Reading in 2013

by Stella Atrium 1/3/13
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My resolution for 2013 centers on more structured reading, maybe with a group, and posting reviews where the group discusses results. Goodreads is a great place to start, but the smaller challenges are fun too. Here's two that I embrace in January:

My Love/Hate Relation with Gene Wolfe
by Stella Atrium 12/8/12
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Gene Wolfe inspired me to write when I was younger, and by example expanded my courage to take chances for breaking the rules and following my characters into new territory. But his stories also make me pull my hair out, like he betrays the reader after so carefully gaining her trust. Do you have a similar frustration with Wolfe or with a favorite author?

Below are examples of my ongoing love/hate relationship with Gene Wolfe: only a taste, I could talk about this frustration all day long.

Language:

 

Love – Wolfe has no fear of made up words, mostly based on Latin such as dimarchi for soldiers. In the combined four books of Shadow & Claw, I viewed the peppering of strange words like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

Hate – He carries this habit too far in The Urth of the New Sun where sunset is nightshade and sunrise is shadeup, along with many other simple word changes. The one-to-one transposing is only irritating and slows the reader who recognizes the device. Less is more.

 Narrator:

Love – The narrator is identified as writing from a place of long experience, injecting his later-gained wisdom into the story of a young man’s adventures.

The narrator often starts a new section within a chapter with a sidebar about his present visceral responses – left to answer a summons, but returned after dark –  without explaining the gap between where he sits and how he got there.

Hate – The narrator changes voices! I hate that! At the end of Book I of Shadow & Claw, he adds an appendix that tries to explain the use of Latin words as substitutes for translations of a dead language, thus casting himself as a translator rather than the writer of the memoir/adventure story.

Hate – In On Blue Waters, the narrator who again is an older version of the protagonist starts with a remorseful description of how he lost his wife, but never mentions her again after he rescues a mermaid who he maimed (naked, of course). The reader suspects the short piece of remorse, written separately maybe as a short story, utilized as impetus for starting the adventure, was inserted to get the reader going without a connection to the ultimate outcomes.

 Characters:

Love – Gene Wolfe is a great favorite among guys who are sci-fi fans because the point of view is from a soldier or executioner. The brooding philosophy adds moments of considering life on a larger scale and his place in the stream of events.

In Shadow & Claw, again, the protagonist named Severian has executioner skills and delivers a sucker punch better than Jason Bourne. He wins all fights, and women all want to bed him, stripping at a moment’s notice, even those women who are about to betray him.

Hate – Minor and long-term characters are often underdeveloped, only in the scene to help Severian unravel the present mystery. His nemesis Racho comes and goes posing as any convenient character and seems a paranoid delusion much like Moriarty to Sherlock Homes.

Hate – Characters are varied and described for personal quirks that are endearing but not revealing of motivation. Coincidences that force paradigm shifts are taken in stride. Female characters have no occupation and never wield decision-making power, only there to hold his sword.

Storyline:

Love – The worlds are complex and the gods are kept at arm’s length. The powers-that-be seem about to arrive with punishment for infractions. The hero’s impetus is well-drawn and his daily motivation is steady.

Love – Often a side adventure while the protagonist is trying to retrace his steps while lost in the city, or an engaging dream while the hero is healing from a fight, add to the reader’s enjoyment of myth and otherworldliness.

Hate – Plot developments are dependent on coincidence, and change-ups happen out of the blue. The characters shrug and drift in a new direction without anger or worry about where to gain tomorrow’s meal.

In Lathro in the Mist, for example, the writer covers this habit of disjointed plotlines because Lathro is brain-damaged and doesn’t remember yesterday without the help of his diary. However, the denouement of the plot is so general and poorly connection to characters (Lathro is rescued by the Roman soldiers – deus ex machina  –  who think he’s a great warrior) that the reader, once again, feels cheated after the investment of time to read 600 pages.
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Of course I will continue to read, and re-read, Gene Wolfe in order to feed my soul. But I may soon be bald from pulling my hair out from frustration. Feel free to add your ideas about his genius and bad habits, or mention an author who has a similar effect on you.

Halloween Postscript:

What is the fascination Americans have with the undead? Vampires and zombies and wrights (read GRR Martin) and werewolves and immortal enemies of Asgaard fill our screen with increasing levels of gore and violence.  Even Abraham Lincoln must address bloodlusty creatures before he can rid the country of the bonds of slavery.  There’s some spillover too.  Regular people in a post-apocalyptic world must be destroyed.  Who saw Book of Eli?

My class of college freshmen chose the undead and comic superheroes for film reviews.  There was no essay on Jane Ayre or Bowling for Columbine or even The Notebook. Presentations in class fell on Halloween, I grant, but that date was coincidental.

Students were invested in the series The Walking Dead or Paranormal Activity and followed the characters as they also follow the Kardashian sisters.  On, no.  Oh, no, no, no, no.  Most likely, there’s a movie in the works where Kim and sisters are vampires --  maybe good vampires ridding the world of dallying sports stars!  LOL!

So I chewed on this issue of our fascination with the undead in movies and on TV. I have a working hypothesis.  The world has shrunk and our post-WWII military-industrial complex is too big for the size of our enemies.  We cannot fire the big guns after the murder of an ambassador because we need the country that harbors the terrorists as friends with oil benefits.

There’s no longer a need for a beach head and heroism under fire and strategic deployment of aircraft carriers except to aid New Yorkers who need gasoline so they can shovel sand out of houses with no electricity.  We are no longer the world’s police, but rather the world’s primary caregiver.

The new normal poses a specific problem for moviemakers.  How to show acts of heroism when the enemy is an illiterate unemployed gun-nut, probably a virgin, riled up by religious leaders hiding their own failures to the community, fresh from a training camp where he just learned how to fire shoulder-mounted grenades?

From Here to Eternity was on cable last weekend.  Burt Lancaster grabs the machine gun that is meant for a tripod mount and fires at overhead Japanese planes attacking Pearl Harbor.  A grimace of determination, muscles taut, and no jiggling fat on his perfect torso.  I got vapors of Arnold or Sly or Jason or Vin firing the big guns to save comrades and set the world straight.  Except we aren’t fighting overwhelming forces anymore.  We bow to oil sheiks and bow again to Chinese financiers, and laud a new socialism at the Nobel Prize ceremony.

The world was shrinking while Stallone completed a series of Rambo movies.  First, he displayed misplaced aggression in a narrow-minded southern town which, if not politically correct, was forgivable. In the second movie Rambo returned to Indochina to rescue soldiers who were left behind. Later he journeyed to a vaguely drawn Middle Eastern country – maybe Caucasus that nobody knows where it is – to rescue his one trusted friend.  The bad guys in this series kept changing because the world had changed.  We’re now friends with Cambodia and former Soviet satellite countries.  Our movies must reflect the parity of competing with emerging countries for scarce resources.

So the movies turned to the undead because the hero can kill large numbers of them without compunction.  Heroism survives. Sword fights, up-close decapitation, men on fire, general maiming and severing of limbs, destruction of the evil installation.  The hero can prove his worth to the community if he kills zombies and wrights.

And orcs.  In LOTR the castle lord and small band of heroes mount horses to exit the castle and take the fight to the sea of orcs who are breaking down the walls of the keep. Our heroes ride down a ramp into the overwhelming odds of enemy forces, and some orcs fall off the ramp from the crowding.  Viewers don’t think, “It’s a shame that orc with the misshapen skull had to die. He only wanted what’s best for his family.”  They’re orcs; they have no souls.

Take the problem of Mr. and Mrs. Smith where Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie work for opposing government agencies. A contract is taken out to kill them both, god knows why, so they run and fight an unrelenting force of contract killers. Except the enemy here are supposedly real Americans working for the government.  The filmmakers resolved this problem of killing large numbers of our own kind by suiting the agents with black helmets like motorcyclists wear.  We don’t care if they die: we didn’t know them.

And how does a college freshman absorb this turnabout in American movies where the heroes are preserved, but the bad guys must morph into an alien force (think Prometheus) with no redeeming value?

I tried to start a discussion in class about the difference between Tony Stark and Captain America in The Avengers. Captain America was a product of government engineering and kept to a narrow moral code of leadership and duty in adversity. Tony Stark didn’t recognize the imperatives of duty and sacrifice.  He was busy playing games of one-upmanship with rival corporate CEOs – self-centered and reveling in gadgets and strategic maneuvers that trip up the other superhero on his own special power.

Captain America seemed stiff and stilted in the movie, adhering to a code reinforced under Truman in a time of adversity when any American could save another citizen through acts of altruism and teamwork – and annihilation of enemy cities.  Except now the weapons of mass destruction must point into another galaxy so our fragile planet is not abused.

Better to kill the undead. You can kill them as many times as you want with no overtones of political incorrectness.

Uses for Magic are like Playing Chess

 The second installment of a stumbling series about fantasy writing...

When I was a kid, my Daddy taught my brothers and me how to play chess. Only one brother excelled after the first lessons, but the introduction to the game was exhilarating, like the opportunity to make fancy moves (oh, that space is open, so I can move my knight!) and to take the opponent’s queen. What fun!

Later we learned that chess is a game of strategy and the player doesn’t move pieces without a plan. Some strategies are used many times and have names such as a fianchetto bishop or back rank checkmate.  To maneuver into these board structures takes several accepted moves that your opponent will recognize with the very first move.

Magic drives the story:

Some writers are still in the learning stage (from which I never emerged as a chess player) where the intrigue rests with executing exotic moves. The purpose of writing is to explore the uses of magic.

The (often charming) development of magic systems in these stories overwhelms the plot and serves to engage the reader on its own level – sometimes a cloying banquet of magic where the love story or the need for a final battlefield are tertiary.
I place The Last Airbender and Percy Jackson in this category.

Magic enlivens the story:

Some writers have stepped past the stage of fun with magic and use the presence of characters with magic to drive the plot. These writers are similar to chess players who have studied some famous chess strategies and want to employ them in a match. One rule of thumb to recognize this type of writer is that the magic is similar from one series to the next – because the strategies are similar.

I place Eragon and How to Train Your Dragon in this category; formula writing using well-established plot points that delight audience expectation. But we know the outcome by page 60 because we know the strategy with the opening move.

Magic inserted just because we can:

In Theft of Swords by Sullivan, an entire early sequence was about rescuing a wizard from a prison that nobody had succeeded at opening for two centuries. The descriptions were fun and the logical problems intriguing. But when the wizard is free, he says thanks and leaves. I suppose he returns later to return the favor, but I didn’t get that far.

I read (part of) Throne of the Crescent Moon due to a recommendation from Kirkus Reviews. I suppose the readers at Kirkus are jaded and liked the story because the setting, and therefore the magic, was oriental. But the magic was everywhere, in every scene used by every character. I couldn’t follow the story – but I also couldn’t follow Battlestar Galactica, so go figure.

Magic provides a strong ending:

The duel with the basilisk in one of the Harry Potter books is an example of overcoming the raging opponent, after which all questions are settled and Harry can return to Hogwarts or the next term with a fresh slate. And the final duel with Lord Voldemort that winds up the series is a great example of using magic to bring all influences to a conclusion.

Magic is often tamped down in this type of story by the limitations of the user, but serves as deus ex machina in the story climax or end of a trilogy.  I enjoyed The Daughter of the Forest trilogy by Juliet Marillier and cried for the last 60 pages of the first story – something about swans and sacrifice to end a curse.

Marillier’s novels included elements of formula, though, just like with chess moves. A ingénue who is touch by magic but ignorant of its uses, guided by a would-be lover with unwavering devotion, an unrelenting female opponent, along with benign spirits and druids with little to do. Sound familiar?

The third story titled Child of Prophecy repeats these elements for a third generation while the milieu remains static. The climax is a battlefield, of course, where our ingénue enters without a plan, without her magic, and without a weapon, encouraged by spirits to “fake it”. Of course, the gods have a place for her that is not hinted at earlier in the trilogy (that I won’t reveal here), and the gods make all the combatants awestruck while our heroine performs her final farewells to family.

Magic is used sparingly or when necessary:

Some writers use magic to change the story rather than to bolster the story, a subtle difference. I enjoyed reading The Bone Doll’s Twin by Lynn Flewelling, especially the first story that sets up the curse – much like Snow White except the agent of the curse is helpful rather than mean. The reversal of the curse came (close to) the middle of the trilogy and included gender questions for girls-with-swords, so I was intrigued.

The final story Hidden Warrior has an inserted holy man from a different culture who happens along the road at an opportune moment to serve the hero, but he wanders off before the final battle. Once the initial curse was alleviated, the presence of magic was not essential, so the inserted holy man was a maneuver (like in chess) where the reader can see the rationale.

Magic as a developed system:

Brandon Sanderson: ‘nuff said.

The only issue I have with the entire story depending on uses of magic by good guys and bad guys, that Sanderson calls “hard magic”, is that the story becomes predictable, even repetitive. The characters are dependent on skills or discipline to save them and have few other interests.

The Fantastic Four fits this category. Even the bad guy has a power, but must use it in certain ways with specific limitations. The plot revolves around how to trip him up on his own special power.

Magic from a master:

I’m currently reading The Blade Itself (Book I of a trilogy), which is long. Joe Abercrombie uses magic to build the plot and keep the reader engaged. His scenes are episodic (irritating), and too involved with the details of torture (revolting), but the reader feels the cold rain and sword cuts (shows good choices).

Magic is used at surprising moments and differently than a rehash for training dragons. A campfire has a spirit that he can tamp under his tongue to light the next campfire: he, he, he. I’m not but 48% through the book (did I mention that it’s long?), but I have hope that this chess match begins a new strategy that has yet to be named.

On Writing a Fantasy Series

Part I of a stumbling series of blogs about the trials of grappling with writing a fantasy series...

Wrap up story in first book:

Here’s my experience… I wrote the first story for SufferStone in the 1990’s without a thought that the “planet story” may grow into a series.  The action of the first book comes to a conclusion and all loose ends are tucked in at the denouement.

I should have thought ahead and allowed a bad guy to escape as George Lucas did in Star Wars when Darth Vadar survived the destruction of the Death Star. This villain returns to trouble the rebel forces in a later story.

The urge to satisfy reader interest in Book I is difficult to resist. Take, for example, Kushiel’s Dart by Jacqueline Carey. Phedre is a servant of Naamah that places a high value on a tattoo along the servant’s back. She is loved and guarded by a Cassiline brother named Joscelin. When the Book I wraps up, she has inherited an estate and can ease into motherhood, except how does that whet the reader’s appetite for Book II? The last chapters actually push Joscelin away so our young heroine is available for new adventures.

By way of comparison, JRR Tolkien wrote The Hobbit as a stand-alone novel and embarked on the LOTR series only after the success of the first book.

Wrap up story over three books:

So I got started with Book II titled HeartStone and pushed the story into the next generation, following characters who were children of the main characters in Book I. Favorite locations were revisited; the vocabulary grew with terms that held leitmotifs; and pressures on the residents of Dolvia were similar -- so part of my work as a writer became familiar, like greeting an old friend.
I also had big themes I was pursuing such as how do women solve problems within a segregated community, and how do the tribes bind together to become an emerging nation.

The second book became part of a story arch that, I thought, would be resolved over three books as Brianna Miller is introduced as a teenager and grows into a capable businesswoman and politician for her tribe. Good plan, huh?

What happened to me was that a section of Book III titled StrikeStone blossomed into its own story line with a new narrator who I could not resist, so the plan to “wrap up” the story in three books is abused. I’m so grateful for the series of six or twelve books from other writers so I’m not a pathfinder for returning to Dolvia for a new go-around with familiar characters.
I wonder if you (as a writer) had similar experiences where the characters take you to (delicious) places you had not imagined months earlier?

For example, Robin Hobb wrote the Farseer series, followed by the Liveship series. I could see hints that she would combine the two because the worlds were similar enough to become tangent. The Farseer series mentions stone dragons and memory stones, but real dragons are introduced later as part of the reader learning more about the milieu.

Keep the characters alive for a series without becoming formula:

I enjoyed The Bone Doll’s Twin by Lynn Flewelling, but the mystery of the twins is resolved in Book III before a final battle scene that ties up all story lines, so I cannot imagine why she would begin again with this characters. Maybe she has already moved onto developing a new milieu.

In The Curse of Chalion by Lois MacMasters Bujold, the ingénue Iselle wins her true love and plot points are tucked in nicely after the bad guy dies.  The following book Palladin of Souls follows the adventures of tangent characters so that Iselle who became a ruler of the kingdom, and Caz, the narrator of Book I, are only mentioned in the later stories. Bujold has a tendency to provide character studies within an otherworld with several planets (or castles) and several tangent sets of characters rather than the growth of one hero/heroine during a war or regime change.

So the arch of a series in fantasy is dictated more by character growth and changing action than by a formula the writer has sketched out in advance. My question today concerns controlling elements of the story and what experiments from writers seemed to work, and which ones may have been less effective.

In Magic Study, I think it was, Book III of a series by Maria Snyder, the main characters travel over a mountain pass to speak with a sibyl and meet a new tribe who happen to show miniature dragons as a curio, much like the baby dragons in (which one, Book V??) of Harry Potter that never re-enter the story. Here are fantasy elements that titillates but are left undeveloped.

What are your experiences with writing/reading fantasy series? Which ones lacked the magic? Which ones were overloaded with fantasy elements?

Self-Publishers: Managing Process Frustration

So I finished a sustained writing effort and felt euphoria from working consistently with characters and scenes. (200 pages! Yeah!) I wanted to share my elation and found my artist friend to explain what I had accomplished. He said, “I’m glad you finished your piece.” And that was it.Later he caught up with me and wanted to expand his response. “It’s just that I have not read the book, and I don’t know what you mean.” I told him my theory about process frustration that all artists feel, but novelists feel in spades.

Signs of Process Frustration:

1)    Did you ever talk for hours about your characters or themes to complete strangers?
2)    After expressing you ideas about where you are in the project, did you find that you no longer have the creative energy to write?
3)    Did you ever wear out family members describing the fresh scenes so they wonder what’s in your head and why didn’t you make dinner?
4)    Did you become silent and selfish about the project or characters or themes because you believe expressing the ideas dilutes them?
5)    Conversely, did you ever lend chapters to a friend only to get the critique “It needs work?”

How to Manage Process Frustration:

1)    Recognize it for what it is. You are engaged with characters who your friends don’t know. Why mix the two?
2)    Enjoy to euphoria of completion without tying it to the work – try a walk along the beach
3)    Avoid visiting the emotive quotient on friends and family.
I had a good friend once who was a big sports fan. If his team won, we went out for a meal and batting practice. If his team lost, we left him alone in the man-cave rather than try to cheer him up.  During play-offs, Sunday nights could be grim.

As a writer, I have found that this kind of spill-over makes even less sense because your family cannot engage with your characters.
Another choice is to find friends among writers and trade stories and chapters for critique. One recommended source is the fantasy writers group on Reddit.  Some people swear by this process, but I have always found that my critiques are too detailed and poorly received. New writers, especially, are too sensitive for ideas for improvement.
So, what’s the solution? Tolerate the solitude and learn to treasure good reviews on GoodReads and LibraryThing?

I have found that discussing craftsmanship with fellow artists, some from tangent disciplines, helps with articulating method, constraints, signals for poor choices, finding satisfaction, learning from finished products, avoiding bad critiques.  The chats about craft are often conceptual rather than practical, but serve as an area where we can at least admit the pressures and face the long stretches of time spent alone.
Your turn to participate… How do you manage process frustration?

The Self-Styled Reviewer

By Stella Atrium
7/23/12
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In this age of self-published writers, we also have the self-styled reviewer.

Review opportunities are circulated for many products – Consumer Reports on cars, Angie’s List for home repairs, comparisons of cellphones or ereaders when deciding which to buy.

We also review work in many stages of development – plans for remodeling the house, a change of direction in the middle of travel, the first draft of a short story on Reddit, peer editing before marketing, focus groups to test how key phrases play in the public discourse.

For this blog, though, I want to look at the reviews from readers for self-published books. I have a friend who manages a blog and is seeking to become a reviewer of romance stories or chick lit or adventures for kids. She asked me what writers are looking for so she can build a fan base for her reviews.

I believe her instincts are good. Write a review that each audience can use – the writer, the reader, the publisher, the fellow reviewer, the client who may re-publish your review on a digest blog.

Here are some basics:

1)  Work in a genre you prefer – I met a fan of romance who read my fantasy novel and complained there weren’t enough fairies or kissing.

2)  Get the facts straight – What genre, length, style, and appeal?  By appeal I mean is the book targeted to the GLBT audience, or does the story include erotica? Mention who may want to avoid the book as well as who may find the read rewarding.

3)  Include a two-sentence overview of the story – pithy and descriptive. NO SPOILERS.

4)  Mention where this book resides in a series or in the arch of the writer’s career, if applicable. Relate the story to previous work, such as  “more geared to a younger audience”, or “scarier even than his last novel”.

5)  Act as a confidant to the reader. What will she like if you pass along the book to her? “Don’t read this story on Sunday because you’ll be up all night and miss work the next day.”

6)  Think about the ways the review is used later. Include a few shorter sentences that can be quoted by the writer, or by Amazon, or by a blog that re-publishes reviews.

What to avoid:

1)  Some reviewers embrace the need to be critical. Suggestions for improvement are fine, but avoid the “this is how I would do it” tone. Include sugar with the vinegar.

2)  Mention your qualifications, but don’t make the review about you. Your emotive responses are a good way to connect with the reader who looks to you for advice. Your ideas for where you met the writer once at a sci-fi convention belong in a profile article, not a review.

3)  It’s okay to show your smarts by comparing the story to Homer or JK Rowlings. However, don’t speak in that complaining voice. “It wasn’t what I expected,” or “it took too long to get started.” Nobody knows your expectations, or cares.

4)  Avoid a blow-by-blow analysis. Readers want to know if they should invest time and money, not how Part II opens in a different voice. A book review for your 8th grade teacher had to show that you read the whole book.  We aren’t in school anymore.

5)  It’s great to list what was irritating or inconvenient such as too many character names or sudden time changes. Personal attacks, however, don’t serve anybody. “I was looking forward to this book, but was so disappointed” can be damning to the writer, but also damages your ability to find the next writer willing to solicit a review.

6)  Remember that readers spend about 60 seconds on your review, so provide a strong opening and write sparingly. Edit the sentences for any ideas that don’t serve the theme or the constructive criticism.

You will know you have succeeded when readers become fans and when writers solicit you for a review of a new work.