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D.R. Ranshaw

D.R. RANSHAW

Strangers in Space

2/24/2020

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I’ve been contemplating other writing projects lately, even though I still have my magnum opus/epic Work In Progress (WIP) percolating away like a sweet-smelling pot of coffee. I’ve been toying with several concepts, some related to said WIP, some unrelated. And I think I might write my own Spitfire Book. Don’t you think that would be a great idea?
 
Yeah, yeah, I see your befuddled expression, Constant Reader. So let me back things up a little for you: I was rummaging through my desk the other day (okay, excavating the archive) and came across the little gem in the picture above. And when I say little, I mean it: the paperback book measures all of three and a half by five inches.
 
I’ve had Strangers in Space (SIS) a very long time: the flyleaf informs me the story was printed in 1967, and nine-year-old me crudely printed my name and elementary school room number on the inside cover (room 7, apparently, in case you’re wondering… although exactly why I included this strangely random bit of information is lost to the mists of time). Spitfire Books was evidently an imprint of William Collins and Sons, a well-known UK publisher. (My good friend, the Google, was remarkably/regrettably unhelpful in providing information regarding Spitfire Books. It kept wanting to refer me to sites concerning the legendary Second World War British fighter plane… except for one mercenary entry on good old Amazon, bless its black little greedy heart, which informed me I could have another copy of the book for the amazingly low, low price of only 5 pounds! --- which I thought perhaps a tad outrageous, given I purchased my copy lo, these many years ago, for the princely sum (at the time, and to a nine-year-old who was scraping by with an allowance of 25 cents a week) of 29 cents.
 
If memory serves (which it pretty much always does, he observed smugly), I bought SIS at my childhood local K-Mart --- located just across the street from the nearest public library. And I want to immediately reassure you, horrified Constant Reader, that K-Mart was not my destination of choice for book purchases. Never was. It’s been half a century since I last set foot in a K-Mart, but I still remember the unique kind of vibe to it --- sort of an unintended shrine to North American tacky consumerism (even to young me, discerning consumer that I was) --- and I vividly recall the place reeking of stale popcorn every time I passed its portals.
 
Knowing young me pretty well, even all these decades later, I can instantly tell you what would have attracted me to the book:
1)      It was obviously science fiction, and I was, even at that tender age, a voracious consumer of all things SF. I mean, as a genre, it was just sooooo… cool. (Okay, I may have been something of a nerd. We neither confirm nor deny.)
2)      The cover was pretty cool, too, even though the spaceship in the lower right corner bears a remarkable, more-than-passing resemblance (the kind that makes copyright lawyers glance up in sudden sharp suspicion) to the submarine Proteus, featured in the 1966 SF film Fantastic Voyage. (Which, yes, of course, I’d already seen. Work with me, here.) And regarding the book, yes, Virginia, it was neither the first nor the last time in my life I (literally) judged a book by its cover. You have, too, so wipe that sanctimonious look off your face.
3)      It was so small. It was so compact. It was… a book. Measuring three and a half by five. Neat! Way cool! I’d never run across anything like that. (We lived in such simple times, then. Sigh.)
 
By the way, I fully understand that items two and three are hardly very cerebral reasons. Well, maybe for a typical nine-year-old. But I Was No Typical Nine-Year-Old, he said with pride. No, sir! Today, I’d probably add a fourth reason that builds on the third but is ‘way more defensible. It relates to Lemony Snicket’s pithy little dictum that I like to think I live by (to my wife’s unending annoyance --- but she’s not an introvert): never trust anyone who has not brought a book with them. And SIS made it so easy to bring a book along! It fit into a pocket! How cool was that? And, obviously, I did take it many places, because, highly unusually for me --- Compleat Bibliophile that I am --- the binding on SIS is pretty trashed. (This was in the Dark Ages before cell phones and e-readers, remember. And yes, Virginia, there was such a time. How did you all manage? you gasp incredulously. Well, we just did --- admittedly, with extreme difficulty --- but it’s why us old people are all so twisted and bitter. Now you know. You’re welcome.)
 
What’s that? The story itself? Oh… yeah… it wasn’t too bad. I just reread it. I understand why it never won the Man Booker, but it was and is an entertaining read. (Actually, don’t get me started on the Man Booker. Lately, I’ve been reading several works either shortlisted or which won it, and I’ve been asking myself… why? Why did they win? Whose conception of entertaining literature --- great entertaining literature --- oh, never mind. That can be another day’s musings/rant.)
 
Anyway. Strangers in Space clocks in (by my unofficial count) at around 23,000 words --- novella country, which I used to define for my students as works ranging from 10,000-50,000 words. But it tells a complete story, and does so in an uncomplicated, no-nonsense, no-frills kind of way. I’ve been aware of the novella since Pontius was a Pilate, of course, but… Strangers in Space kind of opened my eyes, for reasons entirely different than the ones I bought it for, over fifty years ago. 25,000 words, I mused to myself. Or so. Might be an interesting challenge. Different from the Magnum Opus. (My first novel, Gryphon’s Heir, clocked in at 186,000-and-change words, and my current WIP, its sequel, presently sits at roughly 170,000 words-in-the-home-stretch-dontcha-know.) So… what kind of tale --- either set in the same world or another --- could I tell in 25,000 words? Might be an interesting challenge/change of pace/change of style, indeed.
 
Watch this (Strangers in) Space. Film at eleven.

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The Stories You'll Write

2/10/2020

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‘Way back, when Pontius was a Pilate, or thereabouts, Dr. Seuss wrote The Places You’ll Go. It was a chirpy, nurturing poem extolling great things we’re capable of, and while clearly written for younger readers embarking on life journeys --- it’s been, for a very long time, a staple of valedictory/commencement addresses, to the point where, now, it’s a tired cliché --- it’s actually applicable to any age. (As Jack Lewis said, “You are never too old to set another goal or dream a new dream.” Even at my cynical old age, I ardently believe that.) So, feeling reflective, I present a writer’s version of the poem. (Alas, if you seek pretty poetic doggerel a la Dr. Seuss… well, Constant Reader, I fear you’re in the wrong place --- at least, as far as this post is concerned. I have been known to wax poetic on these hallowed pages, but today, I’m sticking to prose. ‘Cause that’s what Tiggers do bestest.) So, five observations (I’d like to say truisms, but vestigial modesty prevents me) concerning The Craft:
 
Your stories will reflect you
 
You might be forgiven for thinking this obvious, but it’s amazing/disconcerting how many writers are in denial about it. But we bring to writing all our life experiences --- good, bad, indifferent, all rolled into one big, messy ball of angst --- and it’s naïve to think we don’t write through that lens. For example, especially when you begin writing, your protagonist will most likely contain much of you --- hopes, fears, likes/dislikes. (Later, with experience, you’ll be able to write main characters markedly different from you, although don’t be surprised when little elements of yourself still creep in.)
 
Your stories are idealizations, usually not grounded in reality
 
Before spluttering in righteous indignation about how oh, no, your stories are grittily realistic takes on the human condition, shut up and allow me to clarify.
 
Take violence, for example. (Please.) The human organism is remarkably fragile in many ways --- one well-placed sucker punch to the back of the head can cause someone to drop with sufficient force that their cranium hits the unforgiving earth with enough force to instantly, as Will so poetically says, shuffle off this mortal coil. (Not to mention the damage done to the perpetrator’s knuckles.) But written stories --- and especially films! --- generally portray violence on a scale nothing short of cartoonish, with characters bestowing/receiving catastrophic levels of violence that put the Roadrunner’s treatment of Wile E. Coyote to shame. Without so much as a broken nail afterwards.
 
(If you stoutly maintain you avoid that --- because, you see, your stories are set in deserted cafés between worlds, two sedentary characters placidly debating life’s callous meaning or lack thereof… well, then, I salute you, Godot. But don’t ask for whom the Iceman Cometh. Because he cometh for you. And that right soon.)
 
Or fantasy worlds… which are generally heavily romanticized depictions of life in Ye Olde Dark Ages… you know, the era Thomas Hobbes so succinctly summarized as “nasty, brutish and short.” It’s all very well to wistfully/romantically expostulate about the Tower of Ecthelion gleaming like a spike of silver in the first rays of the morning sun, or to wander through the Wilds for weeks on end with nary a hair ruffled or out of place save when it maketh the character concerned fetchingly handsome/beautiful… but life just ain’t like that, folks. You try not brushing your teeth, or changing your clothes, or showering, for several weeks, and then observe the effects on you and those around you. (Actually, on second thought, don’t. Just. Don’t.)
 
Plan your stories all you want --- but, like “real life,” don’t expect things to work out exactly as envisioned.
 
I grandly call this The Myth of Control, blaming it on our warped culture, which continually, tirelessly, shamelessly promotes it. The myth? You Are In Control. Well, here’s today’s Life Lesson, folks: you’re not. You control almost nothing. Not even your own body. You can make choices --- in fact, that’s really the only thing you do control (don’t underestimate its worth!) --- but even there, don’t assume everything’s going to go as planned. Because it never does. (Are we talking about writing, or life? Yes.)
 
(Actually, at least as far as writing goes, this isn’t a bad thing. It means you’re not documenting actions of lifeless puppets, but chronicling lives of real people. And that makes a world of difference.)
 
Your writing will only improve as/when you do it regularly. Additionally, you must read.
 
This should be obvious, too, but many writers cling to the illusion they can write deathless prose without practice --- and without studying how the greats do it.
 
Well, let me tell you something else: the Muse can be a fickle bitch at times. She won’t show up if you don’t… sometimes, not even then. (Oy.) But she’s far more inclined to drop by, nonchalantly throwing a pearl or two your way, if you’re honing your craft than if you’re watching endless cat videos on YouTube or trolling Twitter.
 
To be any good, your motives must be pure.
 
Isaac Asimov said, ““I write for the same reason I breathe --- because if I didn't, I would die.” That’s why we do it: because we have to. Because we want to. Not because we’re writing the next Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings (although most of us wouldn’t mind that.) As in any field of endeavour, you’ll only be great if you’re doing it for the right reasons.
 
Therefore…
 
No need to be upset about these truisms (he said, ultimately throwing modesty to the winds). For example, I write fantasy… cheerfully admitting my world of Arrinor is heavily romanticized… and my protagonist absorbs/dishes out inordinate amounts of violence at times. (Only to bad people who deserve it, though.) And, yeah, he’s much like me in many ways… and sometimes, when I tell him to do something, he considers momentarily before replying, “Nope” and going off to Do His Own Thing, leaving me open-mouthed in the dust.
 
In sum…
 
Just do what I do: acknowledge these observations as truisms… then don’t let them bother you, proceeding merrily on your way.

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    D.R. Ranshaw's Blog

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

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