Part I of this series was posted on November 16, 2010
http://aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com/2010/11/information-feed-tricks-and-tips-for.html and Part II on November 23, 2010,
http://aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com/2010/11/information-feed-tricks-and-tips-for_23.html
Just reading this item which Jean Lorrah found:
http://www.dailyfinance.com/story/media/cnn-drops-ap-old-business-models-and-the-new-journalism/19528986/
and some of the links provided in that article, I realized this is hugely significant.
This article is from way back in June 2010 but it's still important. In the article is a link to a Pew Research annual study on Journalism that I have only barely begun to absorb.
http://www.stateofthemedia.org/2010/
I also found out via Wikipedia and other sources that Amazon.com and Craigslist were both founded in 1995, and according to this article on dailyfinance.com, the steep decline in newspaper capacity to gather and report news is 30% from 2000 to 2010.
Craigslist incorporated in 1999 (so did simegen.com). Classified ads and well heeled buyers from classified ads deserted newspapers for Craigslist. Then boom - the bottom fell out of the business model of print news papers.
Lately, I've heard that staff reductions at TV News operations, even cable's CNN, are cutting into delivery. I've noticed they basically turn off coverage on weekends now, and run tape over and over. That may not seem strange to younger people.
Lots of other stuff happened through the years mentioned above, driving and luring folks online and on-cell, and now to e-books and e-book readers that download magazines and news feeds like Kindle and Nook. All that is drawing readers away from print books, news, and magazines.
Yes, I know, we love the feel of holding and smelling a book. Where did that come from? Early reading pleasure associated with it. So there will be a generation that has that same pleasure-response from holding a nice warm e-reader. They'll hate it when e-readers go cold from energy efficiency or project the screen into the air in 3-D.
When you are living in interesting times, apparently you don't really notice so much as you will later.
Hello! It's now later!
Here's where I discussed Emigrating To The Future
http://aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com/2010/07/emigrating-to-future.html
And there I noted 5 observations in my researches around the internet that taken together sets off a Red-Alert before my eyes.
We are crossing (or perhaps have crossed) into a totally new world, and quickly we have forgotten both what we really don't need to remember, and many things well worth remembering.
I listed off some of my previous posts outlining these developments dating back to 2008 and my infatuation with Web 2.0 (the first interactive basis for online social networking). I think we're probably into Web 4.0 by now.
http://aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com/2009/02/blogging-and-reading-and-blogging-oh-my.html
http://aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com/2010/02/fix-for-publishing-business-model.html
http://aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com/2009/12/thorium-real-hope-for-e-books.html
Here's a very informative map (such as you might see in the front of a Fantasy novel) of the "world" of social networking. I found this link on twitter.
http://mashable.com/2010/08/11/2010-social-networking-map/
The basis for twitter and facebook -- and all the rest -- is the advertising business model. Some, like google and huffingtonpost.com, are succeeding where print-paper newspapers have failed.
Some online news sites like politico.com actually pay reporters to write stories and blogs (it's not as good a living as print journalists used to make, but it's better than novelists are doing today) -- they pay from advertising revenue, just like newspapers used to. Print papers made money from sales on the street, and for subscriptions, but their real money was from classified ads and grocery store ads.
When I told my Dad (who worked for Associated Press) that I wanted to become a writer, he was all excited. He was ready to pay my way through a Journalism degree even though very few women worked in Journalism. It was an absolutely guaranteed income for life -- a Journalism Degree!
He knew more women would flock to Journalism soon. He was shocked but cooperative when I chose Chemistry even though he couldn't see a living in fiction writing, especially not science fiction, but Chemists made good money. He figured I'd eventually revert to Journalism. I guess he was right, because here I am blogging online and reviewing for a paper newspaper. Only the world has changed in ways he couldn't have imagined.
The article from dailyfinance.com says:
-----Quote-------
"With traditional media companies facing an advertising slump and rising competition on the Web, the AP has come under pressure from its members to cut rates," the Associated Press recently reported about itself. "It lowered its fees for U.S. newspapers by $30 million in 2009 and plans a $45 million cut for newspapers and broadcasters this year."
Meanwhile, CNN is experiencing troubles of its own. Ratings for its U.S. television programming are down, and the Project for Excellence in Journalism State of the Media report says advertising revenue for CNN and its sister network, HLN, were projected to drop 8% to $513 million in 2009, down from $556 million the previous year. A CNN spokesman said the terms of AP's licensing agreement "did not fit our business model."
See full article from DailyFinance: http://srph.it/9sIy4F
-------END QUOTE------
Yet CNN.COM is one of the biggest, most visited cites on the internet.
The successful print papers are now online, breaking stories the hour they happen, not the next day or the day after as necessary with print. In our new world, speed, "real time" interactivity is essential. Note how most news sites are "blog" (Web 2.0) enabled with long, often heated and nutty, comments posted by readers -- who often post without actually reading the article.
I saw a rumor (unsubstantiated) that some of those who drop comments on news items on this popular news sites are paid to espouse specific political views and hammer sites with comments. That's an interesting business model for a non-fiction writer but what about the advertising revenues for the hammered websites? They pay the website by hit, but the hits stats are distorted if hitters are just passing through doing a paid job.
Another fiction writer acquaintance who just found me on facebook.com/jacqueline.lichtenberg said he's been making a living now doing short researched articles for the government. He loves it because he's doing what he loves - research! And another friend is trying the syndicated online articles market for her non-fiction.
Here's an article you might have missed from Publisher's Weekly where the new publisher for Simon&Schuster (publishing companies have been collapsing and being bought up just like newspapers) outlined his new VISION for how to organize a book publishing operation in this new world.
http://blogs.publishersweekly.com/blogs/PWxyz/?p=1495
Does that seem like a totally new business model designed for the internet age?
That S&S model is what writers of novels have to work with today.
But the book-buyers live in this blog-style interactive news (even from professional news services), with "facts" gathered not by people with Journalism degrees necessarily but by folks with a cell-camera and a lot of initiative and local contacts.
Have you ever found yourself yelling at the TV screen during a news commentary broadcast?
People want to interact. I think even in fiction.
My insurance company, Geico, offers an interactive online Defensive Driving course that costs $20 to take (4 hours of interacting) instead of the I think it was $80 3 years ago to take the course in person at the library or in a hotel function room.
People live online these days, and do most of their reading online. When reading books, they want, just like the online experience, to marginal notes on their e-reader that the writer will actually see -- as if they were comments dropped on facebook. Readers want to make comments other readers will see (as on Amazon). And hear/see what others respond. That's not just "what others say" but what others "respond." That is to have a conversation, such as the twitter chats I've been quoting from. People talk to each other, and eventually those raised on conversing with strangers will want to converse with their fiction writers as they read.
Already, writers have been posting as-I-write-it segments of stories. That's been going on since Listserv was first invented (have to look up when that was - hasn't it been there all my life?).
I was a member of the Forever Knight Lists, one of which carried comments on fanfic posted on the other List. Stories were posted in chapters or installments, and writers got feedback as or before writing the next chapter. Some great writers came out of that training.
That now goes on with blogs and among a writer's beta-readers on fanfiction.net and other fan fiction posting websites. I'm on a mailing discussion List for a Star Trek fanfiction posting site:
http://www.trektales.com/
Compare the way fiction for such sites is created -- the way a writer thinks about "information feed" as described in the previous posts in this series -- with the way Simon & Schuster is reorganizing to publish novels.
Now think about the 7 part series I did here on Editing starting with these 2:
http://aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com/2010/08/what-exactly-is-editing-part-i.html
http://aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com/2010/08/what-exactly-is-editing-part-ii.html
Does the new S&S concept change the "editor's job" in any way?
Does the shift in news-gathering business model really mean anything to fiction writers?
Think about the convenience of CNN.COM, Foxnews.com, CNBC.COM etc. (don't forget snopes.com and wikipedia's not so reliable "facts") And then I'm always quoting Wired Magazine's website - and Time and Newsweek. If it's not online, it doesn't exist as far as I'm concerned. How can I point you to it if there's no URL? Why would I frustrate you talking about something you can't find at a click?
Fiction writers have to consider "information feed" techniques of fiction in terms of what NEWS is (and is not) for the modern reader. At what point will that shifting perception of reality among readers and viewers of "news" change how fiction writers do their job?
Oh, are we living in interesting times or what?
I still love Web 2.0 even if it is obsolete already.
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://jacquelinelichtenberg.com
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Showing posts with label craft of fiction writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label craft of fiction writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Monday, March 08, 2010
Serendipity and Persistence
This is a story that took about eight years and isn't over yet. This is a story about a young man with dreams, a young man who served his country then--still struggling with his dreams--started serving meals, waiting tables in a Palm Beach, Florida restaurant.
This is also the story of an author who--when she was a struggling writer with dreams--was helped by other authors on the path, and who has a habit of leaving her bookmarks everywhere, such as along with the cash to pay for the meal in a restaurant.
"Hey," says the waiter, returning to the dinner table with the change, "you're an author. I've always wanted to write a book. But I don't know where to start."
"Hey," says the author (who writes much better dialogue than this in her books), "I might be able to help."
They exchange email addressess (under the watchful eye of author's husband who long ago gave up on his wife's tendency to collect strays), they exchange ideas, the author sends suggestions. Read Dwight V Swain's "Techniques of the Selling Writer." Read Browne and King. Read Bickham. URLs are sent, guiding the waiter-writer to sites like Sime-Gen's World Crafter's Guild and the worthy advice on sites run by Orson Scott Card and Holly Lisle.
During the next year (which was 2003)--and many more meals at that restaurant--the waiter-writer actually sends the author a few sample chapters.
"Hey," the author says in a return email, "you have talent. But you've missed a few key points. Reread Swain. Reread Bickham." She makes notes in his chapters, suggests changes.
The author and waiter-writer lose touch for a while. Then every once in a while, another chapter hits the author's email inbox. She sees talent, she sees progress. She crits and sends it back.
Fast forward to 2009. The waiter-writer has moved to Connecticut, finished his first novel, and sends drafts for query letters and synopses to the author. After thwacking the waiter-writer via cyberspace for not listening to her when it comes to queries, the author sends more instructions on crafting queries and by 2010, the waiter-writer gets it right.
Fast foward to March 2010. The author offers to send a letter of introduction on the waiter-writer's behalf to her literary agent. This generates a phenomenom knows as "jumping over the slush pile." Author isn't sure--she's never sure--how the literary agent will feel about waiter-writer's book. It's edgy contemporary fantasy, sharp and gripping but with a very distinct voice. Or as waiter-writer calls it, "It is a blend of the Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter having lunch with Tom Clancy and Dean Koontz."
The manuscript hits the email pathways and within two weeks, the literary agent gives author a heads-up: she loves the book. Loves it. Totally. The agency is going to offer waiter-writer representation.
Waiter-writer has just become an author. His name is Steve Vera. Watch for him as this author has a feeling he will sell and sell quickly.
Corrollary: A couple of things to be learned from this story.
1) Believe in yourself and don't be afraid to ask someone farther along the path than you for help. I try to mentor two to three writers a year (that's honestly the limit I can handle because as Steve can tell you, I do very intense critiquing). Many other authors do the same, but even if you can snag an author as a mentor, authors do blog, do teach classes, do share their tips and tricks on their websites. Utilize that.
And...
2) When authors share, listen. We've arrived where we are by employing certain methods that work. Recently there was a discussion on another blog where a poster decried the "rigid rules of writing," indicating that those kinds of writing rules weren't necessary. Big fat hint: they are. A lot of writers are natural writers; they innately have the cadence and flow of commercial genre fiction. But that's the muse part, the art part. Being an "ar-teest" is not enough. You must, absolutely must understand and employ the craft of writing. That doesn't mean you can't bend the craft rules. But you must be able to employ them well before you can bend them skillfully. Writing only "from the muse" is rather like letting loose inside your house an out-of-control toddler with a tray full of fingerpaints. The muse needs the discipline of craft.
As soon as Steve has a book deal, I'll post. And yes, outside of getting offers on my own books, watching one of my "students" fledge is the best damned wonderful feeling in this galaxy. Which brings me to a final and necessary rule of life called Random Acts of Kindness: Good karma. Pass it on.
Namaste,
~Linnea
This is also the story of an author who--when she was a struggling writer with dreams--was helped by other authors on the path, and who has a habit of leaving her bookmarks everywhere, such as along with the cash to pay for the meal in a restaurant.
"Hey," says the waiter, returning to the dinner table with the change, "you're an author. I've always wanted to write a book. But I don't know where to start."
"Hey," says the author (who writes much better dialogue than this in her books), "I might be able to help."
They exchange email addressess (under the watchful eye of author's husband who long ago gave up on his wife's tendency to collect strays), they exchange ideas, the author sends suggestions. Read Dwight V Swain's "Techniques of the Selling Writer." Read Browne and King. Read Bickham. URLs are sent, guiding the waiter-writer to sites like Sime-Gen's World Crafter's Guild and the worthy advice on sites run by Orson Scott Card and Holly Lisle.
During the next year (which was 2003)--and many more meals at that restaurant--the waiter-writer actually sends the author a few sample chapters.
"Hey," the author says in a return email, "you have talent. But you've missed a few key points. Reread Swain. Reread Bickham." She makes notes in his chapters, suggests changes.
The author and waiter-writer lose touch for a while. Then every once in a while, another chapter hits the author's email inbox. She sees talent, she sees progress. She crits and sends it back.
Fast forward to 2009. The waiter-writer has moved to Connecticut, finished his first novel, and sends drafts for query letters and synopses to the author. After thwacking the waiter-writer via cyberspace for not listening to her when it comes to queries, the author sends more instructions on crafting queries and by 2010, the waiter-writer gets it right.
Fast foward to March 2010. The author offers to send a letter of introduction on the waiter-writer's behalf to her literary agent. This generates a phenomenom knows as "jumping over the slush pile." Author isn't sure--she's never sure--how the literary agent will feel about waiter-writer's book. It's edgy contemporary fantasy, sharp and gripping but with a very distinct voice. Or as waiter-writer calls it, "It is a blend of the Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter having lunch with Tom Clancy and Dean Koontz."
The manuscript hits the email pathways and within two weeks, the literary agent gives author a heads-up: she loves the book. Loves it. Totally. The agency is going to offer waiter-writer representation.
Waiter-writer has just become an author. His name is Steve Vera. Watch for him as this author has a feeling he will sell and sell quickly.
Corrollary: A couple of things to be learned from this story.
1) Believe in yourself and don't be afraid to ask someone farther along the path than you for help. I try to mentor two to three writers a year (that's honestly the limit I can handle because as Steve can tell you, I do very intense critiquing). Many other authors do the same, but even if you can snag an author as a mentor, authors do blog, do teach classes, do share their tips and tricks on their websites. Utilize that.
And...
2) When authors share, listen. We've arrived where we are by employing certain methods that work. Recently there was a discussion on another blog where a poster decried the "rigid rules of writing," indicating that those kinds of writing rules weren't necessary. Big fat hint: they are. A lot of writers are natural writers; they innately have the cadence and flow of commercial genre fiction. But that's the muse part, the art part. Being an "ar-teest" is not enough. You must, absolutely must understand and employ the craft of writing. That doesn't mean you can't bend the craft rules. But you must be able to employ them well before you can bend them skillfully. Writing only "from the muse" is rather like letting loose inside your house an out-of-control toddler with a tray full of fingerpaints. The muse needs the discipline of craft.
As soon as Steve has a book deal, I'll post. And yes, outside of getting offers on my own books, watching one of my "students" fledge is the best damned wonderful feeling in this galaxy. Which brings me to a final and necessary rule of life called Random Acts of Kindness: Good karma. Pass it on.
Namaste,
~Linnea
REBELS AND LOVERS, March 2010: Book 4 in the Dock Five Universe, from Bantam Books and Linnea Sinclair—www.linneasinclair.com
Kaidee hated when her ship didn’t work. Dead in space was not a place she liked to be. Especially with an unknown bogie on her tail, closing at a disturbingly fast rate of speed that made her heart pound in her chest and her throat go dry.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Settings, SFR, and Spiffyness
I've been absolutely thrilled to see the responses to The Galaxy Express' SFR Holiday Blitz. I've also been absolutely slammed with computer troubles and flu/cold/bronchitis, which is why you've not seen me here in a good while (all this befalling me, yes, after a triple-deadline). Bronchitis I'm rather used it--it's something that's plagued me (pun intended) since I've been in my twenties. More than twenty years ago. Computers invaded my life at about the same time (hmmm, wonder if there's a correlation?) but those troubles have become worse with age, while the bronchitis has rolled merrily along without much change.I sometimes wonder if the computer troubles I face aren't yet more fodder for my plots and characters. As one reviewer said about my Finders Keepers:
[T]he vast majority of this novel is classic space opera, the sort of story in which rough-hewn pilots of either gender chug along space lanes in rickety old ships held together with duct tape, and sinister galactic empires plot against all and sundry for power. Not for Linnea Sinclair the spiffy, cutting edge man-machine futures of Ken MacLeod, Greg Egan or Charles Stross.Maybe one of the reasons I don't do spiffy is that I've yet to meet a chunk of technology that permits me to experience spiffy. I have no faith that any universe--future or otherwise--with be trouble-free when it comes to technology. Okay, I'll 'fess up. I do have things break down on board the ships in my books because it ramps up the conflict. But I also have them break down because I'm fairly confident that's an event to which most of my readers can relate. (If you've never had a computer melt-down, please tell me where you live so I can move next door to you. Which means one of two things will then happen: either my computers will work flawlessly from that point, or yours will crash with gleeful regularity.)
This latest crash (maybe the motherboard--we're still not sure) resulted in a computer that refused to function under Windows XP but is chugging along nicely (so far) under Windows 7. I can't believe it's solely because Mr. Gates needed my $300 last week.
But I digress. I wanted to touch on settings in SFR because of a blog Heather from The Galaxy
Express noted a week or so back, in which several readers commented on why they did--or didn't--read SFR. One poster noted that in reading the opening chapter of my Shades of Dark, she found technology was far too evident and took up much descriptive space.Which, of course, made me sit back with my usual WTF? I wanted to post and ask her--I didn't, for a variety of reasons, two being bronchitis and limping computer--if she would have been equally as disconcerted by the description of the castle in a medieval romance, or the scent of leather and the snuffle of horses in a western romance? If she reads chick-lit, would an opening scene listing the character's designer shoes overflowing her closet bother her? If she reads mystery, would she prefer the details of the murder scene to be left out?
In SFR, the description of a ship's bridge or command consoles are my character's closet full of Gucci and Prada products, they are the flickering torches set into the rusty metal sconces angling out from the moss-covered stone wall.
Here's the opening paragraph from the prologue in Mary Jo Putney's Silk and Secrets:
Prologue
Autumn 1840
Night was falling rapidly, and a slim crescent moon hung low in the cloudless indigo sky. In the village the muezzin called the faithful to prayers, and the haunting notes twined with the tantalizing aroma of baking bread and the more acrid scent of smoke. It was a homey, peaceful scene such as the woman had observed countless times before, yet as she paused by the window, she experienced a curious moment of dislocation, an inability to accept the strange fate that had led her to this alien land.
Now, Putney is not only one lovely and classy lady, she's one helluva fabulous and well-known author. She writes--among other genres--historical romances. If she puts in the cloudless indigo sky, the tantalizing aroma of baking bread, and the acrid scent of smoke, it's because these details are not only important, they're expected.
Why, then, the problem with:
A stream of red data on a blue-tinged screen to my left snagged my attention. We were on the outer fringes of an Imperial GA-7's signal—a data relay drone normally not accessible to renegade ships like the Karn, and definitely not at this distance. But this was the Karn, Sully's ghost ship that routinely defied government regulations and just as routinely ignored ship's specs. So I slipped into the vacant seat at communications and executed the grab filter with an ease that even Sully would have been proud of.Okay, maybe you've never seen a GA-7 beacon. But I've never seen a muezzin. So therein resides my rationale behind my usual WTF when I read comments that "SFR terms are too confusing."
Captain Chasidah Bergren. One-time pride of the Sixth Fleet and staunch defender of the Empire, illegally hacking into a GA-7 beacon.
As I've also often noted, I still haven't a clue in a bucket how to pronounce reticule. But it doesn't stop me from reading historicals and I don't ask the author to replace it with the word pocketbook.
Someone enlighten me as to why muzzein is acceptable and GA-7 beacon isn't. Please.
~Linnea
Linnea Sinclair
// Interstellar Adventure Infused with Romance//
Available Now from Bantam: Hope's Folly, Book 3 in the Dock Five Universe
Coming March 2010: Rebels and Lovers (Book 4)
http://www.linneasinclair.com/
Monday, August 10, 2009
Pointing and Viewing Conflict
We've had a couple of fun discussions going on over on my Yahoo group where several of my students from recent online class have decided to take up residence. We've been discussing both point of view, and conflict. As I say i every one of the classes that I teach: it's almost impossible when talking about the craft of writing fiction to talk about solely one aspect of that craft. Commercial genre fiction is more than one aspect of writing, just as a a cake is more than an egg.
The point of view you choose in writing directly impacts upon the kind of conflict you end up working with. Not only the point of view character you choose to write from, but also the style of point of view: first person, third person, tight third. In first person point of view you are likely going to have a lot more internal conflict than you would in regular third person point of
view.A side note: you may notice that when I talk about writing. I tend to use the word "likely" a lot. That's because there is no one 'every time -- all the time' rule in writing, except of course things like grammar and spelling. I have this fear --- and yes it does happen --- that if I say something like "first person point of view has far more internal conflict" that I'm going to get comments on this blog, pointing out specific stories where first person point of view lacks internal conflict. I know that. As I said, there is no every time -- all the time rule.
So back to point of view and conflict. If you're writing first person point of view or tight third point of view, you are likely going to have a lot more internal conflict. I think one of the reasons for this is obvious. But if not, here it is: you're dropping the reader tightly and intimately into the character's skin. When you do that, the character's thoughts and feelings are in the forefront.
The point of view character you choose, whether in tight third a regular third, greatly affects the form of the conflict. Each character starts out in a story with a goal or a set of goals, which likely will change or morph as the story progresses. The thwarting of these goals is what creates conflict. How that conflict is structured depends upon how you build your character. Is he an introspective chap? Is she a gregarious gal? Does he say one thing and think another? Was she raised in a home where her opinions are not valued? All these kinds of things, many of which are back story, impinge on conflict.
I apologize if to any of you, this sounds simplistic. But I judge a lot of unpublished writing in national contests, and I teach a lot of classes to unpublished writers. Sometimes the most simple things are the ones that are overlooked. This includes the integration of the various segments of the craft of fiction, which is why I'm talking about point of view and conflict.
One of the most common questions --- that Jacqueline has addressed here many times --- is whose point of view should I be in? The obvious answer is the point of view of the character, who has the most to lose at that point in the story. Or as Jacqueline puts it: the character who is on the positive pole of the transaction. The character whose actions will make a difference. Obviously, if the character's actions make a difference, this creates an emotional reaction in the reader, because it changes the flow of the story. So the two are really very well intertwined.
So when you're creating your characters remember to create them with conflict in mind. Structure them in such a way that the plot allows you to question and challenge their goals and their values.
I love literary agent Donald Maas's tip: "Take your character's greatest strength and make it his greatest weakness."
That's the purest form of choosing the proper point of view, and integrating it with conflict.
~Linnea
HOPE’S FOLLY, Book 3 in the Gabriel’s Ghost universe, Feb. 2009 from RITA award-winning author, Linnea Sinclair, and Bantam Books: http://www.linneasinclair.com/
She fought the urge to salute and instead watched him head for a striper standing in the corridor, realizing she didn’t know his name or rank. Not that it mattered. There was something very familiar about him, something that resonated in a distant yet warm part of her heart. Something that told her she not only trusted him but that she’d follow him into the jaws of hell and out again. And never regret it.
Monday, August 03, 2009
I Learned About Writing Fiction From That...
A Writer's "Thought Cloud" of sorts:
~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
Don’t tell it; show it! Whenever possible, translate information into people doing things (Swain)
* Every good story starts at the moment of threat (Bickham) * R.U.E.: Resist the Urge to Explain (Browne/King) * Readers want to see a character overcome obstacles (Dixon) * Vividness outranks brevity (Swain) * Figure out whose story it is. Get inside the character—and stay there (Bickham)
* Never switch point of view in order to convey information that you can't figure out any other way to TELL THE READER. That will cause you to divert attention from the "ball" and will only frustrate the reader, not inform him. If there really is no other way for the reader to learn something, then they shouldn't know it (Lichtenberg) * It’s not the experience that creates the trauma but the way the character reacts to it (Swain)
* If there is one single principle that is central to making any story more powerful, it is simply this: Raise the stakes (Maass) * Your main character must light a fire he can’t put out (Swain) * Conflict generates plot (Lichtenberg)
* When you use two words (a weak verb and an adverb) to do the work of one (a strong verb) you dilute your writing and rob it of its potential power (Browne/King) * Create a character. Give her an obsession. Watch where she runs (Bell) * Readers read to experience tension (Swain) * Backstory delivered early on crashes down on a story’s momentum like a sumo wrestler falling on his opponent. Backstory belongs later (Maass) *
~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
Monday, July 27, 2009
World Building For Writers: POLITICS
World Building For Writers, Or Why Everyone in the Galaxy doesn't Speak English
TOPIC: Politics
TOPIC: Politics
(again, from a course I taught in 2008)
Contemp? Sci Fi? Regency? Police Procedural? It doesn’t matter. If you write commercial genre fiction, then the political climate of your story world is important. It’s important because your character(s) relates to it in any way no way else does. I don’t care if it’s January 4th, 2005 or Solstice 1352 or Yelbragh 19498th . Whatever is going on politically in your story world has some impact on your story.
Some more than others. Let’s play with some ideas:
• A war or change of command destroys a long-standing monarchy
• Gay marriage is legalized globally
• Polygamy has never been a crime
• Women lose the right to vote
• Sorgs (a third gender long cast in to the role of caretakers) obtain the right to own property
• Gun ownership is banned in the US
• Legalized time travelers create a new level of citizenship…
It doesn’t end. Its limits are your creativity. Your plot. Your conflict.
Unless your story has a political plot line (Princess Leia has to find a way to stop Darth Vader and the evil emperor), the politics may be very much in the background. For the READER. But you, writer, need to know the political climate of every novel you pen, from a contemporary romance to a medical thriller to an outer space saga.
“But in a contemporary romance?” you squeak.
“Yep,” I bellow back.
Let’s say your characters, Josh and Jillian, are destined to fall in love. You, writer, know something must keep them apart in the beginning. ‘I don’t like you yet’ isn’t sufficient conflict. What is? Judging from contemps I’ve read, often is a subtly political issue: she’s a tree-hugger, he’s a corporate mogul paving paradise and putting up parking lots. She’s a nosy news reporter. He’s a secretive cop. Whatever.
The problem with writing in our current time period (give or take a dozen years) is that we’re so used to our “world” we forget the elements that build it. We forget that from the city councilwoman right up to POTUS, politics shape what we do daily, even if it’s the approval of a new skateboard park down the street, or a zoning decision that permits larger signs. Traffic lights exist at the intersections they do because at some point, some politician or political (regulatory) body decided those were the intersections that needed lights.
How do your characters feel about the mayor of their town, the governor of their state? Are your characters politically liberal or conservative? Again, this can be subtle in a contemporary novel—very subtle—or it can be a main issue. But you, writer, need to answer those questions.
Do you need those answers before you write? Depends. Are you a plotter or a pantser? Your writing style is your own. Just remember that the political climate—and your characters’ response to it—is a question that must, eventually, be answered.
If you write urban fantasy, you likely are inventing an entirely new political system, one where vampires or demons or werewolves have their own political agenda, and possibly even political party. If you write fantasy—what are the politics of magic? Would the use of magic be regulated? Taxed?
If you write outer space sagas than span star systems, you need to create a multitude of political and regulatory entities. No, one person cannot rule the galaxy, solo. It’s logically illogical. One person ruling an entire planet is even a stretch. There would be sub-governments, divisions, deputies, factions and more.
Contemp? Sci Fi? Regency? Police Procedural? It doesn’t matter. If you write commercial genre fiction, then the political climate of your story world is important. It’s important because your character(s) relates to it in any way no way else does. I don’t care if it’s January 4th, 2005 or Solstice 1352 or Yelbragh 19498th . Whatever is going on politically in your story world has some impact on your story.
Some more than others. Let’s play with some ideas:• A war or change of command destroys a long-standing monarchy
• Gay marriage is legalized globally
• Polygamy has never been a crime
• Women lose the right to vote
• Sorgs (a third gender long cast in to the role of caretakers) obtain the right to own property
• Gun ownership is banned in the US
• Legalized time travelers create a new level of citizenship…
It doesn’t end. Its limits are your creativity. Your plot. Your conflict.
Unless your story has a political plot line (Princess Leia has to find a way to stop Darth Vader and the evil emperor), the politics may be very much in the background. For the READER. But you, writer, need to know the political climate of every novel you pen, from a contemporary romance to a medical thriller to an outer space saga.
“But in a contemporary romance?” you squeak.
“Yep,” I bellow back.
Let’s say your characters, Josh and Jillian, are destined to fall in love. You, writer, know something must keep them apart in the beginning. ‘I don’t like you yet’ isn’t sufficient conflict. What is? Judging from contemps I’ve read, often is a subtly political issue: she’s a tree-hugger, he’s a corporate mogul paving paradise and putting up parking lots. She’s a nosy news reporter. He’s a secretive cop. Whatever.
The problem with writing in our current time period (give or take a dozen years) is that we’re so used to our “world” we forget the elements that build it. We forget that from the city councilwoman right up to POTUS, politics shape what we do daily, even if it’s the approval of a new skateboard park down the street, or a zoning decision that permits larger signs. Traffic lights exist at the intersections they do because at some point, some politician or political (regulatory) body decided those were the intersections that needed lights.
How do your characters feel about the mayor of their town, the governor of their state? Are your characters politically liberal or conservative? Again, this can be subtle in a contemporary novel—very subtle—or it can be a main issue. But you, writer, need to answer those questions.
Do you need those answers before you write? Depends. Are you a plotter or a pantser? Your writing style is your own. Just remember that the political climate—and your characters’ response to it—is a question that must, eventually, be answered.
If you write urban fantasy, you likely are inventing an entirely new political system, one where vampires or demons or werewolves have their own political agenda, and possibly even political party. If you write fantasy—what are the politics of magic? Would the use of magic be regulated? Taxed?
If you write outer space sagas than span star systems, you need to create a multitude of political and regulatory entities. No, one person cannot rule the galaxy, solo. It’s logically illogical. One person ruling an entire planet is even a stretch. There would be sub-governments, divisions, deputies, factions and more.
Why?
Because the entire planet, the entire star system, the entire galaxy doesn’t speak English.
Good world building must have two key elements as a base:
1 – Logic
2 – Plausibility
Where a lot of amateur SF and F writers fail is they ignore logic and plausibility in world building. The entire galaxy speaks English. All sentients look (relatively) the same and breathe oxygen. One being rules the universe.
A solar or star system is a very large physical area. A galaxy is gi-normous. The universe is, well, beyond galactic proportions. Logically, keeping in touch with and track of beings across the galaxy would not be an easy feat. Look at our own technological failures on our one planet and multiply that by thousands. “Can you hear me now?” is still the annoying war cry of cellular telephone customers. Computer systems crash. Computer systems get attacked by viruses. Yes, certainly, a civilization that is capable of star travel will have advanced communications system but they won’t be any more perfect than ours are today. They will break down, there will be dead zones, there will be technological limitations.
So the Universe’s OverLord can NOT transmit his proclamations instantaneously to his subjects, galaxy-wide. It just ain’t gonna logically happen.
The larger the scope of your novel, the more governmental and regulatory entities you’ll have populating it. As James Bond traverses the globe, he deals with the Russians, the Afghans, the French, the Bahamian government, the CIA, FBI, FAA and God only knows who and what else.
But you, writer, should know.The diversity on our own planet is the template you can use to create your cities, states, countries and worlds, whether you’re populating a distant galaxy or recreating New York City in a demon-run urban fantasy. We have the FAA and the CIA. We have school boards and zoning boards. We have steelworker’s unions. Some countries have presidents. Some have kings or queens. Yes, it could mean dragging out your old college Political Science textbook, but you need to do that when you build your story world.
Who would hold the power in your story world, and why? In many of CJ Cherryh’s SF novels, space captains and pilots hold a lot of power because they’re the necessary link in supplying the various worlds. Economics drive politics in those books. But in her FOREIGNER series, lineage and legal assassination fuel the political parties.
In my AN ACCIDENTAL GODDESS, religion heavily influences politics. Just as it does in the Middle East on our own planet. The Taliban, anyone?Politics also influences the creation of law enforcement agencies and militaries. A space based fleet will be of little help with a riot at a dirtside spaceport. Is local law enforcement independent or a puppet agency of a dictator? How are jurisdictions established?
Politics in your story world can be a driving force or it can be a subtle influence. But you, writer, must have it structured in your mind and in your notes, or you’ll be shortchanging your reader and your characters.
Some useful links:
Patricia Wrede’s Fabulous Questions
http://www.sfwa.org/writing/worldbuilding1.htm
WEBSITES:
World building:
http://www.writesf.com/00_Course_Outline.html
http://www.sfreader.com/authors/DavidWalton
http://www.specficworld.com/resources/world.html
http://www.sfwa.org/bulletin/articles/baxter.htm
http://www.sff.net/people/julia.west/CALLIHOO/webwriter.htm#worldbuilding
Historicals:
http://www.literary-liaisons.com/articleshome.html
http://www.literary-liaisons.com/resources.html
Some useful books for learning more about military/police:
Air Force Officer’s Guide, Col Jeffrey C Benton USAF, Stackpole Books, 2002
She’s Just Another Navy Pilot, Loree Draude Hirschman, Naval Institute Press, 2000
When You’re The Only Cop in Town, Jack Berry & Debra Dixon, Gryphon Books, 2002
Homicide: A Year On The Killing Streets, David Simon, Ballatine, 1993
True Blue, Lynda Sue Cooper, Gryphon Books, 1999
~Linnea
HOPE’S FOLLY, Book 3 in the Gabriel’s Ghost universe, Feb. 2009 from RITA award-winning author, Linnea Sinclair, and Bantam Books: www.linneasinclair.com
This wasn’t Fleet. This was at best a rogue’s gallery—an uncertain and desperate attempt at salvation and justice… Hope’s Folly suddenly sounded all too accurate.
This wasn’t Fleet. This was at best a rogue’s gallery—an uncertain and desperate attempt at salvation and justice… Hope’s Folly suddenly sounded all too accurate.
Monday, July 13, 2009
World Building For Writers, Or Why Everyone in the Galaxy doesn't Speak English
(Lecture #1 from a class I taught in 2008)
Lesson One: Building Your World Where Everyone Definitely Does Not Speak English (even if they do…)
There’s a misconception out there in the galaxy and I want to correct it. The misconception is that world building is only for science fiction and fantasy writers. See, you thought I was going to say it was that everyone speaks English. Thanks for reading the title, but that’s not the misconception I’m going to start with. It’s that world building is a sci fi geek’s playground.
It is. But it’s also yours, no matter what genre you flail around in.
“But I write chick-lit,” you wail as you flail. “And she writes police procedurals. And he writes horror set in Chicago.”
“I don’t care,” sez Linnea. “If you write commercial genre fiction, you need to pay attention to world building.”
And the reason you need to pay attention to world building is because writing guru Dwight V. Swain ::Linnea genuflects:: said we need to. And he’s right. (If you’re not familiar with Swain, you should be. His Techniques of the Selling Writer, first published around 1965, is dang near the bible for most of the published authors I know.)
The reason every fiction writer needs to pay attention to world building is because every fiction piece is set in a “story world” and that story world—even if it is based on a real place—is still being interpreted through the characters’/author’s eyes.
Let’s take West Long Branch, NJ. Never been there? I was born and raised there. It’s a sleepy little town a few miles from the Atlantic Ocean just where the state of New Jersey dinks in. I know it really well but I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that the way I knew West Long Branch isn’t exactly the same as the way my best friend Claudia knew it. For one thing, I was an only child of financially comfortable parents. Claudia was the middle child in a divorced family. She was about a year younger than I was, and was a grade behind. Her heritage was Italian. Mine was Polish.
The reality is that even though we lived across the street from each other for almost twenty years, how she processed her experiences were different than the way I did. She had to deal with parental discord, as her mother usually pulled some stunt every time Claudia’s father came for visitation. I never experienced that—I watched it as it happened to Claudia but the emotional impact wasn’t mine. However, I had parents who owned a business. I was a “latchkey kid.” Claudia’s mother was always home.
So my experiences of my “world”—West Long Branch, circa 1965—were affected by my background, family and heritage, just as Claudia’s were. Loud voices in her house were common (she had a larger family that included two brothers and her parents were often fighting). Loud voices in my house would signal something unusual. I didn’t like to watch monster movies because I was often alone at home. Monster movies never bothered her because she had the company of her brothers. Thunderstorms, honking horns, the love or hate of going to school differed between us. Yet we grew up across the street from each other, breathing the same air, drinking the same water.
Which brings me to what Swain teaches about a story world:
a. Your reader has never been there.
b. It’s a sensory world.
c. It’s a subjective world.
It is critical you understand these three points as you world build. Even if your reader has been to that exact town or city, the reader has never been there INSIDE YOUR CHARACTER’S SKIN. Your reader may be a Claudia and the character is a Linnea. Or the other way around. The key here is that your character(s) bring their own unique viewpoint and interpretations into every locale, setting, scene, place, planet, space station, level of hell, heavenly cloud or whatever—and that character’s viewpoint will literally color the scene.
If you write it well.
If you cheap out and go for generic Manhattan or generic West Long Branch or generic Rigel IV, then you’re failing in your duty as a writer and a world builder.
Remember that no matter where you place your story, the reader has never been there, it’s a sensory world and it’s a subjective world. You need to use those three parameters for every book, every locale, every world you build.
For even if you’re a triple PhD scientist and you can describe in minute and excruciating detail the geo-thermodynamics of a particular distant star…it don’t amount to a hill of beans (to the reader) until that particular distant star is SEEN THROUGH THE EYES OF A CHARACTER. And the character has some opinion—some reaction, some response, some interpretation—of that star. Or of that city. Or of that office. Or of that castle dungeon.
Good world building is not just an accurate travelogue or detailed list of the flora and fauna. Those kinds of things—while necessary—are static and impotent until your drop your character(s) into the story.
Your character makes your world come alive. Your reader sees the world through your character’s eyes, hears its sounds through your character’s ears, deems a thunderstorm or ion storm good or bad through your character’s opinions and experiences.
Your character also influences how the story world is experienced in the sense that a twelve-year old’s take on Manhattan would not be the same as a forty-three year old’s. A twelve-year old might marvel at all the sounds and the lights and the cars. A forty-three year old might see another goddamned gridlock.
Unless the forty-three year old was a forty-three year old Amish farmer.
Ah, see the difference?
Your story world is a subjective world.
Linnea’s first key to great world building is personalization.
Linnea’s second key is Dwight V. Swain’s item b: it’s a sensory world. But that should come naturally when you’re immersed in character.
For all my time being alone as a child, for all my fears of monster movies, I love thunderstorms. I find them invigorating. I know they terrify a lot of children (and dogs).
One’s man trash is another man’s treasure. When we get to the sensory aspect of world building, it’s the stench of the trash and the glitter of the treasure the reader wants to experience. The easiest way, the very best of bestest ways to bring a reader into whatever world is your story world is through the senses. What does the space station Cirrus One SMELL like? What does your character HEAR on the streets of Manhattan at three in the afternoon? At three in the morning? What does the sand FEEL like under your character’s bare feet as she trudges down the beach towards the dead body? The sand in St. Petersburg, FL—so soft and fine it’s referred to as “sugar sand”—is different than the blacker, grittier sand on the Atlantic beaches of Ft. Lauderdale.
If your character grew up in St. Pete, she might not give much thought to the sugar sands there. She’s used to it. However, if she grew up on the Jersey Shore (like I did), she’d notice the difference immediately.
You cannot separate world building and character building. IMHO.
And it’s through character that you reveal your story world.
In the opening scene of THE DOWN HOME ZOMBIE BLUES, I have my female protagonist, Commander Jorie Mikkalah, find herself in an unfamiliar world. No big deal for Jorie. She’s an intergalactic hunter. She constantly finds herself on strange worlds. But ah, this strange world is Bahia Vista (ie: St. Pete), Florida. USA. Earth.
So familiar to me, author. So unfamiliar to Jorie, character.
In ZOMBIE BLUES I had to erase everything I knew about a town I’d lived in for over ten years. And I had to see it, fresh and unfamiliar, through Jorie’s jaded eyes. I’m adding some snippets here, snippets I spent some time on as I built JORIE’S world out of my own. Do you recognize things that are commonplace—to you—and foreign to my intergalactic heroine?
Chapter 1
Another dark, humid, stinking alley. Another nil-tech planet. What a surprise.
Commander Jorie Mikkalah cataloged her surroundings as she absently rubbed her bare arm. Needle pricks danced across her skin. Only her vision was unaffected by the dispersing and reassembling of her molecules courtesy of the Personnel Matter Transporter—her means of arrival in the alley moments before.
The ocular over her right eye eradicated the alley’s murky gloom, enhancing the moonlight so she could clearly see the shards of broken glass and small rusted metal cylinders strewn across the hard surface under her and her team’s boots.
Another dark, humid, stinking, filthy alley. Jorie amended her initial appraisal of her location as a breeze filtered past, sending one of the metal cylinders tumbling, clanking hollowly.
She checked her scanner even though no alarm had sounded. But it would take a few more seconds yet for her body to adjust to the aftereffects of the PMaT and for her equilibrium to segue from the lighter gravity of an intergalactic battle cruiser to the heavier gravity of a Class-F5 world. It wouldn’t do to fall flat on her face trying to defend her team if a zombie appeared.
She swiveled toward them. “You two all right?”
Tamlynne Herryck’s sharp features relaxed under her short cap of dark red curls. “Fine, sir.”
Low mechanical rumblings echoed behind Jorie. She shot a quick glance over her shoulder, saw nothing threatening at the alleyway opening. Only the expected metallic land vehicles, lighted front and aft, moving slowly past.
Herryck was scrubbing at her face with the side of her hand when Jorie turned back. The ever-efficient lieutenant had been under Jorie’s command for four years; she knew how to work through the PMaT experience.
Ensign Jacare Trenat, however, was as green as liaso hedges and looked more than a bit dazed from the transit. ….[snip]….
“Transportation.” Herryck thumbed down Danjay’s data on her scanner screen. “Land vehicles powered by combustion engines. Fossil petroleum fueled. Local term is car.”
Jorie had read the reports. No personal air transits—at least, not for internal city use. Damned nil-techs. A four-seater gravripper would be very convenient right now. She resumed her trek toward the alley’s entrance, waving her team to follow. “Let’s go find one of those cars.”
“City population is less than three hundred thousand humans,” Herryck dutifully read as she came up behind Jorie. “The surrounding region contains approximately one million.”
…[snip]…
It is. But it’s also yours, no matter what genre you flail around in.
“But I write chick-lit,” you wail as you flail. “And she writes police procedurals. And he writes horror set in Chicago.”
“I don’t care,” sez Linnea. “If you write commercial genre fiction, you need to pay attention to world building.”
And the reason you need to pay attention to world building is because writing guru Dwight V. Swain ::Linnea genuflects:: said we need to. And he’s right. (If you’re not familiar with Swain, you should be. His Techniques of the Selling Writer, first published around 1965, is dang near the bible for most of the published authors I know.)
The reason every fiction writer needs to pay attention to world building is because every fiction piece is set in a “story world” and that story world—even if it is based on a real place—is still being interpreted through the characters’/author’s eyes.
Let’s take West Long Branch, NJ. Never been there? I was born and raised there. It’s a sleepy little town a few miles from the Atlantic Ocean just where the state of New Jersey dinks in. I know it really well but I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that the way I knew West Long Branch isn’t exactly the same as the way my best friend Claudia knew it. For one thing, I was an only child of financially comfortable parents. Claudia was the middle child in a divorced family. She was about a year younger than I was, and was a grade behind. Her heritage was Italian. Mine was Polish.
The reality is that even though we lived across the street from each other for almost twenty years, how she processed her experiences were different than the way I did. She had to deal with parental discord, as her mother usually pulled some stunt every time Claudia’s father came for visitation. I never experienced that—I watched it as it happened to Claudia but the emotional impact wasn’t mine. However, I had parents who owned a business. I was a “latchkey kid.” Claudia’s mother was always home.
So my experiences of my “world”—West Long Branch, circa 1965—were affected by my background, family and heritage, just as Claudia’s were. Loud voices in her house were common (she had a larger family that included two brothers and her parents were often fighting). Loud voices in my house would signal something unusual. I didn’t like to watch monster movies because I was often alone at home. Monster movies never bothered her because she had the company of her brothers. Thunderstorms, honking horns, the love or hate of going to school differed between us. Yet we grew up across the street from each other, breathing the same air, drinking the same water.
Which brings me to what Swain teaches about a story world:
a. Your reader has never been there.
b. It’s a sensory world.
c. It’s a subjective world.
It is critical you understand these three points as you world build. Even if your reader has been to that exact town or city, the reader has never been there INSIDE YOUR CHARACTER’S SKIN. Your reader may be a Claudia and the character is a Linnea. Or the other way around. The key here is that your character(s) bring their own unique viewpoint and interpretations into every locale, setting, scene, place, planet, space station, level of hell, heavenly cloud or whatever—and that character’s viewpoint will literally color the scene.
If you write it well.
If you cheap out and go for generic Manhattan or generic West Long Branch or generic Rigel IV, then you’re failing in your duty as a writer and a world builder.
Remember that no matter where you place your story, the reader has never been there, it’s a sensory world and it’s a subjective world. You need to use those three parameters for every book, every locale, every world you build.
For even if you’re a triple PhD scientist and you can describe in minute and excruciating detail the geo-thermodynamics of a particular distant star…it don’t amount to a hill of beans (to the reader) until that particular distant star is SEEN THROUGH THE EYES OF A CHARACTER. And the character has some opinion—some reaction, some response, some interpretation—of that star. Or of that city. Or of that office. Or of that castle dungeon.
Good world building is not just an accurate travelogue or detailed list of the flora and fauna. Those kinds of things—while necessary—are static and impotent until your drop your character(s) into the story.
Your character makes your world come alive. Your reader sees the world through your character’s eyes, hears its sounds through your character’s ears, deems a thunderstorm or ion storm good or bad through your character’s opinions and experiences.
Your character also influences how the story world is experienced in the sense that a twelve-year old’s take on Manhattan would not be the same as a forty-three year old’s. A twelve-year old might marvel at all the sounds and the lights and the cars. A forty-three year old might see another goddamned gridlock.
Unless the forty-three year old was a forty-three year old Amish farmer.
Ah, see the difference?
Your story world is a subjective world.
Linnea’s first key to great world building is personalization.
Linnea’s second key is Dwight V. Swain’s item b: it’s a sensory world. But that should come naturally when you’re immersed in character.
For all my time being alone as a child, for all my fears of monster movies, I love thunderstorms. I find them invigorating. I know they terrify a lot of children (and dogs).
One’s man trash is another man’s treasure. When we get to the sensory aspect of world building, it’s the stench of the trash and the glitter of the treasure the reader wants to experience. The easiest way, the very best of bestest ways to bring a reader into whatever world is your story world is through the senses. What does the space station Cirrus One SMELL like? What does your character HEAR on the streets of Manhattan at three in the afternoon? At three in the morning? What does the sand FEEL like under your character’s bare feet as she trudges down the beach towards the dead body? The sand in St. Petersburg, FL—so soft and fine it’s referred to as “sugar sand”—is different than the blacker, grittier sand on the Atlantic beaches of Ft. Lauderdale.
If your character grew up in St. Pete, she might not give much thought to the sugar sands there. She’s used to it. However, if she grew up on the Jersey Shore (like I did), she’d notice the difference immediately.
You cannot separate world building and character building. IMHO.
And it’s through character that you reveal your story world.
In the opening scene of THE DOWN HOME ZOMBIE BLUES, I have my female protagonist, Commander Jorie Mikkalah, find herself in an unfamiliar world. No big deal for Jorie. She’s an intergalactic hunter. She constantly finds herself on strange worlds. But ah, this strange world is Bahia Vista (ie: St. Pete), Florida. USA. Earth.
So familiar to me, author. So unfamiliar to Jorie, character.
In ZOMBIE BLUES I had to erase everything I knew about a town I’d lived in for over ten years. And I had to see it, fresh and unfamiliar, through Jorie’s jaded eyes. I’m adding some snippets here, snippets I spent some time on as I built JORIE’S world out of my own. Do you recognize things that are commonplace—to you—and foreign to my intergalactic heroine?
Chapter 1
Another dark, humid, stinking alley. Another nil-tech planet. What a surprise.
Commander Jorie Mikkalah cataloged her surroundings as she absently rubbed her bare arm. Needle pricks danced across her skin. Only her vision was unaffected by the dispersing and reassembling of her molecules courtesy of the Personnel Matter Transporter—her means of arrival in the alley moments before.
The ocular over her right eye eradicated the alley’s murky gloom, enhancing the moonlight so she could clearly see the shards of broken glass and small rusted metal cylinders strewn across the hard surface under her and her team’s boots.
Another dark, humid, stinking, filthy alley. Jorie amended her initial appraisal of her location as a breeze filtered past, sending one of the metal cylinders tumbling, clanking hollowly.
She checked her scanner even though no alarm had sounded. But it would take a few more seconds yet for her body to adjust to the aftereffects of the PMaT and for her equilibrium to segue from the lighter gravity of an intergalactic battle cruiser to the heavier gravity of a Class-F5 world. It wouldn’t do to fall flat on her face trying to defend her team if a zombie appeared.
She swiveled toward them. “You two all right?”
Tamlynne Herryck’s sharp features relaxed under her short cap of dark red curls. “Fine, sir.”
Low mechanical rumblings echoed behind Jorie. She shot a quick glance over her shoulder, saw nothing threatening at the alleyway opening. Only the expected metallic land vehicles, lighted front and aft, moving slowly past.
Herryck was scrubbing at her face with the side of her hand when Jorie turned back. The ever-efficient lieutenant had been under Jorie’s command for four years; she knew how to work through the PMaT experience.
Ensign Jacare Trenat, however, was as green as liaso hedges and looked more than a bit dazed from the transit. ….[snip]….
“Transportation.” Herryck thumbed down Danjay’s data on her scanner screen. “Land vehicles powered by combustion engines. Fossil petroleum fueled. Local term is car.”
Jorie had read the reports. No personal air transits—at least, not for internal city use. Damned nil-techs. A four-seater gravripper would be very convenient right now. She resumed her trek toward the alley’s entrance, waving her team to follow. “Let’s go find one of those cars.”
“City population is less than three hundred thousand humans,” Herryck dutifully read as she came up behind Jorie. “The surrounding region contains approximately one million.”
…[snip]…
The stickiness of the air and the sharp stench of rotting garbage faded. Jorie paused cautiously at the darkened alley entrance, assessing the landscape. The street was dotted with silent land vehicles, all pointing in the same direction, lights extinguished. Black shadows of thin trees jutted now and then in between. The uneven rows of low buildings were two-story, five-story, a few taller. Two much taller ones—twenty stories or more—glowed with a few uneven rectangles of light far down to her right.
Judging from the brief flashes of light between the buildings and tinny echoes of sound, most of the city’s activity appeared to be a street or so in front of her. At least Ronna’s seeker ’droid had analyzed that correctly. Materializing in the midst of a crowd of nil-techs while dressed in full tracker gear had proven to be patently counterproductive.
A bell clanged hollowly to her left. Trenat, beside her, stiffened. She didn’t but tilted her head toward the sound, curious. As the third gong pealed, she guessed it wasn’t a warning system and remembered reading about a nil-tech method of announcing the time.
She didn’t know local time, didn’t care. Unlike the Tresh, humanoids here had no naturally enhanced night sight. It was only important that it was dark and would continue to be dark for a while yet. She and her team needed that, dressed as they were, if they were going to find out what had happened to Agent Danjay Wain.
The bell pealed eight more times, then fell silent. A fresh breeze drifted over her skin. She caught a salty tang in the air.
“…is situated on a peninsula that is bordered on one side by a large body of water known as Bay Tampa.” Herryck was still reading. “On the other…”
Gulf of Mexico, Jorie knew, tuning her out. Data was Herryck’s passion.
Zombie hunting was Jorie’s.
But first she had to appropriate a car and locate Danjay Wain.
Let’s go over some of the things in this opening scene. A PMaT, an ocular, a F-5 world are all things that are commonplace to Jorie. So as an author, I need to have them FEEL commonplace to the reader because the reader is Jorie at this point. But I also, as author, know my readers don’t have a clue in a bucket what a PMaT is. Or an ocular.
So rather than info-dump—a huge no-no—I show these items in action as best as possible:
The ocular over her right eye eradicated the alley’s murky gloom, enhancing the moonlight so she could clearly see the shards of broken glass and small rusted metal cylinders strewn across the hard surface under her and her team’s boots.
So the reader, while not familiar with a Guardian ocular, at least understands it’s something to do with vision, something that helps the character see in the dark.
I could have written:
The ocular over her right eye was invented forty mega-years before by a gifted scientist who was hired by the intergalactic government to produce vision-enhancing equipment for the Guardian Forces. The ocular used reverse optometric filtration technology to… and so and and so forth.
But that begs the question: would Jorie really know all this? Would she care? Would she be THINKING THAT RIGHT NOW?
Do you know who invented the microwave oven? Do you THINK OF THAT PERSON every time you make popcorn? Do you CARE?
No. At least, I don’t. I can’t even tell you who first created the QWERTY keyboard. And even if I did, I’m more concerned with the keyboard on my laptop functioning properly than I am with its inventor.
One of the biggest mistakes writers make with world building is to drop into an Encyclopedia Brown persona when writing, believing the reader NEEDS TO KNOW the technology when all the reader needs to know IS WHAT THE CHARACTER KNOWS. Jorie doesn’t know who invented the ocular. She doesn’t care. She only cares that it works as it should.
Isn’t that true with most of us and our technology?
Show your “unfamiliar ” (to the reader) in action. Do not lecture the reader. Put the damned ocular on the reader’s eye and let them be the character, experience the experience. The unfamiliar to the reader is the ordinary to the character. We don’t—at least most of us don’t—stand aghast and a-goggle at the microwave as it cooks. At the radio when sound comes through the speakers. We take it FOR GRANTED.
Be very aware of what’s normal to your characters and have them take it—if not for granted—at least comfortably.
Be very aware of what to your character is not normal. Let the “sensory” and “subjective” tell the story there.
Here’s a snippet of what happens when Jorie and her team steal a car:
Tam Herryck, rummaging through the vehicle’s small storage compartment on the control panel, produced a short paper-bound book. “Aw-nortz Min-o-al,” she read in the narrow glow of her wristbeam on her technosleeve.
Jorie leaned toward her. Tam Herryck’s Vekran was, at best, rudimentary. “Ow-ner’s Min-u-al,” she corrected. She took the book, tapped on her wristbeam, and scanned the first few pages. It would be too much to ask, she supposed, that the entire universe be civilized enough—and considerate enough—to speak Alarsh. “Operating instructions for the vehicle’s pilot.” As the engine chugged quietly, she found a page depicting the gauges and read in silence for a few moments. “I think I have the basics.” She tapped off her wristbeam, then caught Trenat’s smile in the rectangular mirror over her head. “Never met a ship I couldn’t fly, Ensign. That’s what six years in the marines will teach you.”
The vehicle’s control stick was between the two front seats. She depressed the small button, eased it until it clicked once.
The vehicle lurched backwards, crashing into one parked behind it.
“Damn!” She shoved the stick again and missed a head-on impact with another parked vehicle only because she grabbed the wheel and yanked it to the left.
Herryck bounced against the door. “Sir!”
“I have it, I have it. It’s okay.” Damn, damn. Give her a nice antigrav hopper any day.
Her feet played with the two pedals, the vehicle seesawing as it jerked toward the open gate.
“I think,” Herryck said, bracing herself with her right hand against the front control panel, “those are some kind of throttle and braking system. Sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I know that. I’m just trying to determine their sensitivity ranges.”
“Of course, sir.” Herryck’s head jerked back and forth, but whether she was nodding or reacting to the vehicle’s movement, Jorie didn’t know. “Good idea.”
By the time they exited onto the street, Jorie felt she had the nil-tech land vehicle under control. “Which direction?”
“We need to take a heading of 240.8, sir.” Herryck glanced from her scanner over at the gauges in front of Jorie, none of which functioned as guidance or directional. “Oh.” She pulled her palm off the control panel and pointed out the window. “That way.”
They went that way, this way, then that way again. Jorie noticed that Trenat had found some kind of safety webbing and flattened himself against the cushions of the rear seat.
“What do you think those colored lights on their structures mean?” Herryck asked as Jorie was again forced to swerve to avoid an impact with another vehicle, whose driver was obviously not adept at proper usage of airspace.
Jorie shrugged. “A religious custom. Wain mentioned that locals hang colored lights on their residences and even on the foliage this time of the year. Nil-techs can be very supersti—hey!” A dark land vehicle appeared on her right, seemingly out of nowhere. Jorie pushed her foot down on the throttle, barely escaping being rammed broadside. There was a loud screeching noise, then the discordant blare of a horn. A pair of oncoming vehicles added their horns to the noise as she sped by them.
“Another religious custom,” she told Herryck, who sank down in her seat and planted her boots against the front console. “Their vehicles play music as they pass. And they’re blessing us.”
“Blessing us?”
Jorie nodded as she negotiated her vehicle between two others that seemed to want to travel at an unreasonably slow rate of speed. “They put one hand out the window, middle finger pointing upward. Wain’s reports stated many natives worship a god they believe lives in the sky. So I think that raised finger is a gesture of blessing.”
“How kind of them. We need to go that way again, sir.”
“I’m coming up to an intersection now. How much farther?”
“We should be within walking distance in a few minutes.”
“Praise be,” Trenat croaked from the rear seat.
Jorie snickered softly. “You’d never survive in the marines, Ensign.”
Jorie is doing the best she can—based on her previous experiences and personal knowledge (remember Claudia and Linnea?)—to interpret the world she now inhabits. And she’s doing it in a race-against-time scenario (always useful) so there’s not a lot of time to ask questions or find out answers. She’s learning on the fly, in a subjective, sensory manner. And so is your reader.
So to recap Lesson One, remember the three things the are the foundation of all good world building:
a. Your reader has never been there.
b. It’s a sensory world.
c. It’s a subjective world.
Questions? Comments? Please don’t be silent or I will come a-hunting.
~Linnea
Monday, June 08, 2009
Mirror, Mirror
(this blog was originally a column in FUTURES magazine, @ 1999. FYI)
If a tree falls in the great forest, and no one’s there, does it make a sound? If a writer creates a character, and it’s drawn solely from his or her own mind, isn’t the character really the writer? If the basic task of literature is to explore the human heart and mind, whose heart and mind are we really exploring?
I don't know what the answer is to the first ‘if’ posited. But the second and third ‘ifs’ are things that have wandered around in my brain from time to time. You see, as an investigator, I spend a lot of my working moments wondering about people. Why do they do the things they do? What motivates them? What makes them follow their dreams or succumb to their fears?
It’s almost a requisite in investigative work to have the ability to get inside your subject’s head. Think his thoughts, walk in his shoes. I know of no other way to approach a locate on missing person than to understand what forced him to run in the first place.
When I read fiction -- or try to write fiction -- I see the same processes at work. A big part of characterization is making sure the character acts, well, in character. A bizarre action must be proceeded by a sufficiently bizarre catalyst in the plot.
But this bizarre action (or not so bizarre action) really isn’t the character’s. It’s the writer’s. It’s yours. And mine.
Everything you read, and everything you write, is a very personal internal journey. It’s an exposition of exposing deep desires and fears. It’s preferences, opinions, possibilities. It’s total vulnerability, couched in fiction, offered for entertainment.
Sue Grafton recently stated in an interview that her well-known character, Kinsey Milhone, is her younger (and thinner) other-self. And more than one mystery novelist has posed on the back cover with the ubiquitous fedora skewed over one eye. I’ll willingly admit, as science fiction romance is my genre and poison of choice, that one of my most treasured possessions is a video tape of me in full Star Fleet captain’s uniform on the bridge of the Enterprise. No, I wasn’t an extra on the set of the shows or the movies. Universal Studios in Orlando, for a fee, offers theme park patrons a chance to ‘star’ in their own five minute “Star Trek” scene. For me, a personal Nirvana.
I think our desire to find these personal nirvanas blossoms most frequently in the arts: literature, music, visual arts. The instrument, the book cover, the ornate frame provides us just enough distance to be able to comfortably bare our souls. It permits us to be able to fall back on the excuse of, “I was only pretending”. It’s just a poem. A story. A painting.
The human heart and mind, the “human condition”, to me, is not that personal. The human condition is an aggregate. A pollster’s result. The view from afar.
When I as an investigator work a missing person case, or a deep background, the far view does me very little good. We are not motivated by our similarities but by our eccentricities. Our secret desire to be a starship captain, an invincible heroine, an ageless wonder with thinner thighs. A tried and true saying in investigative work is that there are only two elements to any crime: motive and opportunity.
Notice that motive comes first.
And motives are very, very personal.
Cases are solved not through generalities but through attention to specifics.
And literature, in my humble opinion, pool side here at the Center for the Slightly Skewed, is compelling not for its broad strokes but for its fine lines and shadings. Its infinite and sharp definition of detail. It’s a one on one, hand in hand, personal encounter. Just you and me in the midst of the great forest, sitting on that tree that fell when no one was around to hear it.
Baring our unique and very individual souls.
~Linnea
Linnea Sinclair
// Interstellar Adventure Infused with Romance//
Available Now from Bantam: Hope's Folly
http://www.linneasinclair.com/
If a tree falls in the great forest, and no one’s there, does it make a sound? If a writer creates a character, and it’s drawn solely from his or her own mind, isn’t the character really the writer? If the basic task of literature is to explore the human heart and mind, whose heart and mind are we really exploring?
I don't know what the answer is to the first ‘if’ posited. But the second and third ‘ifs’ are things that have wandered around in my brain from time to time. You see, as an investigator, I spend a lot of my working moments wondering about people. Why do they do the things they do? What motivates them? What makes them follow their dreams or succumb to their fears?
It’s almost a requisite in investigative work to have the ability to get inside your subject’s head. Think his thoughts, walk in his shoes. I know of no other way to approach a locate on missing person than to understand what forced him to run in the first place.
When I read fiction -- or try to write fiction -- I see the same processes at work. A big part of characterization is making sure the character acts, well, in character. A bizarre action must be proceeded by a sufficiently bizarre catalyst in the plot.
But this bizarre action (or not so bizarre action) really isn’t the character’s. It’s the writer’s. It’s yours. And mine.
Everything you read, and everything you write, is a very personal internal journey. It’s an exposition of exposing deep desires and fears. It’s preferences, opinions, possibilities. It’s total vulnerability, couched in fiction, offered for entertainment.
Sue Grafton recently stated in an interview that her well-known character, Kinsey Milhone, is her younger (and thinner) other-self. And more than one mystery novelist has posed on the back cover with the ubiquitous fedora skewed over one eye. I’ll willingly admit, as science fiction romance is my genre and poison of choice, that one of my most treasured possessions is a video tape of me in full Star Fleet captain’s uniform on the bridge of the Enterprise. No, I wasn’t an extra on the set of the shows or the movies. Universal Studios in Orlando, for a fee, offers theme park patrons a chance to ‘star’ in their own five minute “Star Trek” scene. For me, a personal Nirvana.
I think our desire to find these personal nirvanas blossoms most frequently in the arts: literature, music, visual arts. The instrument, the book cover, the ornate frame provides us just enough distance to be able to comfortably bare our souls. It permits us to be able to fall back on the excuse of, “I was only pretending”. It’s just a poem. A story. A painting.
The human heart and mind, the “human condition”, to me, is not that personal. The human condition is an aggregate. A pollster’s result. The view from afar.
When I as an investigator work a missing person case, or a deep background, the far view does me very little good. We are not motivated by our similarities but by our eccentricities. Our secret desire to be a starship captain, an invincible heroine, an ageless wonder with thinner thighs. A tried and true saying in investigative work is that there are only two elements to any crime: motive and opportunity.
Notice that motive comes first.
And motives are very, very personal.
Cases are solved not through generalities but through attention to specifics.
And literature, in my humble opinion, pool side here at the Center for the Slightly Skewed, is compelling not for its broad strokes but for its fine lines and shadings. Its infinite and sharp definition of detail. It’s a one on one, hand in hand, personal encounter. Just you and me in the midst of the great forest, sitting on that tree that fell when no one was around to hear it.
Baring our unique and very individual souls.
~Linnea
Linnea Sinclair
// Interstellar Adventure Infused with Romance//
Available Now from Bantam: Hope's Folly
http://www.linneasinclair.com/
Monday, June 01, 2009
One Man's Trash
(due to deadlines I'll be recycling old columns, "The Full Sass," that I wrote for FUTURES magazine, 1999-2001. I hope you find them fun.)
From an investigator’s perspective, a lot can be learned from someone’s trash: eating habits, reading habits, drinking habits. I worked one custody case where the sole proof we had of a custodial father’s out-of-control alcoholism was the liters -- and yes, the LITERS-- of supermarket rum we found on our twice weekly ‘dives’. It took two large shopping bags to bring all the empties to the judge’s chambers, and at that point even the argument of compulsive rum-cake baking didn’t hold water. Or even cola. Those bottles were much less in evidence. Our friend liked his poison neat.
He also liked a number of other interesting things, like canned yams and paper towels decorated with fruit and spearmint chewing gum. Only the gum made sense in relation to the alcohol consumption, but all of it, everything we found over a three month investigation created a picture of an individual more thorough than anything his ex had been able to tell us.
We are not only what we eat and drink, but what we collect, consume, acquire and dispose of.
From a writer’s perspective, a lot can be learned from some fictional dumpster diving into your characters. What would we be likely to find in Scarlett O’Hara’s trash -- used draperies? And how about Captain Jean-Luc Picard’s recyclables on board the starship “Enterprise”: old Earl Grey tea bags is my guess. Detective Columbo of t.v. fame would throw out his cigar stubs. And the used cat litter generated by Koko and Yum-Yum in “The Cat Who...” mystery series would be considerable.
A peek at what has yet to be tossed is also instructive. As a licensed private investigator, I am governed by the same laws as average citizens when it comes to accessing private property. That is, I can’t, unless invitited. But over the years I’ve discovered -- out of necessity -- a myriad number of ways to get myself legally ‘invited’ into a subject’s home or office. I routinely carry a photograph of one of my cats, Friday, who it seems is forever getting lost in just that neighborhood where the subject lives. Knocking on doors with mascara stains under my eyes, clutching a photograph of dear old Friday kitty almost always gets me invited into the living room in order to access the back yard, where my cat may be hiding (along with the stolen motorboat, as in one case), or into the garage, where my cat may be hiding (along with the dented automobile as in a hit and run case).
Garage Sale signs and For Sale signs are other legitimate means I’ve used to gain lawful entry. Especially in investigations of financial misconduct, it’s not uncommon to find the subject selling his house and/or possessions as a means to raise quick cash. And I, as a P.I., was fortunate to locate a real estate broker who was a former Pinkerton security agent. We got along famously.
Once inside, souvenirs and memorabilia on display will tell not only where a person has visited but where they are often likely to flee to, if pressure is applied. Family photos can also confirm the existence of Mom in Duluth or a best friend in Dallas or even time in the armed services complete with the requisite ‘Fort Patriotic’ sign in the background.
‘Rosebud’ was a childhood sled one famous fictional character never let go of. Possession of other items -- like a statue of the Maltese Falcon -- trigger a whole other series of events. And a pair of ruby slippers were more important to Dorothy then any frequent flyer miles she could have accumulated.
So what do your characters have on their shelves, on their pianos? What do they cling to for
comfort in the darkness of night? Keying on an object or a talisman as part of your character is not only a way to give your character personality or depth, but can be used to signal their presence or absence without specifically saying so. Romance novel verbiage notwithstanding, I’m less likely to perceive the recent departure of a person (or a character) from the “lingering scent of her perfume” than I am from a favorite CD left playing on the stereo. Or a pair of ruby slippers tucked neatly under the bed.
We all have our treasured possessions. We all have our habits reflected in our routine discards. Since our real essence, who we are in our hearts and souls, can never truly be seen, we are all often judged by the things with which we surround ourselves. Our trash and our treasures tell the story of whom we believe ourselves to be.
And again, from an investigator’s perspective, it’s from a subject’s trash and treasures that we begin to understand such things as motives and uncover a subject’s habits and secrets. And from a writer’s point of view, it’s from these props that the reader can delve more deeply, more intimately into our story and our characters.
Leave Pandora’s Box to the mythical gods of old. You can learn everything you really want to know inside a sturdy Dempsey Dumpster.
Just another tidbit from the Center for the Slightly Skewed.....
ONE MAN’S TRASH
Dumpster diving is a lucrative occupation. For those of you who don’t keep a deerstalker hanging in your closet, I’ll explain that dumpster diving is P.I. lingo for trash recovery. Which is regular person lingo for stealing except that a few years ago the Supreme Court in its wisdom decided that anything you put out on the curb is fair game for scroungers and investigators
alike. Which means finding out when the municipal sanitation engineers make their rounds and getting there at least an hour or two before them. And being paid $150 or more for each of your early morning acquisitions.
Dumpster diving is a lucrative occupation. For those of you who don’t keep a deerstalker hanging in your closet, I’ll explain that dumpster diving is P.I. lingo for trash recovery. Which is regular person lingo for stealing except that a few years ago the Supreme Court in its wisdom decided that anything you put out on the curb is fair game for scroungers and investigators
alike. Which means finding out when the municipal sanitation engineers make their rounds and getting there at least an hour or two before them. And being paid $150 or more for each of your early morning acquisitions. From an investigator’s perspective, a lot can be learned from someone’s trash: eating habits, reading habits, drinking habits. I worked one custody case where the sole proof we had of a custodial father’s out-of-control alcoholism was the liters -- and yes, the LITERS-- of supermarket rum we found on our twice weekly ‘dives’. It took two large shopping bags to bring all the empties to the judge’s chambers, and at that point even the argument of compulsive rum-cake baking didn’t hold water. Or even cola. Those bottles were much less in evidence. Our friend liked his poison neat.
He also liked a number of other interesting things, like canned yams and paper towels decorated with fruit and spearmint chewing gum. Only the gum made sense in relation to the alcohol consumption, but all of it, everything we found over a three month investigation created a picture of an individual more thorough than anything his ex had been able to tell us.
We are not only what we eat and drink, but what we collect, consume, acquire and dispose of.
From a writer’s perspective, a lot can be learned from some fictional dumpster diving into your characters. What would we be likely to find in Scarlett O’Hara’s trash -- used draperies? And how about Captain Jean-Luc Picard’s recyclables on board the starship “Enterprise”: old Earl Grey tea bags is my guess. Detective Columbo of t.v. fame would throw out his cigar stubs. And the used cat litter generated by Koko and Yum-Yum in “The Cat Who...” mystery series would be considerable.
A peek at what has yet to be tossed is also instructive. As a licensed private investigator, I am governed by the same laws as average citizens when it comes to accessing private property. That is, I can’t, unless invitited. But over the years I’ve discovered -- out of necessity -- a myriad number of ways to get myself legally ‘invited’ into a subject’s home or office. I routinely carry a photograph of one of my cats, Friday, who it seems is forever getting lost in just that neighborhood where the subject lives. Knocking on doors with mascara stains under my eyes, clutching a photograph of dear old Friday kitty almost always gets me invited into the living room in order to access the back yard, where my cat may be hiding (along with the stolen motorboat, as in one case), or into the garage, where my cat may be hiding (along with the dented automobile as in a hit and run case).
Garage Sale signs and For Sale signs are other legitimate means I’ve used to gain lawful entry. Especially in investigations of financial misconduct, it’s not uncommon to find the subject selling his house and/or possessions as a means to raise quick cash. And I, as a P.I., was fortunate to locate a real estate broker who was a former Pinkerton security agent. We got along famously.
Once inside, souvenirs and memorabilia on display will tell not only where a person has visited but where they are often likely to flee to, if pressure is applied. Family photos can also confirm the existence of Mom in Duluth or a best friend in Dallas or even time in the armed services complete with the requisite ‘Fort Patriotic’ sign in the background.
‘Rosebud’ was a childhood sled one famous fictional character never let go of. Possession of other items -- like a statue of the Maltese Falcon -- trigger a whole other series of events. And a pair of ruby slippers were more important to Dorothy then any frequent flyer miles she could have accumulated.
So what do your characters have on their shelves, on their pianos? What do they cling to for
comfort in the darkness of night? Keying on an object or a talisman as part of your character is not only a way to give your character personality or depth, but can be used to signal their presence or absence without specifically saying so. Romance novel verbiage notwithstanding, I’m less likely to perceive the recent departure of a person (or a character) from the “lingering scent of her perfume” than I am from a favorite CD left playing on the stereo. Or a pair of ruby slippers tucked neatly under the bed. We all have our treasured possessions. We all have our habits reflected in our routine discards. Since our real essence, who we are in our hearts and souls, can never truly be seen, we are all often judged by the things with which we surround ourselves. Our trash and our treasures tell the story of whom we believe ourselves to be.
And again, from an investigator’s perspective, it’s from a subject’s trash and treasures that we begin to understand such things as motives and uncover a subject’s habits and secrets. And from a writer’s point of view, it’s from these props that the reader can delve more deeply, more intimately into our story and our characters.
Leave Pandora’s Box to the mythical gods of old. You can learn everything you really want to know inside a sturdy Dempsey Dumpster.
Just another tidbit from the Center for the Slightly Skewed.....
~Linnea
HOPE’S FOLLY, Book 3 in the Gabriel’s Ghost universe, Feb. 24, 2009 from RITA award-winning author, Linnea Sinclair, and Bantam Books: http://www.linneasinclair.com/
It's an impossible mission on a derelict ship called HOPE'S FOLLY. A man who feels he can't love. A woman who believes she's unlovable. And an enemy who will stop at nothing to crush them both.
It's an impossible mission on a derelict ship called HOPE'S FOLLY. A man who feels he can't love. A woman who believes she's unlovable. And an enemy who will stop at nothing to crush them both.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
When a story doesn't work, part two
First off, jazzed to say Twist was nominated for a Prism in the Time Travel category. Fellow blogger Linnea was too. Thanks for posting this earlier this week.
Now more on the journey of my proposal. Below is chapter one. When I envisioned this story, the world was a dark and dreary place. I cannot imagine one part of this story taking place in the sunshine although I'm sure I would have worked some in. Its just the overall concept is just dark.
While I usually am pretty regualr at writing stories from the H/H pov, (unless in first person like Twist) I decided that I needed to do some pov of the antagoist. You will noticed the tone is omnipotent, which is how Swaim sees himself.
Also adding, I am dyslexic and horrible at grammer. The follow has not been edited.
The Real
They were like insects scurrying to their holes. Vile creatures. If only they could be exterminated. But even insects served their purpose and these would serve his. He watched them move from his position fifty feet up in the air, safe on his thoptor as the LED’s tracked back and forth on the uneven ground below.
“We’re locked.”
Swain turned from the view port to the console where a young techno, fresh out of academy, stood over a holi-vid. His nostrils flared as he approached the younger. Only purebloods were allowed to be near him. He smelled the usual array of bodily odors, more so since the younger was nervous. But no admanium. There was not any mechanized enhancements on this techno as there would be none on anyone else aboard this craft.
“Here,” the techno said. His finger trembled as he pointed to the ruins of a building. It cut through the blue line of the three dimensional representation that hovered over the surface. Inside the building a lavender blob could be seen, accompanied by a smaller red blob. They moved quickly through the ruins on the surface as if they knew where they were going.
Luckily so did he. Swain allowed himself a small smile.
“We’ll take them here,” he said and pointed to a place where three paths converged upon the ruins. The techno tapped the screen of his vid and the image was transferred to the terrain transport below along with an image of his finger, pointing out the places where he planned to lay his trap. “Place your men,” he said to the land unit below, as usual being proper in his address even though his skin crawled at the thought of referring to the hybrids awaiting their orders below as men. But even one of the members of the Protectorate must obey the chosen guidelines of society so that no grievances may be filed against him. “Here and here,” he continued.
“Command accepted,” the ground commander said as if he had a choice in the matter.
“These readings are off the chart,” his assistant, Foster, hissed in his ear. “I’ve never seen anything like it except for…”
Swain turned quickly less Foster give something away. “Show me,” he said and Foster turned his scanner so the screen was visible. The lavender blob covered most of the screen, greatly overshadowing the companion red blob. “Any way of knowing which one it is?”
“Not until we’re on the ground and I can separate the scans.”
“Make sure they are not harmed,” Swain said.
“Ground.” Foster tapped his earpiece. “Both are to be taken unharmed.”
“Accepted,” ground came back.
“Get me down there,” Swain barked. “And quickly.” He didn’t trust the hybrids with his find. Especially if there was a new one among them. There had been occasions when their programming was faulty. There had been occasions when the “Kill” order was the only thing they could comprehend. He was not one to trust others to do something when he was capable of doing it himself. It was the only way he could be assured that it was done the correct way. His way.
The thopter moved quickly, arcing up then quickly down to a wide empty space among the ruins of the former metropolis. At one time it had more than likely been a parking lot. Now it was simply a flat place covered with a thick and cloying grass that encroached upon the pavement instead of sprouting from it. Not that it mattered to him what was beneath his feet beyond the fact that his shoes would have to be destroyed upon his return. The Real was dirty, unkempt and wild. Swain preferred the orderliness and cleanliness of the Dome.
“Savages,” he spit out as the thopter settled. Yet they did have their uses. Where else would they find workers for the lesser jobs since those on the inside had long ago learned the consequences of going against the gentle reminders of how life should be inside? Peace must be maintained. Those who did not maintain the flow of peace would be assigned a better way to serve the general populace.
The truth be told, they needed them as a barrier between the Dome and the droves of bandits called Scrabbers that roared down from the mountains every time the full moon came round. They needed them to replenish the army that was the only barrier between civilization and chaos.
The same army that awaited his orders as he stepped out of the thopter. He looked right and left. The squads had better be in place and waiting to ambush the two that would be coming this way or there would be a reckoning.
The commander of the ground forces stood well away from the thopter blades with his expressionless face turned towards him. Swain saw the thin red beam cross over his goggles which meant the commander was scanning him for proper identification. The lights from the ground transport shone across the area and cast distorted shadows upon the cushion of sprawling grass.
He would have to make sure that all records of his actions here tonight were erased. There was nothing to worry about. Foster would see to it. He could feel him on his heels even now.
“Squad Four and Five is still in pursuit sir,” the commander of the troop said. The voice sounded familiar to Swain and he spared a look at the square jaw and mobile mouth that showed beneath the visor. He must have come across the hybrid at sometime. Possibly in his youth before the soldier was adapted. The society in the dome was such that it was possible. The hybrid had been in the service long enough to rise to commander.
Why are you even thinking of this metal remnant? He is not important.
“You are positive that all other escapes routes are covered?” Swain snapped.
“As you ordered,” the commander said without a sound of emotion in his voice.
“Foster,” Swain said. “As soon as you are sure.”
“I will let you know,” Foster said. Was there a note of surliness in his voice? Swain refused to turn and look at his assistant. If there was, he would rout it out later. What was about to happen was too important. “The only way to tell is to separate them.”
Swain motioned upwards with a finger, casually turning it in the air and the thopter lifted off to hover above and await his next order.
“This way sir,” the commander said and turned to lead them to a safe place to watch the proceedings. Four men closed ranks around them. The transport backed away and turned off its lights. The only sound to be heard was the soft thump-thump of the thopter’s blades.
The commander was one of twenty-five in a squadron which consisted of five five man squads. Each member was designated as a number depending upon seniority and each squad was numbered. The commander was known as One-one, if he needed to be called by name which Swain was disinclined to do. The Squadrons all had different codes to discern them from the others. There were 100 squadrons in all, each one named after cities from the old world order. This squadron was called Dallas. Something he needed to remember for later, when their work was done for the night.
“Reissue the no-kill order,” Swain said. If Squad Five was in pursuit then it was the least experienced squad and the most likely to make a mistake.
“Accepted,” One-one replied. “No kill,” he said into his mouthpiece. “Repeat. No kill. Acknowledge.”
Swain heard the strange chirps that signified a response as a litany of Accepteds coming in through One-one’s earpiece. Foster’s echoed the same, only without the chirp. It was something in the hybrids programming. Something he found strangely annoying as if they were privy to some sort of secrets. Perhaps he should look into it upon his return.
There was nothing to do now but wait. He stood off to the side with the five mechs surrounding him with their Lasters charged and ready. Foster squirmed in anticipation beside him and kept up a running monologue with his scanner as if it would reveal more about the two that would soon fall into his hands. They had too. There was no place else for them to go.
Swain studied the layout once more. The ruined buildings that surrounded him seemed strangely elegant in the dim glow that shone from the dome in the distance. Almost as if they could come to life at any minute. Ivy twisted around columns that arched over broken steps and the trees that grew against the buildings swayed gently in the breeze created by the thopter that hovered above. Generations ago this had more than likely been a center of learning for the old world order. A college or university of some sort. Now it was nothing more than a haven for the rebels that roamed the real and tried to eke out a life among the ruins.
A strange shiver ran up his spine and he felt as if he were being watched. As if the buildings around him stared him down and whispered threats into his ear.
Nonsense. It was more than likely there were people inside, hiding in fear, watching and waiting, just as he was. He would order the area purged when this was over. When he found what he wanted.
One-one turned to him, his face strangely vacant beneath the visor.
What does he see? Does he see what I see or an image translated onto a screen? What was behind the visor? Would One-one’s eyes look upon him with respect or contempt for what society made him? What he made himself…Swain corrected his train of thought One-one chose his path. He knew the consequences of breaking the laws.
What is wrong with you? For some strange reason he felt morbid tonight. He was seeing motives that could not possibly exist; he was assigning emotions where there could be none. Why did he feel so unsettled when he was on the verge of finding the very thing he’d been searching for?
“The target will be acquired in mark ten, nine, eight…One-one intoned.
Swain kept his eyes locked on the building before him. From his peripheral could see the two squads on either side move up on the building. He saw lights flashing across the black holes that at one time were windows. The squads were herding them out, right into the trap. One-one motioned his squad forward.
Swain stopped when Foster touched his arm. He looked down at the offending hand and his lip curled in contempt.
“Shouldn’t we stay back?” Foster asked. “In case they are armed?”
Swain swallowed his temper. He was too anxious. Too excited. This was too important. “Of course,” he said. He allowed Foster a reassuring nod to let him know he was forgiven for encroaching upon his personal space and moved to the side to wait.
He heard a crash. Swain willed his eyes to pierce the darkness and was suddenly blinded as the transport and the thopter lit up the area at the same time. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them.
Two figures ran across the front of the building. A man and a woman. The man held the woman’s hand, keeping her close to his side. She seemed ethereal against the dark color of the building. The light shining upon her enhanced the white of her dress along with the shimmering silver of her hair. Both flew about her body as the thopter hovered overhead.
“Anything?” Swain had to raise his voice to be heard over the thopter.
“Still too close,” Foster said.
The three squads converged upon the duo. The man feinted one way, turned to run the other. He kept hold of the woman’s hand until he realized there was no escape. He pushed her behind his body and backed her to the wall. Swain willed his body to stay at a walk as he and Foster moved toward the two who were now surrounded. At least twenty Laster’s were aimed at the two.
“Metals!” Swain spat out curse in disgust. “We’ll be lucky if they don’t kill both of them.”
“Stand down,” Foster yelled into his earpiece. “They’re not going anywhere.”
The Laster’s were lowered as he walked into the circle of mech’s. As one they stepped back with their weapons pointed safely upward.
The man stood tall and strong. His chest moved with the exertion of his flight but his dark eyes betrayed no fear as they moved back and forth across the mechs, seeking an escape route. There was none, still his hands curled into fists as if he would fight his way through. Swain saw a spark of hatred as he stepped forward. The man knew Swain was the one responsible. He knew the mechs were just following orders. He knew where to direct his frustration.
“What do you want?” the man said. The woman peered over his shoulder, her eyes wide and pale in the light. They shone with something… not fear… was it anger? She had spirit. He felt something he had not felt for a long time. A challenge? How extraordinary. His loins tightened suddenly. The feeling was a pleasant surprise because it was not something that happened for him, at least not this easily and never without a certain type of outside stimulation.
Which one? No matter which, he would keep the woman. If it was her it would certainly simplify things.
Swain kept his eyes on the man but he spoke to Foster. “Anything?”
“We must separate them,” Foster said.
“Do it,” Swain ordered.
“Two-one, Three-one,” One-one said. “Take the male without regret.”
“Accepted.” Swain watched as two of the mechs from either side of the circle handed their weapons off and moved to take the man.
They approached him from both sides. He watched them warily with his eyes darting back and forth between the two. Suddenly he moved. He dropped into a leg sweep and with his shoulder shoved the falling man into the other one while removing the stunner from the mech’s hip. Before Swain could blink the man fired and rolled. He came up beside another mech and caught the Laster before the hybrid hit the ground.
“It’s her,” Foster hissed as the woman moved after him.
“Are you sure?”
The man leveled the Laster on another mech and fired. The proton blast hit the man square in the chest plate and he fell backwards and shook violently. A scream tore from his throat as the admanium in his system exploded from the minute nuclear blast and he was torn apart from the inside out. It happened so fast that there was no time for the mechs to react as they had not received new orders from One-one. They were still on stand down mode. Held in place by the No-kill warning.
The man handed the downed mechs Laster to the woman.
“I’m sure,” Foster said. He ducked as a Laster blast went off over their heads, aimed toward the thopter. The thopter pulled up and away as another blast followed it.
“Take out the man,” Swain said.
“Revoke kill on male subject,” One-one said calmly. Instantly weapons were leveled. “Take the female unharmed. Repeat. Kill male subject. Take female subject.”
“No!” the woman screamed.
The man shoved the woman forward and swung the Laster in a wide arc, firing the entire time. Swain and Foster both dropped with their hands over their heads as if that would protect them from the blatant destruction of body that the Laster would cause. One-one and the rest of his squad took up defensive positions around them.
“Dax!” She screamed it. As if she were the one dying.
If they hurt her I will tear each one of them apart bit by bit…
Swain looked up. The woman was on the ground, cradling the man against her chest. The man’s face was twisted in agony and Swain realized the man’s right leg was gone, blasted away by a Laster at mid-thigh. Still he was able to reach for his Laster and he held it steadily in his hands as the mechs approached.
“Merritt,” he said. “Go. I’ll hold them off.”
“No,” she cried out.
Swain approached the group.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Foster said from behind. “Her PNA is off the charts.
“Excellent,” Swain said.
“GO!” the man roared.
“If you move we will kill him,” Swain said calmly to the woman.
“I’m dead anyway,” the man spat out. How could he talk? His leg was gone, nothing but a bloody and charred stump remained. The front of the woman’s dress was covered with blood. It showed black against the pristine white of her long white dress. The LED’s from the thopter shone down upon them and she stared up at him with eyes that flashed with silver.
“What do you want with us?” the woman asked.
Swain looked at her and smiled. “Why Merritt,” he said. “Didn’t you know? I want you.”
She looked at him curiously and he saw the realization settle over her face. “If I go with you, will you let him go?” she said.
“Merritt,” the man ground out between clenched teeth. “You can’t trust him.”
“Will you get him help?” she continued. “Make sure he lives?”
“Of course I will,” Swain said. He held out his hand in what he hoped was encouragement.
She looked at the weapons leveled on them. The building was at her back. There was no place for her to go and no hope of help coming from any direction. She bent her head and gently kissed the man. “I love you Dax,” she said. “Never forget it.” She slid from beneath him and lowered his head to the ground.
“Merritt!” he yelled as she stood and straighten her dress. He struggled, bracing himself up with is arms. It was if he could stand up with determination and stubbornness. Neither was a sufficient replacement for a leg.
Swain shook his head in surprise as he looked at the woman. If he didn’t know better he would swear it was a wedding dress she wore. It resembled the ones that he’d seen in the vids from the past. She stepped away and was instantly flanked by two mechs. As they walked her to him a team of mechs yanked the Laster from the man, Dax, she’d called him and trained their weapons upon him.
“Merritt,” Swain said when she stood before him. “I am most happy to meet you.”
She punched him. Hard. His head snapped back and he felt a crack in his jaw along with the coppery taste of his own blood. He swiped a hand over his face as he tongued the inside of his cheek. Was that a tooth? He spit it into his hand. Anger swelled over him and he clenched his fist over the tooth as he felt his cock harden. It took every bit of his will not to strike her.
She had no fear in her eyes. Only anger. Her white blonde hair tumbled around her shoulders and her bosom heaved with emotion. Her pale blue eyes bore into him, daring him to strike her.
“Orders?” One-one asked him.
Swain looked beyond Merritt to the man who obviously wanted to kill him. If he could do it with a look then he would most certainly be a dead man. A smile moved over his face as he realized that he could strike out at her, without actually lowering himself to show violence in front of his men.
“He’s yours,” Swain said. “To replace the one you lost.”
“No!” Merritt said. “You bastard!” She lunged for him. She sunk her nails into his cheek and raked them down. Swain staggered back with his hand over his cheek. He realized that he lost his tooth.
“Do something about her,” Swain said as he stumbled toward the thopter that had settled behind him.
“Stun her,” Foster said. Swain heard the charge of the stunner. He heard her fall and he heard the man, Dax struggle and calling her name. A hand reached out to help him into the thopter but he slapped it away and settled into a seat. A medic was there, waiting. He sprayed steriskin on his cheek and the burning immediately went away.
One-one stepped inside with Merritt in his arms. He placed her in the chair beside him and turned away without a word. Foster climbed in after One-one stepped out. Swain arched an eyebrow at him in silent communication. Foster handed him the port key.
Swain pushed the key into the admanium simport that was buried in his temple. The LED on the end glowed green to show it was communicating with the computer on board. As the thopter took off, Swain saw the mechs freeze in place as they received their orders to forget everything they’d seen tonight. When questioned about their activities Dallas squadron would report that they had captured a thief and rehabilitated him. “Make sure there are no witnesses,” Swain said to Foster. Foster immediately tapped his earpiece and ordered another squadron out to sweep the area.
Swain looked at the woman that slumped in the chair next to him. She was young, he realized, younger than the fight she’d shown. She was also exquisitely beautiful and once again he felt his cock harden. He would have to make sure the pleaser he used tonight had the same silvery blonde hair and pale blue eyes.
Not that it would matter what she looked like when he was done with her.
Monday, May 18, 2009
So what's Dock Five really like?
One of the most fun, writerly things is inventing and describing alien (as in, not where you're sitting right now) settings and places in SF/SFR books. One of the toughtest writerly things is inventing and describing alien settings and places in SF/SFR books.
Mugwump much, Linnea?
One of the things I've wondered about since I was a wee kidling (and yeah, I really did think about this stuff) is whether the color I deem to be "red" is the color you see. That is, I know we have an agreed upon experience called "this is the color red" but do my eyes and brain process 
and interpret that color the same way you do? We've been told that cats and dogs only see in shades of gray. So if I asked Daq-cat to point out something "red" (ie: the cover of SHADES OF DARK), though we both would agree the cover was red, what he sees is different than what I see. His "red" would be, we're told, a shade of gray. Mine is, well, what I call "red." (And who's to say I'm right and he's wrong?)
and interpret that color the same way you do? We've been told that cats and dogs only see in shades of gray. So if I asked Daq-cat to point out something "red" (ie: the cover of SHADES OF DARK), though we both would agree the cover was red, what he sees is different than what I see. His "red" would be, we're told, a shade of gray. Mine is, well, what I call "red." (And who's to say I'm right and he's wrong?)Lost yet?
Have another cup of coffee.
I think about things like that when I write my settings, my worlds, my ships. Which is why I get into arguments with myself as to how much to describe in some level of detail, and how much to describe in concept and let you all come to your own interpretations. Especially when I'm describing or dealing with something that has no exact counterpart in our current experience.
So what is Dock Five--that seedy, disreputable conglomeration of mining rafts in deep space somwhere near the Aldan-Baris border--really like? What is the Boru Karn, Sully's personal ship, really like? Is Admiral Mack's Cirrus One Station the same as Chaz Bergren's Moabar Station? Well, no. Cirrus One has parrots. But other than that, does Linnea have a stock space station she drops into each story?
In my mind, no, oddly enough. My mind's eye sees Moabar Station and Dock Five and Cirrus One in completely different colors and styles. To a great extent, it's as if I drop myself into my character's skin and see his world exactly as he sees it. (Which adds another layer of personal interpretation...oy!). But all--since I'm still me--have to have a constant basis of information and experience.
For me it's cruise ships. As many of you know, that's been an addiction of mine for several decades. The feeling of being isolated, dependent and yet with pretty much everything you need (including a full hospital) is something I've drawn from being on cruise ships. But what if my reader has never been on a cruise ship, or never served on a naval vessel? What if my reader is a land-locked Kansas farm-dwelling reader from a long line of land-locked Kansas farmers?
How do I make them understand what Dock Five or the Boru Karn is really like?
I think this is one of the problems non-SF readers have with coming in to SF or SFR: this flow into and acceptance of the never-experienced. Reading SFF trains the mind to reach for analogies and find a workable interpretation--even if perhaps that interpretation isn't what the author had in mind. SFF readers don't mind not fully getting everything at first. They're willing to go along for the ride and figure it out as it happens.
But if a reader's experience on the pages has been predominantly the known and familiar: a supermarket, a television, a Chevrolet pick-up, it can require a little more work, a little more "suspension of disbelief" to envision the bridge of a starship. I see this happening most often when my books are reviewed by a romance site and a reviewer who admits s/he's never read SF before or much SF. The reviewer may note: loved the book but wish Sinclair added more description of the starship bridge. The same book reviewed by an SF or paranormal romance site will state: loved the book and her descriptions were so spot-on I felt as if I were there!
One of the keys, obviously, is that everything is experienced through the characters. But keep in mind that to my characters--other than Theo Petrakos in The Down Home Zombie Blues--their "normal" is our "unreal." Starship bridges, faster-than-light travel, Stolorths, telepathic furzels and bio-cybes are their norm.
So what is Dock Five really like? It's seedy, run-down, cramped and smelly. Yet it functions; for the most part, its inhabitants aren't in fear of their lives from the facility (the denizens are another matter). Is it the same as a back-alley in some derelict New York City neighborhood? If you want it to be, sure. But it's different that that. For one thing, there's no sky. And you can't 
eventually run away from the area--there's really no escape (unless you can breathe vacuum). Dock Five--to me--has something of the feel and smell of subways tunnels. A factory or warehouse basement. But without the brick/stone moldy smell. It's all metallic. It's small enough to be familiar to its inhabitants (something that makes them feel secure) but large enough and, moreover, convoluted enough in design to make getting lost a very real possibility. (corridor image from DAZ3D)
eventually run away from the area--there's really no escape (unless you can breathe vacuum). Dock Five--to me--has something of the feel and smell of subways tunnels. A factory or warehouse basement. But without the brick/stone moldy smell. It's all metallic. It's small enough to be familiar to its inhabitants (something that makes them feel secure) but large enough and, moreover, convoluted enough in design to make getting lost a very real possibility. (corridor image from DAZ3D)A maze? Kinda sorta. But not quite.
It goes back to whether or not the red I see is the red you see.
So how much do you bring your own experiences into what you read, and how much are you willing to let the author take you on an unfamiliar journey?
~Linnea
SHADES OF DARK, the sequel to Gabriel’s Ghost, July 2008 from RITA award-winning author, Linnea Sinclair, and Bantam Books: http://www.linneasinclair.com/
The Karn jerked hard, alarms screaming in triplicate, overload warnings flashing. The grating sound of metal wrenching echoed off the bulkheads. Snapped power lines whipped past the front viewport as something thumped, hard, and something else thudded, once, twice. The ship lurched then we were thrown sideways, my armrest catching me in the ribs in spite of my safety straps.
“Full shields!” I said hoarsely. God damn, that hurt. “Verno, don’t let her spin. Marsh, crank those sublights higher.”
We dove away from station—a hideously ugly departure. Narfial controllers cursed the Fair Jeffa, assuring us the freighter was back on course and was never a threat to us at dock.
“Bite my ass,” Sully intoned.
The Karn jerked hard, alarms screaming in triplicate, overload warnings flashing. The grating sound of metal wrenching echoed off the bulkheads. Snapped power lines whipped past the front viewport as something thumped, hard, and something else thudded, once, twice. The ship lurched then we were thrown sideways, my armrest catching me in the ribs in spite of my safety straps.
“Full shields!” I said hoarsely. God damn, that hurt. “Verno, don’t let her spin. Marsh, crank those sublights higher.”
We dove away from station—a hideously ugly departure. Narfial controllers cursed the Fair Jeffa, assuring us the freighter was back on course and was never a threat to us at dock.
“Bite my ass,” Sully intoned.
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