen Nicolaides is Greek because I thought it fit with her minotaurism, and Troy Kawakami is the All-American guy subversion of the white dude we so often see in the role. If I had it to do over again, I’d probably have given Helen a different ethnic background to shake things up. It’s my world, after all. There’s absolutely no reason why a Pakistani or French or Argentinian family couldn’t be afflicted with the minotaur curse.

(ASIDE: I deliberately avoided making Epic Road Quest a world of Greek mythology. There are references to many mythic traditions throughout the book, as well as the well-worn tropes of fantasy in general. But I think making Helen Greek and a minotaur puts many people in a very limited frame of reference, which is a shame. I don’t know if a shake up would avoid this, probably not, but it would be worth a shot.)

And now I’m working on the Constance Verity Trilogy. From the beginning, Connie is described as “ethnically indeterminate”, which I thought was a clever way of saying she wasn’t white but not saying what her ethnic background was. In the first book, her parents remain unnamed and there are almost no references to what Connie actually looks like.

Yeah, I’d do it differently now.

Worse though, there’s almost no reference to Tia, her best friend and sidekick, of being black. The only solid indication is that her last name is Durodoye, which is Nigerian in origin. At least Hiro, by virtue of his first name and his occupation (ninja), is easy enough to recognize as ethnically Japanese. And Bonita Alvarado (though not what she initially appears) can be seen as clearly non-white.

That’s a huge misstep, and one I’m tired of making.

The good news is that the terrific covers by John Picacio correct that problem for Connie, clearly marking her as a non-white person. And the second book does make it more explicit, with a reference or two, that Tia isn’t white. And the third book establishes that Connie’s parents are named Augusto and Jiya, fitting the covers’ portrayal of a person of mixed, non-white ethnicity. It’s something I’m happy to correct, and I will continue to think about in everything I write in the future.

The inevitable pushback when bringing up topics like this is that someone will ask, “Why does it matter?”

It’s not always a white person who asks.

But it usually is.

And I too love the idea that it shouldn’t have to matter. In my perfect world, it wouldn’t. But we don’t live in a perfect world, and ignoring the realities of that world in favor of some expectation of how the world “should” work is a great example of, well, privilege. It’s not that having privilege guarantees a great life, but it does allow many to ignore the cultural coding that surrounds them.

The very question: “Why does it have to be political?” is one of luxury. In a world where a female-led Ghostbusters is met with countless raging fanboys and where a superhero movie starring a diverse non-white cast is seen as threatening (even while surrounded by a whole universe of White-People-Save-The-World films set in the same shared setting), you can bet it matters.

We can always do better.

And I will.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write.

LEE