Category Archives: Rambles and Rants

Story of Myself – Deconstructing the Mary Sue

Story of Myself:

Deconstructing the Mary Sue

My sister was perusing a book discussion thread this morning and tittered over some moderator’s listed rules for writing fan fictions. This humoured me as well, as I didn’t realize that hobbyist fiction written with established characters and copyrights would maintain a strict set of rules given their work is regulated strictly to free entertainment. However, a discussion about Mary Sues developed and a curious poster asked what the term meant. My sister read me a curious response stating that a Mary Sue is a “Girl, either real or imaginary, inserted into a fan fiction.”

Found on the Internet. I don’t even know how you’d properly cite a meme.

This seemed a grossly over-generalized description especially since the term has become associated with a great deal of negatively. The suggestion that any female added to a fan fiction is an immediate Mary Sue is both misleading and curiously stifling for a form of writing which, by its nature, is fairly irrelevant. The emphasis on gender also seemed rather strange as well and this prompted a conversation between my sister and me over what it actually meant.

And at first, I believed I had a great grasp of the concept. A Mary Sue, to my understanding, was an idealized version of the author inserted into a work of fan fiction. They served as a vessel of blatant wish-fulfillment, representing all the best perceived qualities of the individual and becoming immediately celebrated and adored by an established cast of characters even if it was incongruous with the established personalities or the world itself. If they had any flaws, then these were either downplayed or used for humorous or endearing effect. As it turns out, my understanding was not too far from the original concept of creation.

The term itself arose from a satirical Star Trek short written in 1973 by Paula Smith. Titled “A Trekkie’s Tale,” the story was set to poke fun at apparently commonplace stories written about adolescent female antagonists and their grandiose adventures on the USS Enterprise. So prolific was this phenomena that the editors of what I can only assume is a Star Trek fan fiction magazine called Menagerie released this statement on the characters:

“Mary Sue stories—the adventures of the youngest and smartest ever person to graduate from the academy and ever get a commission at such a tender age. Usually characterized by unprecedented skill in everything from art to zoology, including karate and arm-wrestling. This character can also be found burrowing her way into the good graces/heart/mind of one of the Big Three [Kirk, Spock, and McCoy], if not all three at once. She saves the day by her wit and ability, and, if we are lucky, has the good grace to die at the end, being grieved by the entire ship.”

Now, I am hardly versed in the fan fiction world. I would lie if I didn’t know anything about it. When I was younger, many of my own stories were a certain kind of fan fiction. Typically, I would be inspired by the ideas or worlds of other entertainment and spend hours creating my own stories in these worlds. I mean, who hasn’t been so enthralled with a work that they didn’t imagine themselves experiencing it in a more direct manner? The power of fantasy is its ability to carry us to incredibly imaginative worlds and places that are both exciting and strange. I can easily find youtube videos of people acting out their own Star Wars lightsaber battles, so this is hardly an isolated experience.

For me, however, I more enjoyed the world itself. The characters were entities completely unassailable in my work. I hadn’t created them so I didn’t feel comfortable trying to write them. My words wouldn’t rival that of the original authors and, to me, these individuals would only come across as pale imitations of the individuals I loved. Besides, my wish fulfillment was to have the adventure myself. I didn’t want to share the limelight with the great heroes who would inevitably take centre stage and solve all the issues on their own.

So my stories always involved unique locations and new individuals with, perhaps, tangential comments or references to the source material. My earliest remembered fan fiction was a story set in Blizzard’s Diablo world where a party of adventurers explored a cove for treasure and become the playthings of some unspeakable demon who had taken refuge within. I also spent one summer working on my own Harry Potter work that took place not in England but in North America with its own schools, teachers and political intrigues.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with fan fictions as they are seemingly harmless in their adoration of an author’s stories. They’re just a reflection of the enjoyment readers get from the author’s work. I couldn’t get into them for the same reason I couldn’t write a proper one. While I enjoyed the original stories, it was the writing and characterization that I adored and no one but the original creators could truly do their stories justice.

That said, I have no interest in the Mary Sue character. I do prescribe to the traditional notion that characters should be well rounded, developed individuals complete with strengths and flaws. A character that is perfect at everything, is liked by everyone, can do no wrong and is always in the right is just boring to me. Most grievous is when these characters are clear author surrogates.

And it is the author surrogacy that may lead to the Mary Sue term’s most difficult characteristics. While this aspect is debated whether it’s necessary for a Mary Sue, it’s the one element I prescribe to the charge. I’m not sure why this specific self-indulgence makes the wish fulfillment even worse than an idealized character that’s not meant to represent the author but it’s something I find even more amateur than creating an unfaltering paragon. Course, by its nature, it’s hard to tell when a perfect character is acting as an avatar for the writer. A telltale sign is if they share some common characteristic, which may be exaggerated in the story even if it doesn’t truly deserve to be.

Originally, this photo was of the book cover for the Name of the Wind novel but has been removed to avoid copyright issues. It was put up for completely unrelated reasons anyway. So, instead, here’s some crappy medieval art by Antonio da Atri (Noli me tangere – 1410)

But I’m not sure why this surrogacy annoys me so much. Ultimately, the author is going to insert themselves into their own work. When you break down the characters in the story, they essentially are aspects of their creator. Our perceptions and experiences are highly personal and while we may recognize similarities in those communicated by others, we can never truly feel the exact same things as someone else. We can only infer based on our experiences. Thus, no matter what character we write, on some level we are ultimately writing about ourselves.

Take, for example, my D&D stories. The characters are unashamedly based on those I actually know. However, if you were to meet the inspirations for Derrek, Jeremiah or Kait, you would invariably find that they aren’t truly like their fictional counterparts. In a sense, I use the real people to craft a mould for my characters but I must fill that mould with my own thoughts and decisions. When Derrek decides not to inform his friends about a dangerous magical ritual being performed in disguise, it is a decision that I made. I can’t know what the real Derrek would have done in that situation and certainly he wouldn’t have done it exactly as I describe.

In essence, a story is a collection of aspects of the writer. Each character is just a faucet, be it major or minor, of his personality. They think and act and feel as the writer imagines they would. And in that imagining, the line between the writer and the character blurs. When a character grieves over the loss of a lover, perhaps we are truly reading the feelings of a writer reflecting on her own loss of a close pet or relative. The more provocative, real and powerful these emotions the more we’re likely reading the personality of the creator.

And perhaps this is why I, personally, find the Mary Sue such an atrocious character. Their appearance almost universally degrades the personalities of all the supporting characters in the story. They stop being these small faucets breathed brief life by the care of their creator and instead become shallow cheerleaders whose sole purpose is to stand on the sidelines, cheering on one person. They are automatons created with the single purpose of making the author elevate themselves above all others. It is the dishonest murder of the self to feed the needs of the id and the desire for self-relevancy. Take the example from The Name of the Wind and how sycophantic all the minor characters are that surround Kvothe. They have little personality and their sole function is to praise Kvothe’s skills at whatever or to commiserate how awful the events of his life were. They have never suffered like Kvothe has suffered because they lack that bit of life to bring them alive. Had they been written with deeper backgrounds, I have to wonder if Kvothe would need such dramatic and over the top characteristics. By necessity, an author will have to break apart his own characteristics if he is to achieve individuality from his cast.

Course, Name of the Wind can’t have a Mary Sue because it’s an original work. But original works can certainly have the flaws inherent from Mary Sue-esque characters or situations.

Ultimately, I feel the existence of the Mary Sue is wholly unnecessary. By developing a cast of well rounded major and minor characters, the writer creates for themselves a scattered universe of their own personality. Each character, whether they be young or old, male or female, brave or cowardly are all small motes of their writer. There doesn’t need to be a single vessel for the author; they can find themselves in the hero, the hero’s parents, the rival, the mentor and everyone in between. The death of the Mary Sue is the birth of a richer, more diverse world ready to bud from the seeds of conflict of an author struggling against himself.

Pathetic Storm

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So I completely forgot today was Friday and when I began working on my post the maniacal weather that has been tormenting undecided to strike again. And while I love storms, I also have a long history of them returning my love by ruining my computers like a jealous lover. Thus, I am reduced to pounding out this entry on the BlackBerry, so I apologize for the rather lackluster entry today. But it was either this or frying my new computer in a darkened and stormy night. And at the end of the day I like my computer more than properly posting.

However, this does give me the opportunity to discuss writing and weather.

As I mentioned, I love storms. As a child, I would crawl out of bed to rest against the Window, watching the dark shadow of trees bend and twist in the heavy winds. I would cracked open the pane and listen to the sound of the rain patterning against the rooftops and enjoy the refreshing chill against my bare skin. I even recall one particular heavy storm when I stripped into my bathing suit and just lay upon the front porch with my eyes closed as I let the power and the fury of nature envelope me.

To me, there is just something awe inspiring about the way the world yields to the might of nature manifest. The birds and insects grow quiet and invisible and all creatures great and small flee before its arrival, seeking silent refuge to wait out its passing.

And then there’s the lightning.

Great bolts light the night sky, carving bright forks through the clouds and illuminating all in a pristine white glow. For but a moment the spell of night is broken and it’s as if nature had turned on its own, natural light to chase away the shadows. Then the flash is gone and the ground shakes beneath the thunder’s calling.

I always wait for those brief moments, when the sky is torn in great ribbons of uncontained electricity. The sheet lighting rolls unseen behind the thick clouds between the great strikes, creating a dark, almost pink glow that barely outlines the trees and clouds around. I take in as much of the scene as I can, savoring the new perspective of a world I’d grown bored of through sheer familiarity. But in the dark of the clouds, the landscape takes on a new form of silhouettes and outlines, contrasts between dark and light.

I love it if only for the mix of fear and reverence that it inspires.

Now, weather in writing is often a rather off handed affair. Generally it sees little use and is usually made most prominent during the most difficult portion of the hero’s tale or to serve as a manifestation of the characters emotional state. Most storms either come rolling in the final act, when last the hero must face his arch nemesis or when the hero is at the lowest point generally during a great loss or defeat. I’m sure many people can think of moments when the tide turned against the hero and a convenient storm just happened to come rolling through. Certainly horror as a genre has subsided on this trope for as long as time memorial.

This is considered the Pathetic Fallacy of weather and once you start seeing it in film or literature, you won’t stop. Which is a curious name for the trope since the pathetic fallacy was originally used to describe the attributing of emotion to elements of or description about of nature. You can see that in my description earlier. Nature doesn’t truly have any fury since wind and rain has no emotion.

So common is the pathetic fallacy, however, that I don’t think most people even realize when they use it. How many off the cuff stories began with some sort of wrongdoing or misdeeds on a “dark and stormy night?” For me, it only became obvious because of my fondness for storms. I try to use weather a little more than as a reflection of a character’s inner turmoil. To me there are far more components than the terrifying dark and intimidating thunder. There’s also a bare beauty of the raw power of nature. And, in the end, storms bring an element of renewal. The rain. Does more than scatter those caught in it to seek shelter. It helps feed plants, break hot spells and rejuvenate the land. There’s always a calming tranquility after a storm, as if the skies themselves went through their own catharsis in order to replenish themselves.

So, even though I am affected by my own cultural symbolism, I find that certain elements can take on my own, personal meaning beyond established tropes. Which I think is a good thing, as the natural evolution only occurs as we apply our own spin and use to old symbols, beliefs and tropes. So I may have dark and stormy nights but not all of them Are going to be a bad thing.

Food in Fantasy Land

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What would life be like to live in a world without breakfast cereal?

I have recently been in a position to think deeply about the sorts of foods I eat on a regular basis. I find my tastes rather seasonal and generally very simple. I like salads and vegetables and barbequed meats during the hot summer months. During winter I tend to crave more traditional ‘comfort foods’ such as pasta – in nearly any form, roasted meats and potatoes, curries, cabbage rolls and even the occasional stew. These are usually the dinner or supper meal. Lunches are often similar as I generally consume leftovers, with the addition of a few more sandwiches. Breakfasts however, are regularly bowls of cold cereal and occasional eggs or pancakes.

However, if we were to enter Fantasy Land things would be different. According to the informative Tough Guide written by award winning author Diana Wynne Jones (she really did write excellent children’s fantasy books), my diet would consist largely of stew and waybread. This is the long way of bringing me to my point of interest; the appearance of food in books.

How many stories actually deal with eating; not just for the occasional banquet, but for the sustaining of the character’s life? How many fantasy books fall into the clutches of viscous, brown slop served with a flatbread?

This stew has more clearly identifiable meat than I would expect in Fantasy Land.

This stew has more clearly identifiable meat than I would expect from food in Fantasy Land.

There are a few stories that come to mind where the food stood out – not in a glaringly awkward way. Rather I noticed the food was something different, something regional. The first to come to mind is Zoe Marriot’s Daughter of Flames. I remember it had the main character eating chickpeas, which was different and weirdly interesting to read. Not that the author made a big deal of the food being consumed, just that when she described the meal as flavour for her world it didn’t include stew.

I suppose you could argue Harry Potter has a more realistic bend on the food issue too. Although many of the sweets are given cutesy names to fit with the fantastical world, the students often eat regular food: sausages, potatoes, eggs, toast and the like – I am sure there were vegetables in there somewhere too.

This stew has too many vegetables for Fantasy Land. Incidentally, I actually like to make and eat stew – good stew.

Just to clarify, I am not looking for vast detailed treaties on food and its preparations. Tolkien is famous for spending six pages discussing the preparation of rabbit – though was it a rabbit stew? I cannot remember. However, even this wordy narrator fell into the common trap of feeding his travellers a steady diet of waybread for much of the books. After all, the purpose of eating food is merely to remind the reader these are real people with real needs.

Interestingly, modern, urban fantasies and other adventure fiction falls victim to a similar problem of what to do with meals. I find that stew is not prevalent in these situations. Instead it has been replaced by coffee. Similar meal swaps are seen by many characters on TV. The first thing these individuals do in the morning is grab a cup of coffee – seemingly unable to function without the jolt of caffeine. When time is running short and the days long, don’t worry they don’t need to stop to eat – just drink another coffee or the occasional pop (soda for the Americans) and the character is good to save the world.

Realistic?

I hope not. Unless these individuals are also connected with nutrient giving IV drips, I don’t think they are going to have the strength to save the world – certainly not on a repetitive basis. I wonder does this also connect with or potential perpetuate eating disorders? We are in a time when the number of serious eating disorders (anorexia to obesity) is soaring and the characters in our popular media are showing serious lack of healthy eating habits.

Or perhaps I am more sensitive to the overabundance of caffeine in my stories as I don’t drink coffee, tea or pop. While not as bad as my brother, my morning requires a healthy bowl of cereal to start – substituted with the occasion egg or pancake. After all breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

Name of the Wind – The Trouble with Breasts

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Edit – I apologize for the lateness of this post. The site has been undergoing some minor revisions as we attempt to comply to Google’s new SEO formatting and I’m really slow in learning new things.

I have returned from my eastern travels a little more worldly if not a little extra sore. However, during the long hours on the road, my sister had graciously provided me a copy of a very special book. This delightful read, The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss to be precise, was a rather interesting experience if only for the reactions it produced from my family as I read it aloud.

True story, I searched for sexy wind in Google and got this. Granted, I have my safe search on so I wouldn’t recommend trying this at home.

Now, I have no intention to write a proper review of the novel mostly in part because I never finished it. Between my constant breaks as I tried to slog through its curious writing and the sudden expiration of the digital download’s loan period left me only about a quarter into the book. Suffice to say, I’m not the most knowledgeable to comment on its overall story and narrative since I don’t know how it finishes. And, as small as it might be, there is a possibility that halfway through the writing actually starts to be good.

No, instead I wish to discuss something that grates on the average person’s nerves even more. I wish to discuss feminism.

This may not surprise anyone, but I am not a woman. This startling revelation has often left me a little wary of feminist issues. I didn’t think I was truly prepared to really discuss its arguments either for or against having never had the experience that usually fueled the standard discourse. However, I have been reading quite a bit of its discussion in my online interactions and have slowly begun to educate myself on its core issues. Primarily, feminism is less about women’s rights as it is about equal rights.

Not really the most astounding revelation, especially for anyone familiar with the movement. But, after reading numerous opinions and perspectives, I began to worry if my writing was somehow anti-feminist. I am certainly a supporter of equality and as popular opinion grows more and more in its favour, the discussion of discrimination has shifted to the examination of more subtler channels. Often times, the things that are discussed as being discriminatory appear to be unintentional. They are more insidious methods of perpetuating classical views of female subordination and repression. Things like the ‘Male Gaze’ only complicate matters further for someone that has never felt discrimination based on gender. So ingrained, goes the argument, of patriarchal standards, that many people are not even aware of contributing to it either through neglecting deeper characterization of female characters or constantly reverting them to positions of powerlessness. I worried that I, like many others, had fallen into this trap. I mean, I don’t even have a D&D story from the only girl’s perspective!

However, after reading The Name of the Wind, I no longer have this worry.

Now, let me first state that I don’t believe Patrick Rothfuss is some disgusting bigot or anti-feminist. I think the arguments I’m about to level are better explained through a much more likely avenue – Rothfuss just isn’t a good writer. And there’s far more evidence tho suggest the latter over the former that I feel comfortable in this belief. Also, as I’ve confessed, I haven’t finished the novel so there does exist that miniscule possibility that squirreled somewhere in the later sections of the book is a damn good representation of a woman. I’m just never going to bother trying to find out.

And, as this is a semi-critical examination of a work, do expect there to be some spoilers.

The first moment when I began to sense this subtle sexism, however, came rather shortly into the story. For those who are lucky enough to have not cracked the spine, The Name of the Wind is the first in a three part series that follows some discredited hero called Kvothe who is so amazing and clever that when going into exile, his idea of the perfect disguise was to drop two letters from his name. Which might not be too bad, but given the constant description of his flame red hair being more red than red and undeniably unique, you’d think there might have been more consideration put into the guise.

However, I digress.

13208853-windy-storm-cloud-mascot-with-menacing-blowing-blowing-wind-cartoon-vector-image

Obviously I don’t own any of these windy cloud clip arts.

Elusive Kvothe has started – by his own description – an unsuccessful inn smack in the middle of nowhere Medieval England. This inn, in small town Mudville, still manages to pull a constant crowd of six young bachelors who constantly fill the shack’s gloomy hall. This setting is where the majority of the action occurs, as news and gossip is shared amongst the men while Kvothe listens attentively (but not too much to appear interest) while compulsively polishing his massive collection of bottles in the corner.

Now, I knew beginning the novel that it had a rather curious format. The story was meant to be a narration of the protagonist detailing the story of his life over three years to a scribe. What I didn’t realize, was that it has a substantial beginning that covers rather trite events leading up to the actual crux of the narrative. However, curiously, during this lead up I made a rather strange observation.

There were no women.

There wasn’t a female bar wench which is so prominent in fantasy fiction. While I would normally consider a breath of fresh air, the lack of a female presence (let alone voice) drew more and more prominent. Kvothe has some annoying assistant/student who often makes talk of distracting young maidens disrupting his studies as if they were some wild beast trampling past for attention. Yet, none of these virtuous unicorns ever graces the inn. When one of Kvothe’s seemingly single patrons arrives with a gruesome present from the countryside, only a male priest is informed of the discovery. When Kvothe ventures into the town village for errands, he only ever acts with men. The only time I recall there being a female mentioned in the first hundred pages is when two unnamed and undescribed women come bustling into Kvothe’s inn in a most uncharacteristic moment of business. They enter with a group of travelers and merchants of various detail and trades and I suspect the poor ladies were only ever known because the only thing that made them remarkable in that crowd was probably their breasts.

And, of course, none of them have lines.

This struck me as incredibly peculiar. There was no discernible reason for there to be such a lack of female representation, even incredibly cursory, in this world. It wasn’t like this inn had been established as one of many in the small village that only held particular appeal to young, confirmed bachelor men who displayed an uncommon lack of interest in the opposite sex. Their absence on the streets during the day or in shops is even stranger and I am left assuming that in Rothfuss’ world women are meant to be kept like horses: safe and warm in their private quarters with a pile of hay to bed with a salt lick stashed in the corner.

In fact, it takes until Kvothe is sitting down with the Chronicler before we even get a speaking female character. And, unfortunately, what we’re presented with is a shallowly sad one-dimensional individual whose sole role appears to be double duty of providing Kvothe with a sickly sweet doting mother and sexual object for his father.

Seriously, the number of times his parents are mentioned as wandering off for sex is astounding for a story that has been surprisingly chaste up to that point. So important is Kvothe’s mother as a tool for sexual gratification that the last moments of her life are supposedly spent in bed with her father.

Now, sexual liberation isn’t a bad thing. But given that the only other female in child Kvothe’s band of merry travelers is mostly discussed right before she takes Kvothe’s mentor aside for some farewell coitus, it starts seeming like the sole role for females in Rothfuss’ narrative are for gratification. In fact, one of the few times we see Kvothe’s mother interacting individually with her child is after she catches him singing a lewdly suggestive nursery rhyme to himself which I will be very surprised if it didn’t turn out to be a song about her. The only other moment I recall that we get some interaction between the parent and child that is devoid of any semblance of sexuality is when she tries to teach Kvothe courtly manners, thus fulfilling the kindly teacher trope of maternal parenting.

If we were to examine The Name of the Wind with the Bechdel Test, Rothfuss would fail with flying colours.

The Bechdel Test is a rather interesting metric for analyzing gender bias in fiction. The test is simple: does a work have two female characters, does it have them talk to each other and do they discuss something other than a man? It’s not particularly robust. Meeting its requirements does not by any means suggest that a work is free of bias. In fact, it’s establishing a really, really low base-line which so many pieces fail that highlights the inherent bias in modern fiction. In the nearly two hundred pages that I read, certainly there would be a moment that could qualify. However, Rothfuss didn’t even manage to reach two women with moments of dialogue. He barely scrapes by having two women in the first place!

Course, this isn’t suggesting that every work must feature two women chatting or even include women altogether. Setting and story can certainly impact female representation in a work. Which brings me to the second point I want to discuss.

Just because a work is based on medieval fantasy does not mean it has to be inherently sexist. There appears to be a common perception that prior to the the turn of the 20th century, women were a quiet and demur species that constantly bowed their heads to their kindly male keepers and kept themselves and their genders from prominence. Which is, to say, that there exists an argument that you can’t have strong women in fantasy because it’ll break the reader’s suspension of disbelief.

First, the very nature of fantasy makes such assertions ludicrous. Here we have a genre which often features flying, talking and fire-breathing lizards of monstrous proportions with men able to bend the very fabric of space and reality with a simple flick of a wrist and some poorly researched Latin. I have a hard time thinking that swords which glow when some species of monster that is birthed from mud pits is nearby is going to disconnect its audience because a women dares to speak her mind, pick up a weapon or, heavens, just appear with a name and some rudimentary dialogue.

Second, this idea that all women were quietly sitting on the sidelines while letting men do everything is a gross fallacy. Throughout history, there are stories of women performing remarkable services and duties. Some examples are incredibly mainstream that they’re so easy to remember when mentioned. Queen Elizabeth I and Joan of Arc are two women that fall in fantasy’s generic timeline and completely crush this false ideology. And that’s ignoring many, many other examples.

So credit goes to the creators who made these images. Bless your anonymous hearts, wherever you are.

The one mention I would like to give is Geoffrey Chaucer’s depiction of the Wife of Bath in his Canterbury Tales. Now, I know the literary discourse over the work and the debate centred on whether this was a negative satire of certain women and their beliefs or not. However, the Wife of Bath’s Tale is an interesting examination of antifeminism thought. In the Wife’s Prologue, the Wife discusses her many divorces and remarriages and the power women can wield in marriage as well as pointing out inherent contradictions and discrimination put on women by the Bible. So, while she exemplifies antifeminism thought by portraying women as manipulative and coercive, she also attacks these beliefs by pointing out that these traditions and restrictions were set by men in the first place. So even if Chaucer’s goals were to ultimately criticize these thoughts and behaviours, by discussing them he’s demonstrating that they existed at that time.

It is further telling that a man, writing nearly six hundred years ago and in a half developed language is capable of creating a far more compelling and developed character than Rothfuss is with all this medium’s development and with Chaucer’s own work readily available for study. Now, I want to draw specific attention to my use of character in that previous statement. As I mentioned at the start, I don’t think this is inherently an indication that Rothfuss hates women or that he believes they have no value. For that, I would need indication that Rothfuss was capable of actually writing compelling and developed characters. After 200 pages I had yet to see one. His main character is as insufferable as he is a grossly exaggerated ubermensch. The rest of the supporting characters seem to only existto further develop just how awesome Kvothe is at everything compared to everyone else.

This unintentional sexism can really be fixed by one thing and that is simply improving the quality of the writing. For, I think, by improving and developing their skill, good writers begin to realize that their perspective and thoughts can’t dominate that of the people they pen. By exploring other individuals and their experiences, authors begin to delve into deeper and greater stories that will naturally drift away from discriminatory presentation.

Course, this isn’t to say there aren’t bigots out there writing stories. But for most of us who aren’t assholes, the natural development of our skills should steer use clear of these pitfalls. It took reading The Name of the Wind to realize that I’m not unintentionally hurting woman and for that, those insufferable pages of unending bottle polishing and monochromatic interior decorating were well worth the pain and misery they provided.

The book is still Twilight for boys, however.

In Defence of Bias

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So, over the weekend my faithful companion has finally wheezed its last breath. As I prepare the final rites and visitations for my trusty laptop, I have had little time to actually prepare a proper blog entry for today. Which is to say while I’m in this transitional state I haven’t been able to edit up the next section of my story.

This is how it went down, essentially. I even had Japanese conference attendees standing around confused. At least I had the presence of mind to not buy a Dell.

So, instead you get to read one of my delightful rants.

This one is going to touch upon a sentiment I’ve already expressed in one of my reviews. Particularly, I want to address the defence “It’s only a game/movie” in regards to narrative criticisms. By my own admission, I am a writer and I enjoy stories. I pay far more attention to the elements of storytelling in my entertainment than to other components. Character development and plot coherency are usually the first things I’ll criticize in fiction because I have a natural interest in them. I know many people have a greater focus on special effects and spectacle. My mother, for one, is someone who doesn’t care much for what’s coming out of the mouths of the characters so long as the overall product is fun and entertaining.

So, I recognize that my major motivation for media consumption is on the story. There are other elements that I just don’t care about. An audiophile will have far more to say about music composition and scoring than I ever will. I often won’t even notice the soundtrack to a movie unless someone points it out to me. Likewise, I don’t get much from camera angles and cinematography. I enjoy them as much as anyone else and can usually appreciate the differences in skill between the extremely well executed and the horribly botched. But strange camera angles won’t particularly ruin an experience for me.

However, nothing takes me faster out of a work than gaping plot holes and inconsistent or illogical characters. It’s what bothered me the most about the new Star Trek: Into Darkness. It’s why I’m sometimes baffled when the problems of a work seem overwhelming to the piece that it sours the entire experience for me but when I talk with others about it they actually enjoyed it. Course, it’s not because these problems don’t exist – only that these people either didn’t notice or care. It’s like those little pet peeves everyone has. Some people can’t stand how movies always portray hacking as a hokey little game. I, personally, can’t stand when vehicles are constantly exploding in every crash and my sister bemoans the absolute butchering of even the most common scientific concepts and principles.

Everyone can recognize these issues. They know that they’re ultimately detrimental to the overall quality. It’s why very few will actually argue against these criticisms. Instead, they try to dismiss them. And it’s true that not every flaw is equal. A consistency error between shots where a glass is half empty one moment and full the next isn’t going to make a great movie complete rubbish. Some small flubs are to be expected, especially from such complex productions like film and video games. Nothing is perfect.

But I feel the defence that “It’s just a movie/game” is a lazy attempt to dismiss honest criticism. It rests on a presupposition that, because the work isn’t a novel, writing and story-telling aren’t important. And I feel that this couldn’t be further from the truth. I truly believe that at the heart of every creative expression is the desire to tell a story and to treat those elements so offhandedly is to perform the gravest artistic sin.

A bold claim but bear with me.

I think that story telling is not just the oldest form of entertainment but a key aspect of the human condition. Since recorded history, man has been sharing tales with one another. Prehistoric sites around the world are famous for their enigmatic symbols and designs and scholars spend careers trying to unravel their hidden meaning. Ancient cave paintings are typically frozen scenes of terrific hunts. Some of our oldest written records are sweeping epics about mythical heroes and their adventures. In a thousands tribes over every inhabitable continent have sprouted complex societies with rich traditions in oral and written story telling. We have transferred morals, histories and our very understanding of the world and universe through generations by crafting compelling and entertaining stories.

And every creative process that has developed has revolved around new and interesting ways to tell our stories. Theatre is story telling shared between an ensemble and acted out before an audience. Cinema is the current distillation of theatre with our technology being able to bring to life lands and events that were once the sole domain of our imaginations. But even more esoteric disciplines still strive to convey a story to its audience. Tapestries were designed with the major scenes of ancient tales. Sculptures are frozen monuments of famous figures – their smoothed expressions and carefully considered poses and gestures conveying so much with so little. Even music is scored with stories in mind. And I’m not even thinking of those blaring from car stereos about unlikeable teenagers and their three hour romances. Operas and symphonies are composed within the framework of a traditional narrative structure. You have to start looking at some pretty extreme cases to find examples of story empty works of art.

This structuring of events into a coherent narrative isn’t just based on thousands of years of tradition, however. I believe that we are hardwired to understand and organize information into structures not unlike a story. There is lots of research involved on how our brains organize and process information. Broca’s area, primarily famous for its role in language production, has been implicated in some action recognition and production. A recent study found that hand shadows representing different animals activated the frontal language area. Language is a highly rule dependent and structured phenomenon so it’s not surprising to see it linked with gesture recognition which can replicate the same functions of language. And what are stories, if distilled to their extreme elements, but the communication of actions in their order of occurrence? It seems reasonable that the areas primarily dealing with structure are tied to both action recognition and communication of those actions.

There are some famous psychological phenomenon that demonstrate this structuring of random observations into something more meaningful. Take pareidolia which is the recorded illusion of seeing significant images in unrelated stimuli. The most popular of these are facial recognition in such things as moon craters or crab shells.

And this could possibly explain Jesus showing up in toast though that may just be evidence of the divine really liking breakfast.

Our natural tendency for order combined with our love of stories leads me to think that criticism of narratives and plot aren’t just the ramblings of a lone mad man. I feel that the prime motive for creative expression is the desire to communicate complex thoughts, feelings and beliefs to others. When we become lazy in our telling then we lose the strength of our expression. Our work becomes diluted and empty and it starts to degrade all the accompanying parts of its production. All the acting in the world won’t save an insipid script. Magnificent computer graphics and thrilling action beats can only bamboozle audiences from flat characters and soulless dialogue for so long. By accepting terrible writing we are really depriving ourselves of really emotional and moving art. And I think this shows when you discuss the most memorable characters, movies and stories. Take a wide enough survey and I’m sure we’ll find that people remember and cherish the works that are done well over those that are done ‘well enough.’ And as a creator myself, it is of utmost importance that I constantly strive to improve and hone my craft in order to create the best work I can. You can’t please everyone but nor should you let obvious flaws pass under the misguided belief that just because people will accept it that makes it alright.

So, no, it’s not ‘just a movie or game.’ It ultimately is a creative tale and should try to tell the best damn story it can.

My Writing Process: Something Different

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I think I made mention of this earlier but I’m currently in the throes of attempting to write a full novel (90k words) in one month. Which leaves me with 3k words a day. Which leaves me with little time to do any actual writing.

So, this has led to the recent spat of back to back D&D stories. Well, to try and break some of the monotony, I’m going to post a bit of my creative process instead. As a forewarning, this is my rough work so is wholly unedited as it isn’t really meant to see the light of day. This is more akin to a quick peek at someone’s unmentionables. They’re worn for comfort but with the sole expectation that others won’t see them.

(But why do we buy ones with such interesting designs then, you ask. Well… shut up. The analogy works. Sort of.)

The current story I’m working on is a lighthearted idea at land piracy. Since I knew I was going to be running a facsimile of a crew, I needed to have a collection of fairly detailed individuals to populate my “ship” with. To set about defining and developing these individuals, I had two important steps. The first was to come up with a base outline – a bunch of thoughts and idea of this character’s appearance and personality.

So, let’s take the example of the first mate.

Here is my character sketch for Walter Samuel Schroeder:

Walton Samuel Schroeder (Schroeder) – Second in command. Landed gentry, old world blood and attitude, the youngest son of a colonial governor and plantation owner. Insufferable gambler and louse whose debts often precede his reputation. Daddy cut him off from his stipends in an effort to curb his limitless spending. But ‘just because we live in the colonies doesn’t mean we have to live like a colonial.’ Instead of finding honest work and pay turned to the life of an outlaw. Hates his name and usually referred by his last. Breast pockets, polished shoes, clean shaves, stacked decks and imported alcohol are his trademarks.

From here, I took some time to try and write a scene from their perspective. I find working from a character’s point of view and trying to see the world through their eyes really helps to bring them to life in my mind. When forced to consider their ideals and put them in conflicts that they must react to do I develop more and more of their personality. For this exercise, I chose to write them in a “bubble” that would try and extract as much of their personality as I could. I took a setting that I felt really encapsulated the idea I had for them and tried to create a situation that would shine them in the most revealing light. This also gives me the added bonus of developing and playing with my setting in ways that may never come up in the story proper.

For my insufferable gambler, this manifested in a paddle boat casino:

Walton Samuel Schroeder II

“If you ain’t holding aces and eights, it might be high time you backed down son.”

A twitch of whiskers and puff of smoke was the response. The two men passed daggers across the table. A sizable bounty lay between them but neither feigned to pay it attention. Their focus was more on the read of the other. They searched for some unforgiving tell.

Neither could be more unalike. Bradley Meyer was likened to a tough bite of roughened leather. The plains and sun had worked hard his body, creating thick skin that seemed cracked and split from the long years. A shaggy mane spilled beneath this crooked derbie – a mess of black and silver caked with the dust of the trails. A great matching moustache bristled beneath a bulbous nose that flared any time the man’s ire rose.

Which, if his epitaph were accurate, was quite often. The Untamed Meyer had a fearsome reputation on the plains as he did at the table. He took no prisoners and he gave no quarter. Few dared to take his challenge and those that did passed judgement to the wind in favour of the bulging sack by his side.

Almost all paid in the end. If careless words were truth, either with their pockets or their souls.

But every caravan needed its mule and the pompous smile on the young dallier across the carved mahogany seemed like tonight’s.

And Walton Samuel Schroeder II looked the fool.

He lounged amongst a throne of silken cushions, his left arm hanging loosely around the shoulders of some exotic creature. With painted eyes and woven black hair, she leaned crimson lips to whisper in his ear but Schroeder merely smiled before waving with his right.

On cue, a second exquisite creature slipped to his side, a cup held in her petite fingers. Schroeder raised the wine in salute to his adversary as his pet leaned into him, her fingers playing amongst the carved ivory buttons of his stylish silken vest. Elegant curving patterns of the western peoples depicted stylish clouds and waves on a soft sea of deep azure.

Or were they Eastern styles? If there was one thing that blended on this great smoke spewing paddle boat, it was the cardinal points. Red paper lanterns swung from their nailed lines with strange symbols adorning their crisp sides than any alphabet. It was a world where tight clasped cheongsam dresses blended with ribbed bodices and puffed sleeves. On this polished wood deck, the lion and the dragon entwined in a chaotic and dizzying dance that melded them both into one grotesque creation.

And Schroeder breathed it all in. The dry husk of smoking tobacco and sickeningly sweet opium filled the evening sky into an intoxicating perfume. The chatter was a mish-mash of two old languages struggling against one another but the laughter was all the same. At the height of nauseating drunkenness, it always washed away to be the same.

And with the tailored legs of his pants crossed, Schroeder bounced an impatient polished shoe in the air. This was his world and while Untamed Meyer may rule the wild open plains, these painted rails and puffing smokestacks were the younger man’s. And its king was getting restless.

“Begging your pardon,” Schroeder intoned in an accent only found by those wishing for the airs across the sea, “but this voyage ain’t getting shorter. You’ll be putting down that hand either way but if you be parading their pretty little faces, I want to see you shine this deck.”

He patted the tabletop with a pristine white glove.

Untamed Meyer’s nostrils flared.

He bent the tips of his cards. It was his fatal mistake. Schroeder could see that flicker of doubt, the nervous flinch in his prodding thumb. The man held nothing. Perhaps he had hoped to strong arm the young man into submission like the empty chairs around the table. He seemed more adept in staring daggers than dealing cards. But his attempt to address the pistol handle by leaning forward and adjusting his jacket was only an effective method to those that felt they had more to lose than their coin. And in a game less about playing cards and more about playing the people, it was a disastrous assumption.

“I ain’t be aiming to wait for this wine to get better.”

Untamed Meyer grunted. Then he did something quite extraordinary.

He played his hand.

With dismay, Schroeder watched the traitorous face of Machabeus overturned with a matching pair of nines.

It wasn’t a decent hand but that bearded prince held a far more dangerous sword. For Schroeder had dealt the young man to himself for a pair of princes that certainly beat Meyer’s hand but revealed the gambler for the cheat he was.

And yet, that was a lot of money to be had on the table.

Schroeder set down his cup.

“How modest but the world is not made by small hands.”

Schroeder revealed twin aces from his hand. He stood holding, offering his foe an apologetic shrug.

“Perhaps next time.”

The young man began to collect his ill gotten gains.

But Bradley Meyer burst from his chair, a wicked knife appearing in his hand and slamming into the wood mere inches from Schroeder’s glove. The ladies on the couch gasped at this sudden ruthlessness and the din around the two men began to quiet.

“I want to see the rest.”

“You’ve been beat, my fellow. Perhaps it’s best to accept your-”

Meyer snatched the young man’s pinned cravat, lifting him roughly from the ground and upon the table.

“Show me.”

His lips snarled, revealing a set of yellow and rotted keys protruding from his gums. The decayed stench of whiskey and lawlessness wafted from his mouth. Eyes narrowed beneath thick, bushy dark brows.

Schroeder coughed.

“Very well.”

The hand released his throat and he stumbled to the ground, rubbing his neck softly. He turned and coughed to clear his airway, motioning to his hat with his eyes while his head was turned and he could see one of his girls. She merely cocked her head back.

Schroeder turned back, smiling. He bowed dramatically, holding his right hand at the small of his back and pointing frantically at his resting chapeau. With his left, he displayed the three remaining cards, slowly turning over a seven of swords.

“And the next.”

Schroeder wiggled his right fingers before turning over a six of coins.

“One more.”

At last he felt the brim of his cap pressed into his waiting hand. Schroeder slowly picked the card from its place upon the wood. He held it before him, staring deep into the dead warriors eyes and musing if, perchance, that were not some mischievous twinkle captured upon the card. Trickery was no more a foreign mistress to the field of battle as it was to the playground of confidence.

“The coup de grace!”

Schroeder snapped the card at Meyer’s face. In one broad stroke he swept his arm over the pot, raking as much of the clattering coins into his awaiting cap before mounting the table. His polished shoes squeaked over its surface as he stepped towards his ally who rubbed at the sting where the card struck his skin before he looked down to see the duplicate grinning back. When next he turned to his rival, Schroeder’s polished shoe was connecting with his temple.

“Ladies, as always, it’s been a pleasure!”

He tossed a handful of coins at the cushions before leaping from the table and dashing across the deck.

Moments later, the familiar crack of a pistol chased after him.

“I’ll split you from nose to navel you weasel!”

The party gave a gasp as the gentleman burst through them. Coins and bills fluttered from the cap bouncing in his pack, leaving a valuable trail as he duck and wove amongst the dresses and dress coats lining the paddle steamer’s deck. This was not a jaunty two-step but nor was it an unfamiliar dance to Schroeder’s feet.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” he offered as he burst through the side door and nearly collided with the serving girl holding a delicate platter in her hands. “Rough day at the tables.”

She stared back from a dark, uncomprehending face as he bound down the stain wood corridor. Shortly after, the crash of the platter informed Schroeder his pursuer was hot on his tail.

A lady of delicate fortitude gave a shriek as he skidded around the corner, nearly colliding with her great bustle. The gentleman at her neck quickly disentangled himself, puffing up his chest in indignation. Schroeder gave a raise of his hat in poor substitution for a tip of his hat. But the offered condolences were cut short as a crash of broken glass and ripple of thunder announced Meyer’s volley.

Schroeder took to his heels once more.

Doors opened as unsuspecting patrons investigated the noise. With surprising agility, the gentleman twisted and bounded about the protrusions, bursting out upon the deck of the great, red steamer. He leaned over the rail, attempting to gauge his best route of departure. He spotted an escape boat dangling from its ropes just off the port bow.

The crash behind him was all the motivation he needed. As raised voices echoed out the corridor, he put shoe to rail and dropped from the second story deck, landing roughly on the floor below. Guests gave a great shout and men stood from their tables. A few enterprising individuals took the distraction to pocket a few of their own earnings, Schroeder noticed. He stood, brushing his suit and sighing at the scuffs on the knees. And he’d just purchased these trousers.

He cast a quick look skyward.

Meyer burst from the cabins, slapping his palms against the rail. His six shooter clattered against the wood as he leaned over, scanning the crowd for his quarry. Schroeder gave the man a cheeky wave.

The ruffian raised his pistol, unloading a round at the scampering man.

But now things had gone too far.

A few of the patrons turned to their own coats, retrieving their own pistols to bear against the unprovoked shooter. With circumstances unclear, these free men were not going to let some outlaw disrupt their perfectly pleasure night of cards.

Meyer ducked behind the rail, returning what fire he could. Tables were overturned to the shrieks of hysterical women. A firefight erupted as the horn blared in a futile attempt to wrestle back some civility. The crew of the steamer emerged, looking on in horror at the disruption of their business but unsure whose side they should support. Schroeder made to the deck, crawling on gloves and knees towards his blessed escape.

Bullets struck tables, splintering debris in worrying close proximity as he slid his hat. He paused before one table still upright, his hand snaking to its surface and patting its way until he caught the slim stem of the crystal glass. He brought to wine to safety, sampling its heady scent before raising it to his dry throat.

He motioned to pass on but caught the distressed look of one gentlewoman with a glove pressed against her heaving bosom. Schroeder offered a congenial smile, passing the crystal to her surprised hand before raising fingers to his forehead and presenting a flourish to his departure.

The lady was quick to quiet her nerves.

A stamping of boots and shouts signalled reinforcement to the confusion and Schroeder peered over the lip of a table to gauge the development. A man in crisp Thyrian military garb shouted over the din, hefting a mighty rifle to his hands. He cried for peace, letting out one great shot into the air for attention. A brief respite was bought in the firefight.

“This disturbance is over by decree of her majesty!”

Alas, the great tributaries of the Misi Ziibi were far afield of the eastern coast and the iron influence of the loyalists. There was much bad blood that had washed down its waters. Blood of men who held more vitriol for the crown and Queen than to the strange foreigners with their long moustaches and trailing hair knots. Here were waters far from the steel fingers of the rail works, running own the spine of that unbridled land where only the wild and the uncivilized chose to dwell.

The soldier would have been better served sticking to his room and his whores. That bad blood burned an older fire that was far brighter than any cheated cards.

It was seconds before some embittered separatist cried out at the man, leveraging his gun and anger at the well to do red suit. At least the soldier had reflexes to match his senses and he sought cover as a hail tore the wood about him.

And it was all perfect for Schroeder. He made a dash for the life raft, tossing his hat in with a jangle for going to work at the pulleys to lower the craft. The rope was wound tighter than a lady’s bodice at spring fair. His gloves slipped against their damp cords.

A bullet sang past his head as he threw himself to the deck. A quick glance back confirmed pure pandemonium had taken over the preceding. Turning back to the reticent life raft, Schroeder rolled onto his back, kicking at the support keeping the boat anchored to the steamer’s side. Each pound of his foot caused the boat the slam loudly against the deck.

Eventually, the wood cracked beneath his insistence. He stood, testing the rope and finding it give beneath his fingers.

As he turned to the other side, he smiled as some pretty creature rushed to the rail. She wore a sleek dark black dress with great deep purple bustle that seemed to shimmer in the glow of the paper lamps. A frilled bonnet framed a rather beautiful, if exasperated, face. After pulling on the rope for a few moments, she turned to her matching satin handbag and produced an extraordinary long knife.

“May I?” Schroeder offered with a bow.

The woman turned, as if noticing the gentleman for the first time.

“You may, good sir.”

She placed the handle gently in his outstretched palm. Holding his left hand aloft, he assisted the lady onto the rail and into the raft.

“Take this end, I’ll loosen the other,” Schroeder smiled, unwrapping his cord from the fractured support. He moved to the second restraint, plying blade to reticent rope. The cords snapped beneath its sharp edge and he clutched it tightly as it began to fray.

“You are quite the gentleman,” the lady smiled, standing from the wooden bench as bullets flew by. She held out her hand and Schroeder returned the knife with a smile.

“Perhaps we shall meet again someday.”

“Why delay?” Schroeder smiled, stepping to the rail. She gave a brief smile as she placed her hand on his chest.

“’Tis only proper. I’m afraid I must bid you ado.”

She waved the knife at him, but only customarily as she took the rope from his hands.

“It has been most pleasurable, good sir.”

And with that, she let the ropes release, plunging the raft into the churning dark waters below. Schroeder pressed up against the rail as she fished out a paddle and pushed herself away from the steamer. He watched as she worked, the dress shifting like an intoxicating wine about her shoulders as she dumped his gains into her purse before holding the hat up in a farewell salute.

Schroeder afforded a brief moment to watch her go.

“My boy, you’ve got to stop falling for every pretty face with a delightful smile.”

But then she tossed his hat casually into the waters and whatever remorse he felt immediately evaporated.

“That was custom fitted!” he shouted.

A smash of metal into wood brought him back to reality. Schroeder glanced back at the mayhem overtaken the gambling ship and looked back at the dark waters churning beneath the grand wheels of the steamer. Without anything truly to lose now, he mounted the rail, took a deep breath and plunged into the waves.

Writing Writers

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So, it’s Monday. And I don’t have anything to say. Quite the conundrum.

So let me just update what I’m doing!

I’m currently working on my next project – tentatively titled The Clockwork Caterpillar Affair. It’s a work in progress. However, I find that I’m absolutely rubbish at coming up with titles. Sometimes, I create a story only because I’ve come up with a great title for something. And if I don’t have a title but a story, then I can’t seem to create anything decent to call it.

Which I suppose brings me to the creative process. How someone writes and creates their stories is a deeply personal affair. Some people meticulously research and plot, creating complicated word webs of ideas and relationships that they distill into a narrative. Other people will have a scene and possibly a character and just jump in, letting the story essentially write itself.

I lean more towards the ‘by the seat of my pants’ approach than the planning. My story of Thyre came about after a long walk in the countryside when I got the ludicrous idea of combining Scooby Doo and Batman in a Victorian steampunk setting. That’s all I had, just some smattering of mood and styles that I thought would be really entertaining to create. From this little nugget of inception arose the characters. I had to turn Scooby and the gang into something my own that I would enjoy writing.

So, humorously enough, the original Thyre had a loyal hound that would bound around with the group on their adventures. Needless to say, this lovable little pooch didn’t survive the first draft and is barely a footnote in the final creation. Which is probably for the best because we got the far more lovable Count Theodosius (who is still somewhat of a dog). But the hound isn’t the only character to receive substantial rewrites.

The “Fred” of the group is now the haunted Jarret Renette but he didn’t start out as the wounded soldier alienated from his own home and country. In fact, Jarret was originally a rather well respected member of the aristocracy and rubbed shoulders with the Prince in lavish gentleman clubs. However, I really struggled writing his character and creating something interesting to hook the reader into his troubles. He was too smart, too handsome and too well placed for any of his issues to really resonate. As the author, I couldn’t stand writing him so I can’t even imagine what it would be like for the reader.

Curiously, the great revamp of Jarret happened after my return from Japan. I remember riding a bus to visit a friend and looking out over the Canadian countryside and thinking how odd it all seemed. It was, at the same time, comforting and alienating in its strange familiarity. It was then I got the inspiration for a returning soldier looking out over a land he fought for and feeling completely disconnected from. I think the first chapter really captures that reverse culture shock and suddenly I had my new hero.

The cane and limp were added for flavour but imbued a certain interesting juxtaposition in Jarret’s struggle. Here was a young man so used to being able bodied and strong now reduced to a cripple. He had defined himself as a man of sport and strength and would have to reconcile his new reality with that outdated self perception. The added bonus was that he was dressed as my classic hero – so sure of himself and his strength – and yet he was now physically outclassed by even a lady of leisure. There is more I could discuss on this aspect but I’ll save that for another time.

So that’s my old novel, what about my new project? Well, it came about by visiting a museum. I was with my friend and his girlfriend and laughed to myself when she got very excited over the train display. My sister often goes on about how fascinating trains are and to find another woman to share that interest struck my funny bone.

But as we poked about the old engines, I began to have some ridiculous thoughts. What would it be like to live on these old machines? Was that an old style bathroom? Could these be used as a facsimile of ships? Could we have train pirates?!

And thus, the Red Sabre was born. Unfortunately, unlike Thyre, this story didn’t come with five templates to create characters with and so I’ve been reduced to another creative method to begin this work. But I’ve rambled on enough for today so maybe next time I’ll detail how I went about assembling my crew for the Clockwork Caterpillar.

Writing Serial Killers

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I’m feeling like giving a break to our intrepid readers. There’s been a lot of bards and sorcerers and what not, but I felt I should share some more thoughts on writing in general. Today, I want to tackle serials and the impact this format of story-telling has on your narratives and characters.

I’ve been giving some thought to the serial nature of writing, not least because my D&D stories are essentially that. I’ve taken a rather peculiar approach to it – one that I’m not sure could really be replicated and certainly not in another medium. But before I get into that, I want to talk about serials people are going to be far more familiar with: television shows.

Now, the serial format isn’t particularly new. Radios had their famous series and even before that papers and magazines were bringing readers monthly updates for their favourite characters. Some classic literature was originally published as monthly serials. Pride and Prejudice is the first that comes to mind and probably explains partly why Austen adopted the letter format. However, television is easily the king of our generation. Most shows are serial by the nature, with mini-series and made for television movies the only thing I can really think of that don’t quite fit the category. Watching television, I’ve noticed there’s really only two prominent styles.

The first is the series that tells an overarching narrative with each component fitting comfortably within its thirty to sixty minute time slot. These shows generally have an overarching premise or focus on character development. Twenty-four is an obvious example, with each episode representing one hour from a rather action packed day. Each episode builds on the last, often requiring a quick “Previously on…” segment to remind its viewership what occurred before.

Running counter to this style is the episodic, slice-of-life, return to normal style of show that’s almost ubiquitous in sitcoms. Here, the emphasis is on some quirky situation for that single episode and the emphasis is shifted away from the narrative and to character interactions. There is little theme or connectivity between episodes and the characters are pretty immutable once they’ve been established. These shows are immediately evident by having quick opening segments that will immediately familiarize the audience succinctly with the primary actors. Typically, there will be a shared location that most of the cast convenes on that they can use to draw out these interactions. The Big Bang Theory is a prime example and Sheldon’s apartment serving as the de facto ‘hang out’ for the gang.

Now, from this break down, it should be rather obvious the biggest difference between these two approaches. The first has a story it’s going to tell and places that narrative first and foremost to its audience. The second cares less about the narrative and is more concerned with interactions amongst its characters.

So what does this mean? Well, probably a lot of complaints for different series will arise from these different aims. Sitcoms are notorious for the ‘return to normal’ in that, at the end of every episode, nothing is lost and nothing is gain. Sheldon and Leonard are generally the same from episode to episode and season to season. Contrast this with, say, The Walking Dead, where you can’t even be assured that some of the primary actors will even be in the next episode. The benefits of an unchanging format is that it makes it incredibly easy for people to jump into your show. There isn’t a rich history or story for them to catch up on. Most interactions will be evidently explained in that one episode and after watching a couple, a new viewer will have as good an understanding of the show as someone who’s been watching from the beginning.

The biggest problem with this format is stagnation. It’s very easy for characters to slip into caricatures – to boil down their personalities to a simple trait that can be expressed in seconds but depriving that character from any deep or intricate development. Since there is no grand narrative, these shows often become a bunch of stock characters parading through samey situations parroting the same contrived jokes and interactions from episode to episode and season to season. This immediate accessibility breaks down to shallowness and two dimensionality. Look at any sitcom in its twilight years and most you’ll find are poor shadows of their original selves. Like the Simpsons. It’s awful.

How can this be avoided? Well, for one, a creator can be wary of the first signs of this stagnation and end it before the show has truly jumped its shark. Alternatively, they can always start introducing elements from the other format – creating a continuing narrative that will fundamentally change the nature of its actors and premise. But this runs its own risk of alienating the audience.

What’s my solution – to try and avoid this type of serial altogether. My D&D stories follow a narrative – well a timeline at any rate. In my mind, different stories fall at different points in the characters lives so I know that they’re changing and if I’m successful, the readers do too. I already have some grander story arcs that are often alluded to in the passages that provide me the freedom to explore a grander story should I choose. Finally, I have new characters constantly coming and going. While this mostly reflects the changes in the inspiring people’s lives it also helps keep things fresh and exciting. But I know that my characters change. The challenges they face at the start of their journey are not the same that they encounter later on. And while some troubles haunt them for a time, as they grow and mature so do their personal conflicts.

Sadly, this post is getting quite winded now and I’m trying to not spew too much rubbish on this blog at once. I never really got to go into the weaknesses of the first type of serialization. Nor address series that mix the two styles and the benefits of that approach. Perhaps I’ll pick it up in another entry. But for now, I’ll leave it at that.

Playing God: Fantasy World Creation and Race

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Let me begin this short rant with a quick plug for my friend Derek’s posts on this website elsewhere.

He has a far more indepth and expert examination of fictitious worlds and creation than I could ever hope to achieve. Discussion about his own topics is what actually inspired me to scribble my own thoughts today. Specifically, I want to address world building in a general sense and possibly detail my own methods for creating fantastical worlds.

Fantasy fiction, I believe, poses one unique problem not truly present in any other genre of speculative fiction. To my knowledge, no other genre offers nearly as much possibility or limitless imagination primarily due to the audiences looser expectations towards the realities of the world. General fiction almost universally takes place on Earth with its implicit histories and social constructs. The most ‘world building’ an author is required for these stories is generating their main characters with believable histories and motivations.

One step further from general fiction is science fiction. But most Sci-fi is a speculative look at a future impacted by whatever technological advancement or theory spurred the idea for the author’s narrative. The world building is more substantive than just fabricating the main cast but requires the author to adapt and change her societies to this new dominant invention. However, once again, the general assumption is that advancement of life followed a remarkably similar thread to our own history.

Space operas and fantasy fiction, however, can take place on different planets or dimensions with truly unique and strange people or races. There is no assurance for the reader that the development of the society and structures to the point where the narrative occurs is anywhere close to something from our own lives. Star Wars, for example, has an entirely different history completely void of planet Earth and it could be reasonable to believe that the humans of that universe aren’t actually “humans” at all. Likewise, Middle Earth is truly a world far removed from our own with a past very different to anything we’ve ever experienced (even though Tolkien envisioned Middle Earth to be the lost mythological age of our own world).

This leaves a prominent issue for fantasy writers. How do you create a world that people can understand and relate to while still being believably fantastic? I mean, one of the huge draws for these worlds is that sense of wonder and exploration of visiting places far different from our own. We don’t want to recreate, verbatim, medieval Europe when we could just place our stories in medieval Europe. Tolkien is really the founding father of modern fantasy, so it’s no wonder that his approach is so widespread. Tolkien’s solution was to base the underpinnings of his world on real life mythology. Elves and dwarves were not raw creations of his imagination but legendary figures and beings from earlier cultures. By adopting these figures as real, he was able to shorthand a lot of his world’s creation by invoking those myths.

So successful was this method (coupled with his staggering detail in breathing life to his world) that most fantasy writers just shorthanded their own mythos from Tolkien himself. This perpetuating of the same ideals led to the common tropes of the genre: underground dwelling dwarves with big beards and bigger tempers, lofty elves of a dying or lost age removed from the petty squabbles of other nations and peoples, barbaric orcs obsessed with warfare and conquering and the rest of the lot. One could argue that Tolkien was too successful as fantasy stories became less and less about adopted medieval Europe and its superstitions and more about following the founding father’s exacting footsteps.

Which is a shame, since there are so many other nations, mythologies and legends that could be used as genesis instead. This leads me to my own D&D stories. They began as a simple thought experiment, “What would it be like if my friends and I were born in a universe like Dungeons and Dragons.” Course, obvious obstacles like copyright infringement and my own personal enjoyment for world building insured that this wouldn’t be indulgent fan fiction but a universe of my own. And as my collection of shorts grows and grows, I’m forced to consider the world they inhabit and the rules that govern them.

Some of these decisions were made early on. I knew I wanted to avoid the same old race wars common in generic fantasy. To address the over saturation of dwarves versus elves, I elected to remove race entirely. My envisioning of the race dynamic was to re-purpose the long beards and pointed ears that distinguished the fantasy peoples and instead dress the diverging elements more in cultural clothes and beliefs. Thus, my barbarian Orc is a large, dominating man that absolutely denies his ‘barbaric’ origins (Andre). Likewise, the peculiar half-elf Aliessa is rarely even mentioned as such for in my mind being called an elf is an insult and the powerful wizard commands far too much respect for such things.

But since race is more cultural than physical, it is really easy for the boundaries to be blurred or outright ignored. Most people seem to not care about where someone comes from and pointing out racial differences is really unnecessary unless it’s strictly for the plot. Which is nice that I don’t have to describe a new character as “the dwarf” with all its Tolkien trope baggage and instead I can focus on describing my characters as individuals first and foremost. But that element of race can always be brought up later if I decide it would make a compelling story. The mere presence of race, even if it isn’t a sticking point for most, lays the foundations for future conflicts if I so choose.

I have no idea where I was going with this so I’ll just wrap it up for now.