Re:(imagine) – The (once and) future of fantasy and science fiction

The most influential film of my childhood years was Disney’s oft forgotten Sword in the Stone, adapted from T.H. White’s Once and Future King. It was my first real exposure to Arthuriana, and eventually led to my reading the full novel and, in fact, contributed significantly to my study of the Middle Ages in college. Plus, reflections of Merlin and Wart are in every early story I wrote (and, likely, still there in what I write today).

Since then, I’ve learned that much of SF/F deals with the taking, gaining, and control of power. It’s about stature, about relationships. It asks the questions that traditional fiction and nonfiction just can’t, because it (literally) removes us from our own world as we know it. It’s a long series of “what if’s” set to an intergalactic soundtrack that continues to kindle our imaginations.

But the very strengths of sci-fi and fantasy are what cause people to so often dismiss them. Oh sure, the Force is exciting–but start defining it as a parasite, and boy, we lose our love affair. Explain too much, and there’s no whimsy, no room for imagination. Critics of both genres hate the black-and-white delineation in novels and film. We live in a world where more and more, people realize that there are shades of gray, shifts in perception, and decisions we make that put us on one side of the fence or the other.

I don’t think SF/F will ever go away, and I certainly don’t want them to. But in order for these genres to survive, and to continue challenging readers and writers alike, we must fend off the expected. As writers, we owe it to our readers to write fully imagined characters, each with the good, the bad, and the ugly as part of who they are. Sure, archetypes are important–but we are all flawed, and we’ve all had to make choices. Nothing irks me more than “purely” good or bad characters.

And that brings me back to Arthur, I think. The thing I’ve always loved about the Arthurian canon is that, in spite of additions and emendations throughout the centuries, it’s not a happy ending. The most beloved knight in the entire kingdom not only fails at the quest for the Holy Grail, but has an elicit affair with the Queen who just happens to be the wife of his best friend, Arthur. (That this realistic approach was brought to life by medieval writers is amazing in and of itself!)

Everything falls apart. There is no celebration, no wedding, no making up. Sure, Mordred (usually) gets it in the end, but so does Arthur. The world he fought for is gone. Ended. Caput. T.H. White does a heartbreakingly good job of showing us this at the end of The Once and Future King. Near the book’s conclusion he writes, partially in Arthur’s own mind that

The fate of this man or that man was less than a drop, although it was a sparkling one, in the great blue motion of the sunlit sea.

White was writing as a man in the middle of wars–both World Wars–and later as a conscientious objector. He asked the difficult questions, like the famous Might vs. Right argument and ultimately influenced a whole new generation of writers. Writers including, Michael Moorcock, J. K. Rowling, Gregory Maguire and Ed McBain also cited White as an influence (from Wikipedia: T.H. White).

My point, my meandering and somewhat obvious point, is that we ought, as writers of these incredible genres, to hold up a mirror to our own world, and ask the important questions. Fantasy and science-fiction mean nothing if we cannot tie them to the human condition and contrast the far-off worlds to our own somehow. And it can happen in the most expected places, like the Arthurian canon for instance. It isn’t always what we say, but how we say it. This is from White again:

Perhaps man was neither good nor bad, was only a machine in an insensate universe–his courage no more than a reflex to danger, like the automatic jump at the pin-prick. Perhaps there were no virtues, unless jumping at pin-pricks was a virtue, and humanity only a mechanical donkey led on by the iron carrot of love, through the pointless treadmill of reproduction. Perhaps Might was a law of Nature, needed to keep the survivors fit. Perhaps he himself…

Before dying, Arthur, the paragon of knightly virtue, the greatest of all men, cannot find the right answer. He cannot say what his life was worth, because he does not know. He cannot know. He is only a man in a story, in the end; but his thoughts, his questions, they become ours.

And in that way, he does continue on.

In that way, there is a great deal of hope.

 

The compulsion to write: propulsion and the novel

Compulsion is described as:

1.	the act of compelling; constraint; coercion.

2.	the state or condition of being compelled.

3.	Psychology. a strong, usually irresistible impulse to perform an act, esp. one that is irrational or contrary to one’s will.

Writing is a strange habit, and certainly not one too many people engage in. There are lots of reasons for this. It is extremely time consuming; it requires focus, drive, and endless creativity; it is something done, with some exceptions, in near solitude.

And yes, it is, as Chaucer might say, “passing straunge.”

I have strange days when I open up Scrivener, and stare at the words–the words upon words–and can’t imagine where it all came from. I know, of course, that I’ve done it, that I’ve written the words and have told the story. But I can’t tell you where inspiration comes from, and I certainly can’t explain the magic formula involved when it actually goes right. Because, with writing–for me, at least–there is very little in the way of planning. Precious few are the days, hours, minutes, that I set aside for pure writing actually successful.

In spite of the loss of 10k words this week, the proof to me is that: hey, I wrote. I didn’t feel like I was, but I managed 10k in two weeks. 5k a week isn’t too shabby, that’s for sure, considering most of this “edit” has been a complete rewrite.

It’s rare that I go out of my way to share much of my writing. First of all, explaining fantasy novels–let alone steampunk fantasy novels–to anyone is trecherous territory. You either get it or you don’t.

The truth is, though, whether or not the novels, the stories, the poems ever see the light of day, it doesn’t really matter. I can’t stop writing, I can’t stop playing pretend. Because, really, that’s what it is. In fact, I can trace it back: I started writing novels when I stopped playing pretend with my little sister. We had an incredible world, she and I, filled with the kind of magic and mystique that only little girls can muster in the closeness and imaginative golden years of youth.

But, like Susan Pevensie, I suppose, I had to grow up. I was twelve and, at least according to me, much too old to be pretending to be someone I was not. Yet, the imagining didn’t cease. I wrote alone for a while, then brought my sister on board, and later wrote with my friend. Then when I was 15, I started the long dark years of teenaged angst, and didn’t write much (other than music, that is). And even in undergraduate school, I didn’t write much. This was mostly due to a rather stifling relationship that honestly didn’t leave any room for me. The stuff I did write was for workshops in my writing courses, and certainly not for me. I never could let go in those classes.

It took graduate school for me to revisit the book I’d started rather haphazardly when I was 18. That novel is finished, per se, but it still is lacking. I’ve probably been through it five times and I seriously doubt it can be resurrected. It’s a good story, but it’s so young. As I wrote it I could feel my writing improve, I could tell I was getting better; it’s hard to keep consistent when you’re growing that much.

Now, life is no less difficult–but it is different, in many ways. The Aldersgate is more than just my novel in progress; it was, you see, my way out of a very dark place, in the aftermath of postpartum depression. It brought me hope that I could write again, that I could create, and that there was light somewhere, even if it felt very distant. Slowly but surely, the world of the novel was revealed, in snippets, in voices, in conversations. It was as if after the suffering, the terror of nearly losing my son after he was born (and, I’m told, nearly dying myself bringing him into the world), I was given a gift.

I often say that Emry, the Bard, is the closest to me in the story. And at first, I thought it was because he was musical, and often clumsy, slightly foppish, and certainly a romantic at heart (curse me, but I am). But as I continue to write him, and to explore his growth in my novel, I realize that we share something else in common: suffering. We’ve been places that we can’t explain to people, even if we tried. And in spite of it all, we risk that suffering again because we love–not just our work and our calling, but our friends, too.

All that said, I’m feeling rather reflective since the Great Hard-Drive Explosion of 2008. Every now and again I feel as if I walk into another chapter of my own life; the light is different, the stars have moved, and there’s a new song to be sung.

So, with that, I suppose it’s time to move on along.

O Melancholy, linger here awhile!
O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!
O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle,
Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us—O sigh!
Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile;
Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily,
And make a pale light in your cypress glooms,
Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs.– Keats, “Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil”

 

The Gear at the End of the World

Fiction is curious. In the last century or so, it’s seen more movement and change than ever before, morphing and shifting as culture, philosophy, religion, and expression continue to influence writing.

I mean, fiction wasn’t even a viable means of writing at all for many centuries. Sure, there’s allegory and myth, legend and religious writing–but the concept of alternate worlds, horror writing, romance novels, these are all concepts we’ve accepted now as fairly standard.

So, I’ve been wondering about steampunk writing. In fact, I posted about it to the Brass Goggles forum last week, wondering what people thought: is steampunk writing an offshoot, or its own genre? I tend to think it’s growing into its own genre, even as a subsidiary of its cousin cyberpunk. It either will represent a new genre, or it will prove that, perhaps, genre writing is dying itself.

Why do I say this? Well, I think that, more and more, books are failing to adhere to the expected. Horror blends with fantasy blends with mystery blends with science fiction. Take something as mundane as Harry Potter–it’s part mystery/part fantasy/part bildungsroman. Take away any of those elements, and you make for a boring, unmarketable piece of writing that surely wouldn’t have spawned a multi-billion pound empire. Even big “fantasy” writers like George R.R. Martin adapt history, intrigue, mystery, to come up with something else entirely.

No, I wouldn’t be surprised to see a glossy “Steampunk” section pop up at Barnes and Noble any time soon. But I don’t think compartmentalization is the right way to approach any emerging writing. When Tolkien published his Rings books, many people simply didn’t know what to do with them. But he wasn’t the first! In fact, William Morris was at it half a century before (if you’re really intrigued, you can read the whole text of The Well at the End of the World online), writing “fantasy” worlds. It just didn’t catch on in his time.

I guess I’m just cautiously optimistic about where steampunk is going to go in the next few years. Will it go the way of Tolkien? Or a less-traveled? As an internet phenomenon, and already at the brink of the digital text age, it’s an intriguing question. Already, magazines like Steampunk Magazine are available completely in digital format.

So, I wonder: what do you think?

 

One more dollar (ducat, denari, deezbop)

Convincing writing is, as many have pointed out, in the details. And when you’re talking fantasy, science-fiction, cyberpunk, or steampunk, it’s even more important.

You don’t feel transported into another world if people do the same things they do here, unless you’re gung-ho about some sort of detail-by-detail allegory. While I do believe writers’ individual hopes and dreams do tend to bleed into their works, I don’t think novels on a “this-for-that” basis work too well.

So here’s one of the things I’ve been facing. My novel takes place in a world like our own, but not our own. It’s like Victorian England and North America, but it’s not. String theory and alternate worlds aside, this is often more difficult than it sounds. The creativity dial of cultural uniquity goes to eleven, you see, but if I turn it up the entire way, there’s always the risk of alienating the only people who will ever read it: the ones in this very world.

Because I have some Western inspirations in my book, I’ve had to consider swears a great deal. (As a funny little aside, I wrote my first few novels about Billy the Kid, and my own hero: Destiny Desert. When my dad stumbled on to my half-written manuscript and discovered I’d used a host of swears he thought were much too crass for my twelve-year old self, he was rather upset. I forgot what the stakes were, but they were quite high, and prompted me to write a three-page defense about the historical validity of said cowboys using swear words… I couldn’t very well dispute history, now could I?) But I don’t necessarily want them to use the same swears that are in our world… some writers, like Greg Keyes do a great job of this (scaet, which I love). Heck, even Battlestar Galactica does a fabulous job of this (frack!).

But, it can come off very badly. Fricatives are such that they often mean bad things, not because they were designed that way, but because they sound that way.  So why mess with it too much?

Ah, I just don’t know. Some authors pull from the real world, delving into medieval and Renaissance language to come up with alternatives. Others go way out there, and pull from their own universe. I guess there’s something to say for calling it like it is…

I suppose I still have some thinking to do.

 

A divergence on the meaning of genre.

Sometimes I wish I spoke German. I hear the German language is much more forgiving when it comes to compound words and concepts than our own. English is a tricky little mutt.

I want to talk about genre. It’s one of the basics you learn in school, along with Aristotle’s Triangle and hero types. I suppose it makes sense on the surface: yes, it’s important to classify things. It makes our human brains happy to know that all fits into some great order; no square pegs in round holes, and the like. Romance, fantasy, western, science-fiction, history, biography, steampunk, cyberpunk, horror, suspense, crime… I could go on for miles.

But what if you don’t fit? What does genre mean really mean anyway? Are there rigid requirements? Will publishers and readers alike toss you out if you don’t conform?

I worked for a while at a huge bookstore chain, and spent a great deal of time perusing the aisles. It’s a simultaneously exciting and depressing experience. Crack open any number of published authors, in some cases best sellers, and you’re rather shocked to find bad writing. Good stories? Maybe. I’ve never been one for crime dramas, or for suspense, so I can’t really say (I think I read The Client when I was in grade school if that counts, but only after seeing the movie).

Personally, I’ve always felt more at home in the fantasy and/or science fiction department. I know it has nothing to do with the cover art and design; a momentary pass through will inform even the most aesthetically challenged that something is amiss here (warrior women holding spears and fighting dragons in bikinis, anyone?). I guess I’ve always felt comfortable with the freedom many of these writers possess–they write without filters, freely describing and coloring worlds sometimes so alien as to be nearly incomprehensible to the regular reader. There’s a stigma here, in these aisles, something that says, “You’ve got to be a dork to read this stuff.”

Hell yes. I am a dork. I’m not ashamed to admit it, you know. And it’s not to say it’s all Booker Award winning stuff; I realize, very much so, that much of what is published these days is… significantly lacking. That’s the problem with sticking within one genre. How many wizards and elves–how many dwarves and orcs, space-westerns and black holes–can we write about until we run dry? Not to dispute that there is an audience for this sort of thing, of course.

I’ve noticed, in recent years, that the Internet has had a profound impact on genre. Perhaps it’s the fact that so many people, and so many influences, have converged. At any given moment while I write, I’m a click away from Wikipedia to learn more about percussion pistols and Victorian codes of conduct that I ever knew possible. And this is important. My Masters is in English and I studied medieval English mostly, so I doubt (with the exception of Tennyson and Morris as Victorians at least) that I’d have come across anything remotely steampunk were it not for the Internet. But by the same token, I’m well aware that I am not writing your garden variety steampunk novel (if there really is such a thing–I’m not sure). There are some very romantic aspects to my story–both in the “roman” sense of the word, and in the romantic lovelorn sense–as well as aspects of good ol’ Westerns, Arthurian legends, and even a little science fiction and fantasy, for good measure. How in heck do I pitch that to a publisher?

So I ask anyone out there who might know better than I, or who has ever asked the same question. Where do the weird ones fit?

(It seems my question, in particular, is pointed toward beginning authors. People like Stephen King do it all the time–his Gunslinger books being a perfect blend of about fifty genres at last count…)