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D.R. Ranshaw

D.R. RANSHAW

Decisions, decisions...

3/27/2023

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So… here’s a thing (a stranger thing, one might almost say, although Eleven and Mike aren’t even remotely involved):
 
At great personal risk, you’ve just spent several terrifying, freaking months ferrying a package --- on foot, to boot, if you’ll pardon the pun --- across a plague-devastated United States, full of mutant infected who slaver and want nothing more than to messily devour you at every opportunity --- while theoretically non-mutant survivors want to do the same, more or less simultaneously. You started off loathing this package --- a snarky, sassy, foul-mouthed, 14-year-old girl named Ellie, by the way --- who detested you right back, with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.
 
But along the way, another thing, even stranger… well, maybe not, given shared tribulations and such: the two of you actually started to like each other, care for each other… to the point where, by the time you finally deliver her to the consignee, a resistance/terrorist group (everything’s a matter of perspective, isn’t it?) quaintly named the Fireflies, she’s kinda become your de facto daughter, and you’re kinda her de facto dad. (Aww. How sweet, even though it’s not a particularly original trope. Then again, as I’ve noted before, nothing really is.)
 
Now, you’ve long known Ellie is the key to resolving this plague, because (gasp!) she’s immune to it. So… the plan has been to get her to a Firefly lab and a team of specialists, and hopefully, they can synthesize from her a vaccine to stop people from sprouting repulsive fungal growths and going crazy. (I was going to make a smartass reference about our current, real-life society, but I’ll let you read between the lines.) But… both you and she naively thought that would involve nothing more than getting a few blood samples, and then you could both be on your way, smugly aware you’ve Just Saved Truth, Justice and the American Way. Oh, and Humanity, too, by the way.
 
However, before we can all join hands and sing a touching round of Kumbaya, it turns out, to nobody’s great surprise… there’s a slight problem. Saving humanity is going to require a little more than a few vials of Ellie’s blood. Matter of fact… it requires a good chunk of her brain, which is likely to ruin her whole day.
 
And yours, daddio.
 
So… You Have A Decision To Make. You can choose Door #1: leave quietly and gratefully, reflecting, with tranquil, Spock-like wisdom, that sometimes, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few (or the one) and that, doubtless, the universe is unfolding as it should. Or you can choose Door #2, saying, “Not my kid, you @#$%^!” and do everything in your power to prevent Ellie from going under the knife… even if that means a certain amount of carnage involving understandably upset Fireflies i.e. a veritable bloodbath as you grimly carve your way to an unconscious Ellie, already lying on the operating table awaiting the aforementioned knife.
 
But here’s the Real Thing (and the crux of today’s epistle): you don’t have days, or hours, to quietly meditate and reflect on the correct course of action, sipping herbal tea, munching a biscotti, and calmly weighing the pros and cons of these alternatives. You. Have. Seconds. Tick tock, tick tock, with the Angel of Death at your elbow, murmuring quietly in your ear, “Well? What’s it gonna be, Joel? ‘Cause I haven’t got all day. And neither do you.”
 
We all make scores of decisions, some good, some not, each and every day --- though most aren’t the emotionally searing kind, determining life and death, like Joel has to make above (thank God). Because the truth of the matter is that most of us are really terrible at making good decisions under pressure. We want to be able to sit down, take some time, and calmly analyse the alternatives. We hate being put in the pressure cooker. Because, like I said, when we are, most of us tend to screw things up badly. Now, when the above scenario played out in the climactic season finale of the TV show The Last of Us, and Joel unsurprisingly chose Door #2, my wife turned to me and asked how he could possibly rationalize that choice, knowing he’d just condemned humanity to the dark hell of the plague’s possibly endless continuation. Or words to that effect. And because I’d spent over two hundred hours on the PlayStation game of the same name prior to watching the series on TV (gee, thanks Sony, for that really helpful system update which now accusingly informs me how long I’ve played each game on my console, he said sarcastically), I was able to approach the matter rather more calmly and philosophically, having long had opportunity to reflect on the same question.
 
This is a really important question for writers --- and readers --- to consider: why do story characters make unfortunate, and times, really stupid, decisions? Well, there are a whole raft of reasons --- maybe I’ll make that the subject of my next post --- but one of the more important ones is what I’ve gone to some length to sketch out for you today: time. Every once in a while, the cosmos confronts us with a split-second, life-altering situation, and calmly tells us it needs our response within the next couple of seconds, and no extensions or refunds. So… we have to decide. Fast. And as I said, most of us aren’t good at choosing the best choice. In Joel’s case, he really doesn’t have time (or inclination) to consider the needs of humanity’s future. His baby girl is about to be vivisectioned, and his totally understandable (if possibly egocentric), emotional response, is, “Not on my watch!”
 
As real-life humans… we fervently hope such scenarios never occur, or at least are few and far between. As writers… well, bwahahahaha! We present those scenarios to our characters as often as we possibly can, because they make for great drama, and conflict, and readers/viewers tearing out their hair, screaming, “What? Why? How can they do that?!”
 
So, the next time you read about a story character making a really stupid split-second decision… cut ‘em a little slack.
 
And blame the writer. Bwahahahaha!
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Enemies to Friends (or Lovers)

2/13/2023

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Let me start today’s epistle by telling you a delightful little bedtime fairy tale, boys and girls (and it comes with plot spoilers, too, so… you’ve been warned):
 
Once upon a time, in a broken world all too similar to this one, except even more broken --- and yes, Virginia, lest you gesture in disbelief at the dumpster fire which is currently our little rock hurtling through the inky vastness of space, let me assure you such a thing is all too possible --- there lives a broken man. He’s one of many, surviving in a dystopian world he hasn’t made and doesn’t like, but that changes nothing, so he wearily makes his way through it day by day.
 
This broken man --- Joel, his name is --- has a partner Tess, and together they’re pretty passable smugglers, managing to get by in this broken, dystopian world… which is that way because there’s been a devastating fungal plague outbreak some 20 years prior, which killed off a goodly portion of the world’s population, turned another sizeable portion into shambling nightmarish things wandering the landscape, and reduced what was left of  so-called civilization to a dysfunctional, hard-scrabble, subsistence-level shadow of its former self.
 
One day Joel and Tess are approached by a nice lady named Marlene, the leader of a resistance/terrorist group --- like so many things related to the human condition, it always depends on your perspective, you know --- called the Fireflies. Marlene has a job for them: to transport a young girl named Ellie across devastated Boston to meet up with another group of Fireflies who’ll take Ellie on to some undisclosed location out west. Marlene doesn’t specify why she wants this done, and Joel and Tess don’t ask, because they couldn’t care less. What does interest them is the payment. So they accept the job.
 
Along the way, just outside the protected Quarantine Zone, Joel, Tess, and Ellie run into some trouble: they’re confronted by the nice security forces, who check them for the fungal infection. What do you know? Ellie tests positive. As you might imagine, this dims the festive atmosphere somewhat, with Ellie attacking the nice security man, forcing Joel and Tess to do the same. When the dust --- and blood --- settles, the security people have gone to the great checkpoint in the sky, and Ellie explains that, by gosh, she’s a pretty valuable asset, because she’s *immune* to the plague.
 
Joel’s a teensy bit sceptical, but Tess is more trusting, so they continue to their destination. Unfortunately, on arrival, they find the receiving Fireflies dead. Bummer. And more nice security forces are outside, and they’re understandably a little ticked off. Joel is all for leaving and returning Ellie for a refund, but Tess says, no, that’s not possible. Somewhere along their little jaunt, she’s been bitten by an infected, and her long-term prospects aren’t. But… she plays the old relationship card, making Joel promise to take Ellie out west to find the Fireflies, so they can find a cure and heal all the hurts of this broken, dystopian world. Like so many hapless males before him, Joel rolls his eyes and agrees.
 
Problem is, Joel and Ellie don’t like each other very much. She thinks he’s, to quote Star Trek, “a swaggering, overbearing, tin-plated dictator with delusions of godhood.” Or words to that effect. And he regards her as an unmitigated nuisance, insubordinate, wilful, and several other likeminded things. Doesn’t sound like the most promising foundation for any kind of relationship, does it, boys and girls?
 
However… in one of the more enduring literary tropes… Joel and Ellie bond with each other. No, no, not in any icky kind of way; get your mind out of the gutter. But by the game’s end --- and yes, this story comes from the deathless images of the video game (not the TV series, which is showing some differences, some minor, others more major) The Last of Us --- they’re pretty much father and daughter. Ta da! The ol’ enemies-to-friends trope. Someone asked me recently why this has been and continues to be a thing. But when it’s handled properly, it isn’t something to do that aforementioned eye-rolling over. Why? Several reasons:
 
First, it happens all the time IRL (in real life). I’ve said before that yeah, much of our collective lives seem governed by clichés. And they are. Because humans are not nearly as original and creative as they think. We’re walking clichés (oy). But that sometimes makes the job of writers easier, so there’s that. So the next time you’re tempted to roll your eyes at a writer’s machinations… stop and think first.
 
One of the biggest things to remember about the enemies-to-friends (or lovers) trope is our first impressions of other people aren’t always completely --- or even partially --- accurate. We tend to put a great deal of stock in physical appearance, for example, which isn’t necessarily misleading, but certainly can be. More fundamentally, many of us are just not great judges of human character. (Don’t agree with me? Just look back over our dismal human history. Oy again.) Some of us --- a small number --- are remarkably keen assessors of people. But an enormous percentage of the population is also appallingly bad at it. So it’s quite easy to start off with one superficial take on a person, only to realize later, as you get to know them on deeper levels, that you need to revise your initial assessment… which assumes one has the emotional maturity and humility to accept that unpleasant realization; most of us really don’t like to have to admit we’re wrong. But that’s what the enemies to friends/lovers trope is really all about: people who start off their relationship with one mindset, then change it as their relationship evolves and understanding and empathy replaces prejudice and trite assumptions.
 
Yep. Happens all the time, folks. “I hate you… no, on reflection, actually I like/love you.”
 
After all, everyone wants to be liked. As Will would say, ‘tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.

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The Job's The Thing

1/30/2023

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There’s a hoary old cliché about characters in TV sit-coms who never seem to have jobs --- or apparently bills to pay, either, for they just sit around in coffee shops all day and zing each other with pithy one-liners. The rest of us working stiffs must, however, toil in the sweatshops of first-world capitalism to put food on the table and pay for the kids’ braces. (Oy, he said in a pained voice, vividly recalling how he financed the Monte Carlo villa of his kids’ orthodontist.)
 
What gives rise to this cynical observation, you ask? It was a Twit, asking one of those faux-interested questions on everybody’s favourite social media platform. (Well, Elon’s favourite platform, anyway.) The actual question ran along the lines of, “What’s your protagonist’s job? And what was their first job?” Aside from the fact that I doubt the Twit really wanted to know --- I highly suspect the ultimate goal was merely engagement stats --- I thought it useful grist for the blog mill. Hence, here we are today.
 
Employment (aka indentured servitude) is just one of those necessary things we must all engage in, once dearest mama and papa toss us fledglings from the comforts of the nest --- sometimes before, too. For most, I suspect those first jobs don’t tend to have a helluva lot to do with what we ultimately wind up doing --- in my case, I fervently mutter, “thank God” --- and while writers don’t necessarily need to go into copious backstory about a character’s first job, it can be a useful exercise in character development.
 
Case in point: my first job was as a car jockey at a Ford dealership, back in the Dark Ages. I was newly 18, it was the summer between high school and university, and I was desperate for a job, because yes, Virginia, even then, universities charged tuition. No, I don’t particularly want to hear boomer jokes about how cheap it was and how easy I had it. Yes, he said wearily, tuition was a helluva lot less back then, (though wages were also a lot lower), and yes, I’m aware the fact my summer pay was enough to cover my tuition for the following year isn’t something which routinely occurs nowadays. But it was still a lot of money to fresh-faced little ol’ me.
 
Yes, you heard me right: car jockey at a Ford dealership. Pretty much the lowest rung of a very blue-collar ladder. Like, we’re not talking periwinkle blue here… more along the lines of whatever shade of blue is closest to… well, black. Car jockey was a dignified name for a job that entailed just about anything and everything, including the shitty stuff nobody higher in rank than me (read: everyone) wanted to do. I was, as I said, 18, sheltered-ish, sensitive-ish, nerdish, bookish and a whole bunch of other ishes… and it took me until about morning coffee break on the first day (I was going to say ‘lunch,’ but nah, that merely confirmed what I already knew) to reach the conclusion I was terrifyingly waaaay past the archetypical fish-out-of-water scenario. But I stuck with it for the whole summer. Didn’t have a lot of choice, really, if I wanted to keep that date with academe in the autumn, because jobs were scarce, and I got mine the old-fashioned way, by nepotism: my dad took pity on me and called around his list of business contacts to see if anything was available. This was. End of story, son.
 
Looking back on it now, close to five decades later (excuse me while I go and scream into a pillow at that anguished realization), it really was one of those what-doesn’t-kill-you-makes-you-stronger situations. A real crucible. Character development, like I said. In fact, if I wanted to take a cheap shot about my eventual career, I could say it was rather like teaching… except that educating 30-40 hormonal adolescents at a time for 35 years was, if you’ll pardon the awful pun, child’s play in comparison.
 
So. Your protagonist’s job. I’m thinking the Twit referenced above must’ve been thinking ‘day job,’ because as we all know, our protagonist’s primary job, at least as far as the plot goes, is ‘hero.’ No, no, no… that doesn’t necessarily mean the traditional concept of hero, complete with bulging biceps and/or more magical abilities than you could shake a stick/wand/staff at. Hero is just someone who’s prepared to sign up for the booby prize. They can be the most unlikely candidate for hero-hood in terms of skills and abilities.  Like Frodo. (I mean, really… this dude’s ostensible qualifications for an all-expenses-paid, one-way trip to Mordor are essentially… well, nil. As Peter Jackson has him say --- because it’s not in the book! --- he doesn’t even know which direction he’s supposed to take.) But on Ye Olde Official Hero-Candidate Qualification Checklist, there’s one box, and one box alone, which needs to be checked: willing. Once that’s done, we have a winner, ladies and gentlemen!
 
But day jobs… yeah, protagonist day jobs can range from the utterly irrelevant to the uncannily prescient, according to the author’s peculiar whims and twisted sense of humour. I’m not sure one is any better than the other, from a writer-creator’s point of view, except that ‘utterly irrelevant’ does introduce much greater possibility for surprise and uncertainty --- not to mention humour, gallows and otherwise --- which is pretty much always a good thing, story-wise.
 
It’s worth some thought, when you’re sitting down to flesh out your protagonist: what do they do to pay the bills? Because what they do for a living does say quite a lot about their personality. Or, if they’re sufficiently wealthy to be divorced from that mundane reality… what do they do to pass the time? Though that, paradoxically, can be a rather tedious situation to place a protagonist in. For example, Mr. Darcy’s life seemed to revolve around endless, mind-numbing balls and social visits to a lot of simpering women searching for a wealthy husband… though it ended pretty well for him… and Lizzie, all things considered. But for most of us, that isn’t an alternative. Toiling away in the salt mines for a good portion of each day is mandatory. If we want to eat, that is.
 
So, remember, folks: the job’s the thing, wherein you’ll catch the conscience of the… schlep who’s your protagonist. (Sorry, Will.)

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Literary vs. Real-life Misery

12/19/2022

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Hello, my name is Everyman, and I am a newsoholic. (There, that’s my major personal admission for today. And it does relate to today’s literary thesis, although that may take a moment or six to become clear.)
 
I have a lifelong, apparently incurable, insatiable need to be informed about the murder, madness and mayhem which nightly ‘graces’ the video and written news platforms I consult. I’m not really sure why, and believe me when I say, I’ve given the matter a certain amount of personal reflection. My wife, who’s smugly not afflicted by this curse, blithely continues on her merry way with little more than an eloquent roll of the eyes when I put the news on… and, really, who can blame her? It’s not uplifting stuff, by and large.
 
I’m not sure the news has gotten any worse, he said thoughtfully… I mean, sure, nowadays, there’s climate change, and the sixth extinction, and similar cheery stuff, but When We Were Very Young, there was the very real spectre of nuclear war and its resultant unpleasantness (and some of the nastier side effects, like nuclear winter, weren’t even understood at the time). And, of course, corrupt, amoral politicians, and wars… well, they’ve always been around, unfortunately. Although, on reflection… I will say that since… oh, 2016 and the rise of The Donald (when every whackjob hiding under a rock was given carte blanche, or at least the secret activation code, to crawl out into the world and start spewing their particular brand of hatred or rebellion or lunatic conspiracy theory or scientific denial or whatever), followed quickly by the pandemic-that-people-got-tired-of-so-decided-it-was-over-or-never-happened-in-the-first-place… well, things seem to have gotten exponentially worse. Or maybe it’s just my tolerance for the crazies, the incurably narcissistic, and the deplorables has reached a nadir I wouldn’t have thought possible in the sunnier days of my youth. And I have noted my desire to remain informed is, more and more, coming into intractable conflict with my desire to remain sane. So, the question is, why do we remain morbidly fascinated by the dumpster fire which is the daily state of affairs for so many unfortunates on this rock?
 
And that (ta da!) is where the link to today’s literary thesis comes in, from a Tweet I saw recently, where the Tweeter asked why writers need to make characters’ lives so miserable. So, let’s work backwards and see if we can’t use a question with a rather obvious answer to provide insight into something deeper and more puzzling.
 
Back in the dark ages, when I was working on my first novel, my editor urged me to ‘throw rocks’ at my protagonist, which, on the surface of things, sounds incredibly cruel, but then again, we writers seem to major in hurling the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune at characters, cackling maniacally as we do so. In fact, it’s almost a job requirement. The reason for this (and the answer to the Tweeter’s question) is, as I said, fairly obvious: it’s the protagonist’s struggles against the vicissitudes of life, and how those struggles are handled, which make his/her story interesting. Unfortunately, at least from some points of view, a story with no conflict, no struggle, no arbitrary/unfair/cruel hurdles to overcome, a story which just contains sweetness and light and peaches ‘n cream, is… well, boring.
 
If we want to be noble/charitable about it, we could say this is because we want to be instructed in the finer points of life, or we want cautionary tales to show us pitfalls to avoid, or perhaps feel a sense of ‘there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I.’ But as you might suspect from my earlier rantings in this post, I’m not feeling particularly charitable about human nature these days, so I’d say a large part of our interest in reading about characters’ literary misfortunes is we just like to see other people dealing with shit… perhaps more sinister shit, more soul-crushing shit, than we’re experiencing ourselves. At least I don’t have to go traipsing over hill and under dale to throw a piece of antique jewellery into an active volcano, we can mutter to ourselves. It’s a weird characteristic of human nature, rather like when we’re driving along and come across the remnants of a motor vehicle accident. Most of us just have to slow down and gawk. We have a morbid fascination with wrecks of any kind, mechanical or flesh and blood, particularly if we can see them in slow motion on the TV news replay later. The more spectacular, the better. I’m not sure this reflects very favourably on us as a species, but there it is.
 
But wait! There’s more! as the old Ginsu steak knife ads used to say. We also want to read about literary misfortunes because… wait for it… we want to see our beloved protagonists come through those slings and arrows… to make it to the other side of the abyss. We’re rootin’ for them… possibly because, if they can make it to the frigging Cracks of Doom and survive… well, then, dammit, maybe we can, too, at least insofar as whatever pile ‘o poop life is flinging at us this week. Even if they/we need a good ol’ deus ex machina, like an eagle swooping in to make a very convenient and timely rescue, to do it. Because deus ex machinas do happen in real life, just like they do in stories… just rather less frequently.
 
So… does any of this really address my obsession with the news? Well… perhaps not as much as I thought it would before beginning today’s ramblings. For me, it’s not about watching blood and circuses, or other gloating/tsking over other peoples’ misfortunes. It’s more just a deep-seated need to know what’s going on around me, even if there’s very little I can do to change most of it… and I’m not entirely sure where that comes from. I think it’s a fairly common writerly trait.
 
But thanks for putting up with me while I ruminated through it. Oops, gotta go… the network news is starting.

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Villains Ultimately Triumphant?

11/28/2022

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Just for fun, let’s start today’s epistle by running a few literary speculations past you:
 
What if…
…Sam didn’t take the Ring from a supposedly dead Frodo after Shelob’s attack, thereby making it quite likely it, along with ye olde mithril shirt, was delivered via express orcmail to a certain Dark Lord shortly thereafter? Methinks that little conversation with the Mouth of Sauron would likely have had a rather different flavour.
…at the end of the seventh book, the one numerous people maintain should’ve been more appropriately titled Harry Potter and the Enormous Royalty Cheque, Harry decided to take that train ‘onward’ rather than heading back to our own mortal, rather drab world, thereby handing Voldemort game, set and match? (‘Onward,’ Jo? Really? Onward? My gosh, the painful contortions a thoroughly secular writer undergoes trying to discuss the afterlife without really discussing the afterlife. Sheesh.)
…those severe burns Katniss suffers at the climax of Mockingjay turn out to be a little more severe than thought, and she dies? President Coriolanus Snow (Coriolanus, Suzanne? Really? Yeah, I got the reference… though I bet most of her readers didn’t) winds up defeating the rebellion, setting us up for continued jolly rule by the Capitol and the eventual centenary of the Hunger Games… hosted by an elderly Caesar Flickerman whose now-white hair remains dyed a determined cerulean blue.
 
I could go on --- political/military/social/literary what-ifs are always entertaining to generate, kind of like erudite versions of It’s a Wonderful Life --- but you get the point, which was brought up in a Tweet I recently saw. (Yes, Virginia, I’m still on Twitter, along with several others --- and not all of us are whackjobs, either, BTW. Just a goodly chunk, it seems. But that’s a discussion for another day.) The Tweeter asked about the concept of the literary villain ultimately triumphant, yea or nay? Now, like many Tweets, this is a discussion virtually impossible to condense to 280 characters --- at least, not while generating any kind of thoughtful analysis --- and I have a distinct loathing of threads, which I’ve likened previously to trying to read War and Peace on the backs of multiple cereal boxes. (Ever noticed how social media comments tend to fall into one of two categories? Either they’re hopelessly banal, or hopelessly complex. Oy.) However, the good news is it provides grist for a longer forum i.e. today’s post. Ta da! You’re welcome.
 
My answer to the question is, actually, quite simple: Nay. Firmly. And, you know, I think most readers fall into that camp, too. Check out that Poe quote above, for example. Never mind its uncomfortable relevance in this, our third-going-on-seemingly-hundredth year of the-pandemic-which-the-aforementioned-whackjobs-have-decided-isn’t-a-pandemic, it’s just such a major downer. Most of us don’t want our stories ending that way. (There are times it seems, if we want gritty and depressing, all we have to do is step out our front doors.) Bittersweet is about as far as most are prepared to go… I mean, if you don’t have a heart of stone, just try staying dry-eyed at the finale of The Lord of the Rings, as Frodo and the elves skip town. Go on, try. I dare you.  So in this broken world of ours, most of us seek at least a little redemption in the literature we read, and that definitely doesn’t include villains ultimately triumphant. It may not include the tired old cliché ‘and they lived happily ever after,’ because most of us learned --- probably somewhere between elementary and high school --- such drivel belongs on the ashpit of literature, but that’s not to say the vast majority grooves on the success of evil ascendant.
 
Off the top of my head, about the only time I can recall the villain-triumphant trope actually working was, unsurprisingly, a riveting Stephen King teleplay entitled Storm of the Century. It follows the travails of a small-town sheriff in coastal Maine. When his village is cut off from civilization by a monster blizzard (pun intended), strange and horrific things begin occurring, as they are wont to do in Mr. K’s stories. Gruesome murders and disappearances and cryptic scrawlings in blood on walls, oh my! Eventually, we learn (plot spoiler) all the nastiness is caused by an ancient --- hmm, well… evil sorcerer, I suppose we’d call him --- who seeks an heir. He proposes to obtain a kid by having the townsfolk gift him one of theirs. ‘Give me what I want, and I’ll go away,’ is his ominous tagline, and it leads to a pretty agonized climactic discussion among the townsfolk, as you might imagine. Sheriff Mike, our intrepid protagonist, is against giving in to this monstrous evil… but he’s the only one --- even his wife, Molly, is against him --- and he’s forcibly subdued by the terrified townspeople, who cave to the demands of the sorcerer, Linoge. (It’s an anagram, folks, and not especially rocket science… work it out.) So, yeah, villain triumphant. And in a dreadful bit of dramatic irony, guess whose kid winds up being given to Linoge? Yep. Talk about twisting the knife once it’s in. Sheriff Mike’s final monologue, which comes years later when he gets a momentary, heartrending glimpse of Linoge and his/their son, is a masterpiece of hopeless raillery at the prevalent evils of our existence: “It’s a cash and carry world. Sometimes you pay a little. Mostly, it’s a lot. Once in a while, its everything you have.”
 
It is, as I said, a riveting tale. But is it the sort of heartwarming narrative making you want to burst into song alongside Julie Andrews, climbing sun-soaked meadows with flowers blooming all around, proclaiming the hills are alive with the sound of mucus/music? Umm… nope. Not even remotely. It’s much more in keeping with Ed’s gloomy pronouncement about death and decay and assorted yucky stuff holding infinite dominion. Yay, Ed.
 
I guess we could conclude, then, that even when the villain-ultimately-triumphant trope works… well, it doesn’t, not really. At least for me. Now, I’m not looking for a treacly Hallmark-Christmas-movie ending liable to cause type 2 diabetes from all the surging sweetness (ack!), but I do want a story that’ll encourage me to go forth and meet the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune with a little stamina and courage, not nihilistic feelings of impending doom.
 
So stuff it, Ed… or go listen to Julie.

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A Hatchet to the Back

10/31/2022

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The other day, I saw an image on social media from the 2013 (Yikes! Has it really been that long?!) video game Tomb Raider, and it sparked an interesting question in my fertile little writer’s mind.  Now, before you roll your eyes in disgust and think to yourself, we’re just discussing Another Fricking Video Game for Prurient Adolescent Males, let me disabuse of that you right now: the game is a reboot of the franchise that, yes, was originally targeted at hormonally charged teenage boys, what with the character’s --- ahem --- large pixilated breasts, which her skimpy clothing constantly struggled valiantly to contain. But the reboot did away with that tired crap; while the new Lara is still attractive, she’s far more intelligent and the game is much less focused on her winsome charms. Anyway, the point of today’s epistle isn’t to muse on the male gender’s near-ubiquitous fixation with female mammary glands (especially large ones), or the weird pathological/psychological ramifications thereof. As this post’s title reveals, it’s about a hatchet to the back, or, more specifically, one of those diamond moments in life we all fervently hope never to have to face… and, of course, the writing question, which, rest assured, I will get to in a moment.
 
First, though, allow me to back up a little. There’s two characters in the aforementioned image. One is, naturally, Lara, budding adventurer extraordinaire --- and kick-ass strong female protagonist, BTW. The other is Conrad Roth (kind of a Dr. Smoulder Bravestone sort of name, if you get the reference, which I modestly think is pretty apt). Roth is a ruggedly handsome older man --- his backstory reveals he’s an ex-Royal Marine --- so he provides the perfect mentor trope for a young Lara fresh out of university. She’s blissfully unaware of the extreme crisis situation her research is about to thrust her entire group of adventurers into: shipwrecked on a remote, unknown island in the Pacific, unable to leave because a vengeful entity destroying all ships or planes trying to do so, surrounded by a bunch of Crazed Cultist Castaways (CCC) bent on sacrificing Lara’s BFF to said entity while messily murdering Lara and her other compatriots. In other words, just a Sunday afternoon stroll in the park. Much of the game revolves around Lara attempting three things: (a) staying one step ahead of the CCC; (b) keeping her friends alive --- probably not much of a spoiler to say she’s largely unsuccessful on this goal; and (c) unraveling the mystery of the island so she and her surviving friends can get the hell off it and return to civilization.
 
Now, late in the game, remorseless fate finally catches up to Roth --- a character whom players have erroneously assumed to this point to be well-nigh indestructible. Fleeing with Lara from their latest cataclysmic engagement with the CCC (complete with plenty of pyrotechnics), no less a personage than the CCC’s doubly crazy leader, a psychopath by the name of Matthias, pursues and catches up to them. A wounded Roth uses up the last of his ammunition vainly attempting to save him and Lara, and then… Matthias throws a hatchet. At close range. Too close (I guess) to dodge. And so, Roth…
 
…without hesitation, instantly turns to shield Lara…
 
…and, in so doing, takes the full force of the hatchet in his back… thereby saving Lara’s life but, as you might imagine, rather spoiling his entire day.
 
(Yeah, he dies heroically a few minutes later, after providing a devastated Lara with some pithy encouragement. Cue the violin section.)
 
And this (finally) is where the writing question comes in:
 
What extraordinary things are going through a character’s mind in such an instant that they know, with complete, icy clarity, that they must and will sacrifice their life --- their life! --- for someone else?
 
You know… the realization that This. Is. It. That we’re about to voluntarily take a one-way trip through that old portal to, as Will refers to it, “the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.” Wow. A deep, metaphysical moment, don’t you think? I mean, dying is a moment we intellectually know we must all come to, but one which, emotionally, we delude ourselves into thinking never will. And the Roth example involves an act of free will in approaching that portal.
 
His action isn’t about sitting down in peace and quiet with a cup of tea and rationally weighing pros and cons for an hour or a day, either. It’s at once. It must be an incredible moment, full of love, loyalty, commitment, pathos, regret, despair, wonder, and about a thousand other emotions, all rolled into one split-second. A moment which simultaneously lasts an eternity and as much time as blowing out a candle. Like I said, a moment I’m sure every last one of us fervently hopes never happens to us… because, well… you know… they say the survival instinct is the paramount imperative built into just about every living organism. To consciously, deliberately decide to override that imperative --- again, within the space of a nanosecond --- man, what an awful decision to have to make. And yet humans do it, all the same. It’s a deeply sentient, sacrificial moment.
 
It’s also a moment of extraordinary clarity I think few of us ever come to… and I’m not sure whether or not that’s a good thing. It is, I think, undoubtedly a great moment for a writer, watching from the Olympian summit of his/her author’s perch/perspective: all the things one could cram into such a moment in time!
 
In reality? Not so much.
 
Extraordinary.

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Worldbuilding 101

9/26/2022

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Gazing at a blank canvas/page/screen/stage/potter’s wheel (or any other creative medium, come to that) is something that likely generates one of several possible emotional states --- euphoria or terror being two contrasting ones that immediately come to mind. As a retired teacher and active writer, I’d say I place myself firmly in the former. (A large number of my students were, unfortunately, in the latter, though I did my level best to help them conquer that terror.) But I’ve always thought there’s something magical in building a fresh creative project with something new.
 
Many creatives --- not only writers --- love acts of creation like worldbuilding. Because artists of all stripes of love to create anyway… it’s what we do. And once we’ve created, we want to share the fruits of our labour. Think of Tom Hanks in the film Castaway, having finally succeeded, after being shipwrecked on a deserted island and engaging in hours of backbreaking work, finally igniting a freaking giant bonfire. As he dances around the flames, celebrating his small triumph after having the universe shit all over him, he gestures to the silent stars shining above and shouts “Look what I have created! I… have… made… FIRE!” Yeah. Worldbuilding can be like that. I think acts of creation fill a basic, primal need that so many of us seem to have. In fact, that primal need is one of the few things about humanity giving me hope nowadays: that want to build and create, not just tear down and destroy.
 
There’s a definite art to worldbuilding; it needs to manifest in drips, not a flood. A fire hose of information in the middle of your narrative just turns readers off, so, unless you’re writing appendices that follow the end of your story, and it’s made very clear that they aren’t part of the story per se, limit the details you throw out. They should just appear as part of the landscape or a character’s actions.
 
Setting is part of worldbuilding. To say that setting the "when" and "where" of a story may satisfy a basic definition, but it doesn’t delve into the kind of detail authors can, probably should, and often do go into when plotting stories.  After all, setting isn’t, and shouldn’t be thought of, as a static or non-moving picture.  In the best stories, it’s a richly woven tapestry providing not only background for the plot itself, but can rival the plot in interest and ignite in the reader an intense desire to learn more about the world in which the story takes place.
 
When authors fashion the world in which their stories take place --- and J.R.R. Tolkien, creator of The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and The Silmarillion is among the most famous writers ever to do so --- they engage in acts of Creation.  Consider:  to build a world; put landscapes upon it; fill those lands with plants and animals; people those lands; build cultures, cities, and languages --- these are all acts of Creation which can ultimately be hugely rewarding and enjoyable.  I use the word "Creation" with a capital "C" quite deliberately, because, if time and care are taken in generating details like those mentioned above, the parallels between an author's acts of Creation and God's acts of Creation are very real (if not perhaps on the same scale!).
 
The act of creating setting and worlds for stories is a vital one and shouldn’t be dismissed as an afterthought or just a necessary nuisance, a "peg" on which to hang the "coat" of the plot.  While this is true of all literature, one has only to look at some of the great fantasy works to see that this seems especially true for it.  A prime example is The Hobbit, Tolkien's other best-known work taking place in Middle Earth, and which, unlike The Lord of the Rings, was written for children. The "magical" places (not necessarily in the literal sense) of so many fantasy stories really almost require a richness and depth to their settings that many other types of literature don’t strictly need in order to succeed.
 
Worldbuilding doesn’t belong only at the beginning, or the middle, or the end of stories.  Great authors constantly give readers more information about the worlds in which their characters interact.  Such detail isn’t only setting; it’s texture. Stephen King calls it chrome --- the details which take something very ordinary and lacklustre and give it glitter and interest. (And he should know.)
 
So build on, worldbuilders! You’ve nothing to lose, and rich, fulfilling environments to create and savour.

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The Jabbertrope

8/29/2022

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'Twas late in the day, and the desperate writer
   Did squirm and stare at his trusty laptop;
All flimsy and miserable were his thoughts,
   As he struggled to generate something startlingly original
(Not to mention reach his self-imposed word count for the day -
  Dude, what had he been thinking?)
 
"Beware the Jabbertrope, my son
   The clichés that bite, the stereotypes that catch!
Beware the Triteness bird, and shun
   The frumious Banalitysnatch!"
                -with sincere apologies to Lewis Carroll
 
I hear the lament constantly, from writers and non-writers --- yes, Virginia, there really is such a group; in fact, the funny thing is, it actually includes quite a few people who fancy themselves writers but aren’t, based on objective observations concerning the lack of literacy skills on their social media accounts. (Ooh, look: aggressive snark manages to rear its ugly head in my introductory sentence. Aren’t I clever.) The lament? Why, as you should be able to discern from my pathetic parody of Jabberwocky, it concerns tropes and clichés (T&C). So… several thoughts about them in today’s epistle. Written for your entertainment and edification in conversational list form --- just like Rabbit’s Plot to Kidnap Kanga, he added helpfully.
 
First: they’re like cockroaches: widespread and almost impossible to kill, he says, shaking his head despondently. I’ve especially noticed this lately on many Netflix/Crave/Bravo/Amazon Prime/Disney+ shows (and so on… the list seems virtually endless), where my wife and I occasionally make a kind of amusing game out of guessing the next line of dialogue or plot point, then turning to each other triumphantly when (not if) we’re right, exclaiming, “See? I could write for this show!”
 
To be fair, it’s not only TV --- for example, let’s briefly touch on three epically successful modern franchises which should remain nameless (one filmic from the get-go, two originally written before becoming monstrous film sensations which demonstrated annoyingly varying degrees of faithfulness to their source material): young, male, plucky protagonist (PP) who’s nobody’s idea of a hero (Frodo/Luke/Harry), needs to kill cosmically powerful villain (Sauron/Emperor/Voldemort) bent on killing him because of what he is (Ringbearer/Chosen One/Boy Who Lived). PP, surprisingly willing to accept the booby prize AKA quest, is aided along the torturous way by an ancient, crusty male mentor with magical powers (Gandalf/Obi-wan/Dumbledore) who ultimately gets offed --- an event which, strangely, doesn’t seem to possess the ultimate finality one might be forgiven for assuming it would. PP is hindered but eventually saved by a loathsome quasi-villain who actually turns out not to be (Smeagol/Vader/Snape). Also along the way, PP is accompanied by various sidekicks played for either earnest loyalty and smarts (Aragorn/Leia/Hermione) or silly, buffoonish comic-relief potential (Pippin --- in the films, it’s Gimli/C-3PO/Ron).
 
Second: but why are they everywhere? you query plaintively. Well, here’s the thing, boys and girls: tropes and clichés exist because human behaviours are chock FULL of them. We’re essentially walking clichés, folks. Human behaviours are depressingly repetitive and (mostly) depressingly predictable, because we do the same kind of things over and over. And have done for the last… oh, five thousand years or so of recorded history. Give or take. In addition, we rationalize those behaviours. My gosh, do we ever; humans are past masters at the art of rationalization. (Then we pretend we’re not rationalizing. Oy. Oh, the humanity.)
 
Third: however… is this a bad thing? he asks rhetorically, in his best expository teacher-voice. And the answer is… unsurprisingly, no, not necessarily. Those three franchises I just trashed are beloved by millions. (One of the franchises I actually like a lot --- the other two are… okay. No, I’ll let you guess which is my literary daddy. Besides, if you’re a regular here, you should already know.) Another thing about T&C is they appear in all types of story-telling because… they work. They are us. We recognize ourselves and our life situations and stories in them. We have met the enemy, and he is us. Sad, kinda pathetic at times, but true. Yep. Truth often hurts. And it may set you free, as a certain book claimed, but it will frequently piss you off in the process.
 
Fourth: hmm, well, can we avoid them, then, at least a little? you whisper hopefully. Ay, there’s the rub, as Will said. Well, I have an answer, and the good news is I think we can, at least somewhat. It’s a more difficult thing to accomplish in this modern day and age, when the vast majority of us are pretty jaded and world-weary, having read, watched, and heard all kinds of situations in different genres, but… still possible, I think. As a writer, you help to avoid T&C by asking yourself this question and its all-important follow-on:
-what does the reader expect will happen next?
-so, what do we give ‘em instead?
 
Returning momentarily to one of the franchises, for example: how would things have been different if Gandalf had been female? And admittedly, all three make the attempt --- some more successfully than others --- to ask the ‘instead’ question by providing at least one pithy revelation emerging from the situation-that-turns-out-to-be-not-what-we-thought-it-would-be (“I am no man”/ “I am your father”/ “Yer a wizard, Harry”). (Riddles are always good for that, because they’re usually written so as to be ambiguous and capable of various interpretations: “not by the hand of man will he fall.” And who among us wasn’t initially blown away by Vader’s declaration of paternity? Whoa, dude. Granted, they were simpler times. The Harry one… well, not so much.)
 
Have I used this pair ‘o questions in my own writing? Why, yes, constant reader, as a matter of fact, I have. To good success, too, in my humble opinion.  I’m not saying it’s a silver bullet, one-size-fits-all solution, panacea, or any number of other hoary old clichés I could employ. I’m not even saying you’ll be successful every time using my magic elixir. After all, as I’ve said, we are walking clichés. But it is something you can do to avoid the dreaded Jabbertrope. At the very least, it will force you to consider other, possibly fresher, avenues to explore… to take the path less travelled by, as Bob said.
 
And that might make all the difference for you, too.

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An Eggsellent Question

7/25/2022

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Twitter-mining noun [personal colloq.] The semi-automatic process of sifting through Tweets posing all sorts of interesting questions the person asking them has no real interest in seeing answered (see Engagement Tweets [pejorative]), but which make interesting, if inadvertent, fodder for blog posts and other less savoury solitary activities.
 
Okay, there’s really no such thing as Twitter-mining --- at least, not officially, not to the best of my knowledge. I made the term up. (A good one, don’t you think? Regular ol’ Webster wannabe, that’s me.) But I can’t be the only person using Tweets to generate material for blog posts. Like this one.
 
(Engagement tweets, on the other hand, apparently are a thing, but not a good one. They’re shallow attempts by shallow people to bolster their engagement statistics by asking questions of other Twits. Why would they do that, you ask? Because one of the (innumerable) Quirkily Depressing Things [QDT] about humans, bless our black little narcissistic hearts, is this: people tend to be obsessed with numbers. Big numbers.  Impressive numbers. Now, as I said, people doing the asking have no real interest seeing their questions answered --- which are frequently, and laughably, deep philosophical issues no one in their right mind would even dream of trying to answer in 280 characters, anyway --- but here’s another QDT: most of us can’t resist when we believe someone else humbly seeks our erudite opinion… even when it’s transparently obvious they aren’t, not really. That’s a third QDT, by the way: humankind’s capacity for delusional rationalization is almost endless.)
 
Anyway. End of rant. What was the Tweet in question you mined? you ask impatiently. Well, simply this: which comes first, the character or the plot? (See what I mean? In 280 characters? Are you kidding? Yes, of course, it’s answerable in 280 characters or less… but it’d be kind of like explaining that the cause of the Roman Empire’s decline and fall was carelessness. Gibbon would have an apoplexy… except he’s already dead.)
 
The question is, at its core, obviously one of those chicken or egg conundrums. So allow me to be really annoying and begin my answer glibly saying: neither. At least, as far as my own experience goes. (Your own test results may vary. Semi-professional writer working on a closed computer. Do not try this at home, kids and other cautionary notes.)
 
I self-published my first novel, Gryphon’s Heir; its sequel’s status for the last two years has been: almost-done-but-temporarily-on-hiatus --- much to the annoyance of at least one faithful reader (my long-suffering, variably patient wife). I can truthfully tell you I began it with no character and no plot; it began with a situation, to wit:
 
Slightly more than halfway through my 35-year public school teaching career, I found myself at a school where I was desperately unhappy. Let’s throw at least a modicum of professionalism over the answer to your next question (“why?”) by simply saying the school’s administration and I had fundamental, irreconcilable differences of opinion over what constitutes a rigorously academic, well-organized, well-run school. It didn’t take long to realize I’d made a horrible mistake coming there. One evening, after a particularly frustrating day, I began writing out those frustrations, as Writers Are Wont To Do. (It was either that or turn to alcohol, and as a devoted, if rather harried, family man, that wasn’t really a viable option.)
 
Instead, I wrote of a dissatisfied, demoralized school teacher suddenly confronted by an ornately carved wooden door in a blank wall of his classroom. Impulsively, he steps through that door… to be greeted by a quietly comfortable, deserted room between worlds. After the visceral shock and very natural what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here reaction as he flees back to his own mortal and rather drab world, he ventures forth again when the door reappears, this time meeting the room’s occupant.
 
Now, at this point, I had about 10,000 words --- pretty good words, I thought as I reread them, false modesty be damned, even though the premise is not the most original idea ever --- and I had a decision to make: (a) chalk it all up as an interesting experience, carefully file it away, and forget the whole thing; or (b) keep going and see down precisely which rabbit hole it led, and how deep.
 
Well, you can probably guess which alternative I chose… yep, I wound up with a 186,000-word novel that was obviously only the beginning of a much longer epic fantasy. So again, there it is: I began with a situation. I’d no particular idea who this guy was (besides me, obviously) or what the plot was. But that, I found, was no problem. As I wrote more of his story, either he got immeasurably better relating his tale, or I got immeasurably better hearing what he had to say --- probably a mix of the two --- and we had ourselves a story. Quite a good one, if I say so myself.
 
The sequel --- currently around 178,000 words and change --- simply takes up where the first left off. But a funny thing happened on the way to the epilogue, as they say: a couple of years ago, I envisioned another situation: lying in a bed in a castle, ill almost to the point of death, nursed back to health. (Not autobiographical this time, thank goodness.) I wrote it; felt compelled to write it. And then, as before, had to discover several things: who was this person? (Turns out she’s a feisty 19-year-old named Areellan… which, I must say, is an interesting challenge for a male of a certain age to write.) What’s she doing? Why should we take note of her? And so on. I don’t worry about plot or trying to chart things out; as before, I’m quite good listening to her while she tells her tale, and she’s generally quite good filling me in on details. Trying to dictate actions to her is pointless; she refuses to do what I tell her to do, insisting on following her own path. But it’s a joyous journey, nevertheless.
 
And thereby, as Will says, hangs a tale.
 
 

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Around the World in 80 Chapters...

6/27/2022

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It’s true confession time, folks. A thing I have rarely shared with anyone. But, at long last, I felt it was time to come clean and make an astonishing revelation. Are you ready? Sitting down, not holding any hot beverage that could spill and cause injury when you involuntarily gasp and leap out of your chair at my news? Okay, then… here it is:
 
I loved the voluminous appendices to The Lord of the Rings (LOTR). Every. Damned. Convoluted. One. Always have, always will. Even at the (ferociously precocious) tender age of 12, when I first read Professor T. (I know, right? Major revelation! Shocking! Bet you didn’t see that particular plot twist coming in my narrative.)
 
Okay, well, in reality, the idea of that being a major revelation --- at least, to anyone possessing the slightest acquaintance with me --- is laughable, not shocking at all. But I bring it up because it speaks to the idea of world-building, which some anonymous little gnome was inquiring about on my Twitter feed the other day, and I thought the idea worthy of exploration.
 
World-building --- which I define as the concept of crafting details about worlds we create, details which include people, places, events, etc. --- isn’t just confined to the fantasy genre, though that’s where it tends to get most of its press, both positive and negative. Mystery writers populate their worlds with the aforementioned details. So do horror writers. In fact, so do writers of just about every genre. But world-building seems to have a rep nowadays which is often most politely described as dubious, especially in a society as obsessed with hurry as ours. I see editors constantly exhorting writers to ruthlessly cut every detail except those absolutely essential to the story, and to that, I say, “Whoa, folks. Throttle back and let’s just think this through a minute.” I mean, look how Peter Jackson cut out the entire Bombadil sequence from LOTR’s film version, AND the scouring of The Shire. Big Mistakes, Pete. Big. Huge, as a pretty woman once said.
 
I clearly recall the late Roger Ebert, film critic extraordinaire, describing Tolkien’s books as proceeding at the leisurely pace of a Victorian travelogue, employing a style testing our capacity for the declarative voice. Which isn’t always true, of course, but I see Ebert’s point --- though we must remember authors write for, and of, their times, and Western society in the 1940s-50s was vastly --- almost unrecognizably --- different than today in outlook, values, pace --- and, sadly, literacy.
 
But Stephen King makes the case for world-building (clearly but not intentionally) in the preface to his revised/expanded edition of The Stand. In it, he amusingly talks about how you could strip all the so-called ‘extraneous’ details (he calls them ‘chrome’) from the story of Hansel and Gretel… but the resultant limp excuse for a narrative wouldn’t be worth the bother of reading. It’s the details which make the story, he says… and I say, right on, Mr. K. Which brings us back to world-building.
 
Now, I totally get the fact not everyone reading LOTR is enamoured with, or even the slightest bit interested in, those mammoth appendices. That’s fine. They’re present for nerds like me who love a story so much (warts and all --- and in the interest of fairness, I’m prepared to admit even LOTR contains warts, yes, precious, it does) we want every imaginable snippet of obscure background information (things like the fact King Argle-Bargle XXXV or whomever, living hundreds of years before the freaking story even takes place, reigned from this date to that and died of dropsy), and yet comfortably removed from the main narrative for those preferring their literary experience to be… well, LOTR-lite. But what those appendices do is provide colour, chrome, structure, and logic to a completely imaginary world, a framework from which the author can hang the plot. They’re evidence the author has given some --- or a great deal of --- consideration to making their world real, populated by totally believable people, cultures, societies, etc., and in LOTR’s case, realistic languages, too --- though, to be fair, that was Professor T’s specialty.
 
So… without resorting to nearly book-length appendices, and in the interests of attempting to satisfy both ends of the literary spectrum I referenced (nerds-versus-lite-crowd), how do we strike a happy medium with world-building?
 
Well, the first and great commandment is: Avoid Information Dumps; they’re messy, pedantic, boring… and, frankly, folks, as far as putting info dumps in dialogue go: nope. Big Nope. People just don’t talk like that --- except tedious, know-it-all jerks who love to hear the sound of their own voices, jerks we either tune out or smite and banish.
 
The second commandment is like unto the first: Don’t Get Carried Away. Most people want to know the whys and wherefores of an issue or event --- try actually listening next time you’re engaged in a conversation with someone, and hopefully you’ll realize this --- but they don’t necessarily need or want Every. Last. Freaking. Detail. So, yeah, contrary to what some authors and editors maintain, backstories are important, and allowing some details of those backstories to seep into the narrative’s thread can be important, too… just not usually a character’s (or culture’s) complete life history and curriculum vitae.
 
One good way to weave world-building into your tale is to include a character who’s an outsider i.e. someone from a different country or culture. They can legitimately ask questions on behalf of themselves and the reader which other characters likely already know the answers to, but the explanations are a legitimate didactic device. The main thing to keep in mind is, any information the author provides which falls into the world-building category should be presented as a natural, logical part of the tale, not as some omniscient, pedantic, thundering Voice From On High. That bogs down the narrative’s pace… not to mention in this sad era filled with attention-deficit-plagued readers, it’ll lose you the ‘LOTR-lite’ crowd quicker than an elf can skewer an orc.
 
So build on, world-builders! You’ve nothing to lose but your vapid, chrome-less storylines.

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    D.R. Ranshaw's Blog

    Author of The Annals of Arrinor series.  Lover of great literature, fine wine, and chocolate. Not necessarily in that order.

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