My Fiction Site

In the right sidebar are clickable images of the covers of my novels, which will take you to their Amazon listings. Other posts will link to available free works – mostly shorter ones – and assorted thoughts on the writing of fiction.

I am available to book clubs, whether in person or via Zoom, upon request. For details, contact me at morelonhouse --at-- optonline --dot-- net

Friday, November 6, 2020

How It's Done

     You know the old saying:

If you can’t dazzle ‘em with brilliance,
Baffle ‘em with bullshit!

     ...and it is so. But from time to time, the brilliance and the bullshit make a matched set. Indeed, they complement one another so well that they raise the effect to a new height. Here’s an example:

     As the dessert forks were being licked clean, a breathless Earnest Redding burst into the room and raced to the captain’s side.
     “We…I…You’ll…” he gasped.
     “Easy Earnest, catch your breath, what’s wrong?”
     “Nothing’s wrong, Captain,” he managed after taking a gulp of air. “It’s what’s right! We’ve had a breakthrough.”
     “Really?” Sera asked. “Something beyond the information I provided?”
     “Oh yes, very much so, and no. Though we wouldn’t have been able to manage it without your graviton systems and all those research studies you provided, as well.”
     “So, what is it, then?” Terrance asked, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
     “We’ve discovered how to use the graviton emission systems that Captain Sera provided us with—emissions that work in matter repulsion and photon redirection in directional and focused beams and waves—to create a generalized and consistent suspension wave in the form of a massive halo upon which we were able to successfully place a McPherson generality focus layer tuned to a specific area of space, while altering the gravitational waves supporting it to form a hard shell of non-focused space underneath it.” He said without taking a single breath.
     “OK, I’m no slouch when it comes to physics, but you’ve gone levels beyond what I knew existed,” Tanis said.
     “It’s a stasis shield,” Sera said, feeling as though the breath had been sucked from her. “He figured out how to make a gods damned stasis shield.”

     [From Malorie Cooper’s Destiny Lost, the first volume of her Orion War series.]

     In a way, the above is about characterization. Earnest Redding, the out-of-breath figure who delivered that ultra-technical soliloquy – and don’t bother yourself about the details; it’s all the sort of ersatz physics you’ll encounter in any science fiction novel – is supposed to be a genius’s genius; say, about as smart as your humble Curmudgeon (:-). To have him rush pell-mell into a formal dinner and deliver such a statement, in an obviously high state of triumphant emotion, is absolutely characteristic of such a man / mind. It’s a beautiful example of how to use a character’s behavior to depict him as what he’s supposed to be.

     Cooper’s Orion War series is rendered in such vivid tones that one who appreciates complex plotting and good characterization can only applaud. Yes, there are legions of larger-than-life / too-good-or-bad-to-be-true characters, but the opus requires exactly such figures to navigate its vermiculations and achieve its conclusion. It’s replete with dazzling bullshit of the highest quality. Recommended!

Wednesday, October 7, 2020

Money Flow And Its Traducers

     Remember what I said about money flowing first and foremost to the writer?

     One of the things my first agent told me, when I set out to market my first novel, was to beware the scam artists. New writers, excited about their creation and full of hope for its prospects, are unusually vulnerable to scamsters. I, being a callow youth of only 44 – Ah! Those golden days before hypertension, prostatitis, and type 2 diabetes! – was uncertain what would constitute “bewaring” them. The first step would be recognizing a scam artist’s entreaty for what it is. So I asked around: How does one distinguish the scamsters from all others with reasonable reliability? She gave me a simple touchstone:

If he wants you to pay him up front, before you see any revenue, he’s a scam artist.
“Money,” she said, “should flow to you before it flows from you. The scam artist will promise you the sun, the moon, and the stars if you’ll just purchase his promotional efforts at this really, really low rate – ‘because this book has such potential.’ I know you’re smart, Fran. But don’t imagine you have a more discriminating eye or ear than that. Decline politely and walk away quickly.”

     This is important – nay, critical! — counsel that every new writer should receive. Moreover, it covers approaches to groping for the writer’s wallet that aren’t of the traditional or “push” variety. As it happens, I stumbled over one just this morning:

     Now, these two might have useful advice to convey about marketing indie fiction. However, a glance at their published works suggests that they haven’t had much success of their own, so the notion that they’re well qualified to instruct the rest of us strikes me as dubious. Moreover:

  • Their book is published by “Peschel Press,”
  • It’s available solely as a paperback,
  • The price is $19.95.

     That’s a lot of money for a 282 page self-published paperback from “authorities” on developing a career as an indie writer. Granted, it’s less than what Kirkus Reviews or Goodreads demand for their dithyrambs, but I’d still want more substantiation about the authors’ fitness to advise the rest of us. Among other things, shelf space for physical volumes is rather scarce here.

     Use your own judgment. Mine says walk away quickly.

Tuesday, September 29, 2020

Post Partum

     Here I am again, having completed (at long last) the novel-in-progress and waiting for my test reader and cover artist to report back. It’s a difficult period in any novelist’s life: he can’t go forward while his thoughts are wrapped around the book he just finished, and he can’t go backward with the revisions he’s already thought of until the others involved have registered their various contributions. That’s me, just now, on this 29th of September in the Year of Our Lord 2020...and dear Lord, what a year it’s been.

     So, as I’m at a low ebb, here are a few semi-connected thoughts about the adventure just behind me: what I set out to do, what I wound up doing instead, and what I’ve learned from it.


     Back in the mid-Nineties, when I first decided to try my hand at a story of novel length, I had a clean sheet of paper before me: no obligatory setting, no required characters, no mandatory theme, and no prescribed genre. I was free to imagine, and to concoct, in whatever way I pleased, for my idiom was as yet undefined.

     As a reader my favorite genres have always been the speculative ones: science fiction, fantasy, and horror. I was confident that they would be the ones my stories would occupy, as well. But much to my surprise, I didn’t start out that way.

     The first requirement of any storyteller is a mating between characters and crises: people upon whom to impose problems they must solve, or at least cope with. I developed a bunch of attractive character sketches almost by accident – I still wonder from time to time where those fictional figures really came from – and immediately found ways to cast them into conflict with one another.

     But characters don’t struggle with their problems and one another in some sort of white space separate from all else; at least, mine don’t. They need a place to be. I had to pick a place, or conceive of one, that would provide a suitable stage on which to act out their destinies. Thus was born Onteora County, New York: that fabled land of heroes and geniuses who sniff at the merely difficult and sneer at the all but impossible. Nestled safely within the part of New York State that virtually no one who doesn’t live there is familiar with, it has proved a fertile field in which to plant the improbable figures I like to write about.

     Fertile...and damned near inescapable. Of the sixteen full-length novels I’ve written to date, only four have stayed completely outside Onteora County: three far-future science fiction novels and one magic-based high fantasy. The others have wound up there regardless of where they started or where I wanted to put them. Worse, the characters from my other Onteora Canon novels keep insinuating themselves into my new fictions. I’ve been unable to keep them out without killing them off...and in some cases even that expedient failed me.

     A recent short story of mine, “Sweet Things,” starts in Hamilton (a real place) and swiftly moves to Onteora. Because the readers of Liberty’s Torch praised it fulsomely, I started to toy with the possibility of developing a novel from it. My short romance Love in the Time of Cinema had proved popular, so I adopted the general approach I took in that novel for the new one, which I’ve titled Love in the Time of Capitalism.

     And by jingo, it happened again! Characters from just about every other Onteora Canon novel started insisting that they belonged in this new one. I managed to fit a few new faces into the tale, but the “old Onteora crew” is there in force. Hopefully the reader will find their contributions to be positive ones.


     I intended Love in the Time of Capitalism to be a romance / love story. Yes, that element in present, but it’s not alone. There’s music. There’s technology. There’s political intrigue. There’s even a spot of warfare. It’s a stew of many ingredients...possibly too many.

     While my lovers Gail and Evan are involved in all of it, I strained throughout the composition to keep their deep involvement with one another at the heart of the tale. Still, rather than a feel-good romance of the sort I’d initially envisioned, it seems I’ve produced a hybrid of about four different genres: romance, musical fantasy, near-future science fiction, and political thriller.

     I don’t feel an urge to go back and “straighten it out.” I plan to publish it essentially as it is. There are a few elements I’ve decided need buttressing, but not to the extent of “de-hybridizing” the book as it stands. I look forward to hearing what its readers will think of it.


     The remarkable thing about novelism (hey, if journalists practice journalism, why can’t novelists practice novelism?) is how little of one’s initial plan actually “survives contact with the enemy” – i.e., the actual construction of the story. My initial plan, whether expressed as an outline or a detailed synopsis, turns out to be mostly a way to recognize how little I really knew about my characters and their trials when I set out. It’s been that way through sixteen novels, and probably will remain so through however many more I produce. The other novelists with whom I occasionally swap thoughts report essentially the same experiences.

     However, that’s not a reason not to produce the initial outline / synopsis. If it weren’t for that planning document, I don’t think I could get started, much less produce something coherent. I think this has some connection to Mike Gancarz’s sermon about the Three Systems of Man, which he first related in his little book The UNIX Philosophy. My copy, alas, seems to have migrated to other hands.


     I have at least a few days of nervousness before me, wondering what my test readers will have to say about the book, and wondering what my cover artist, the estimable Cat Leonard of Adelaide, South Australia, will come up with for a front cover image. I’d like to be able to think about the next book, but I’m too close to this one to think of anything else. That condition will persist until the thing is burnished, proofread, equipped with a cover and released.

     I can’t help but wonder how many more books I have in me. I’m old, and not in the best of health. But storytelling is an addiction, a tough one to shake. And I imagine that those damned Onteora characters, settings, and institutions will continue to have their way with me. At least, they have so far.

Saturday, September 12, 2020

At The Djinni Bar

     [A short, fanciful story. I once asked a college class whether any of the students there had ever been interested in magic. One young woman raised her hand, somewhat timidly. I reassured her that there was no need to be embarrassed about it, for magic, if it really worked, would be a low-effort way to get or do a lot of things that take tremendous effort as matters stand. So also with the existence of djinni – “genies” in the American idiom. Such supernatural beings would make many things possible that aren’t today...but who’s to say whether they would be benevolently disposed towards us? -- FWP]


     “Khalid!” I cried as he entered the Ajedrez. “Haven’t seen you in an eon. Come sit and hoist a couple with me.” I signaled to the bartender. “Two more Omnipotence Punches, please.” And of course they appeared instantly before us as Khalid squatted on the stool next to mine. He nodded thanks, immediately downed half of his drink, and set it back down looking morose.

     His appearance took me aback. Khalid is lauded among the djinni for his upbeat, can-do attitude – and what he can do in the way of frustrating a human wisher is legendary. Many a human whose wishes Khalid has granted exactly as stated has wished afterward, when thanks to his own avarice all was irretrievably lost, that he had never found Khalid’s lamp. I’d studied his greatest feats with a combination of worshipful admiration and hope that I might someday be half as ingenious.

     Yet here he was looking as if someone had hexed his houris.

     I laid a hand on his shoulder. “What’s troubling you, my friend and mentor?”

     He scowled, finished his drink, and signaled to the bartender for another. The empty glass vanished and a new, full one appeared in its place. The Ajedrez is famous for its customer service.

     “I’ve been defeated,” he grumped.

     “What? How?”

     “I had to grant a human three wishes and couldn’t outthink the guy on any of them!”

     I sat back, appalled. Khalid’s been beaten on one wish before—hey, we all have—but on all three? Never before. Not him! It was news that shouldn’t be allowed to get around among the humans.

     I could see that he needed to vent, so I said, very softly, “Would you like to talk about it?”

     “Like?” he said. “Gehenna, no. But I suppose I should. Especially if the way he outfoxed me should get into general circulation.” He turned and looked frankly at me. “What human characteristic do we exploit?”

     I shrugged. “Their greed, of course. Our power seems to promise them the sun, the moon, and the stars, at no cost and no effort.”

     He nodded. “So we encourage them to think big. Ask for whatever you’ve been lusting after. The huge fortune. The godlike body. The movie star lover. Then we exploit the margins they leave unspecified to frustrate them.”

     “It’s our function in the scheme of things,” I said. “It teaches them moderation and realism—that their dreams are bigger than their pockets. What they think they want is something no one can have without consequences that render it worthless.”

     “Yeah,” he said. “And the three-wish deal gives them just enough rope to hang themselves with their own cupidity. It’s supposed to, anyway.” Animation flooded into his face. “But this one...Najib, I couldn’t tempt him!

     I couldn’t quite believe what I had heard. “You were found by a human who had no greed in him? None at all?”

     He nodded. “None that I could exploit within the conditions of the three wish system. Maybe if I’d been able to offer him a fourth one...but that’s been forbidden ever since the invention of the antique brass oil lamp.”

     I waited in silence, desperate to hear everything, but I knew that Khalid had to tell the tale at his own pace. Presently he sipped at his second drink, set it down, and began.

     “When he rubbed my lamp and I saw him for the first time, I thought I’d bagged a prize,” he said. “You’d have thought so too. Short, scrawny, and with a cleft palate. He could barely stand up straight, and when he did he barely came up to my waist. His arms and legs were so spindly that they looked like a strong breeze might snap them. The cleft palate made him too unsightly for a woman to look on him with sincere affection, much less lust. From his appearance alone, I was certain he’d be the greediest specimen I’d ever encountered! It took all my strength not to cackle over him.”

     Other djinni had noticed that Khalid was holding forth and had clustered around us to listen. I nodded and gestured that he should continue.

     “I told him about the three wishes. He barely reacted. He said he was satisfied with his existence, that he couldn’t think of a thing to wish for.” He chuckled. “I’ve heard that sort of thing before, you know. It’s always been a pose before. Not this time.

     “So I told him that the three wishes could be saved for a later time, when he might perhaps think of something he wants but doesn’t have. He thought about it briefly,” Khalid said, “and the expression that bloomed on his face made me think that my moment had arrived. He said ‘No, I think I’d better use them at once.’

     “‘Very well, master,’ I said, “What is it that you wish?’

     “‘For my first wish,’ he said, ‘I wish that you relieve me of my tendency to pity myself for my lot in life, which I know to be a great fault in a man—but leave me unaltered in any other way.’

     “It took me aback,” Khalid said. “It was the first time anyone who’d found me had wished for an improvement in his character. Humans rarely doubt their own characters. They’re constructed so as to think themselves the standard, the expression of all that is right and worthy. I was so surprised that I granted his wish at once and without any distortion.

     “‘For my second wish,’ he said, ‘I wish that you relieve me of my ability to envy others who are more fortunate than I, for envy is both a sin in itself and the mother of many other sins—but leave me unaltered in any other way.’”

     It was too much. I gasped in horror. A human incapable of envy? What could djinni and demons do with a race so formed? “Did you honor that wish?” I murmured.

     “I was compelled to do so,” Khalid said. “He had struck twice against his own defects, and had fenced his wishes with exactly the right formula to prevent me from doing him any harm. So I gave him what he had wished for, and said ‘And your third wish?’

     “‘May I give that to my mother?’ he said.

     “‘Sadly you may not,’ I replied. ‘Your wishes are irrevocably yours, and cannot be transferred to another. Is there nothing else you would wish for?’

     “He lapsed into thought once more, and I became hopeful. He had frustrated me twice, but I was certain he could not do so a third time. So I waited, and eventually his expression brightened, and he said ‘Yes, I believe there is something more.’ I smiled and crossed my arms in our traditional fashion.

     “‘My mother is old,’ he said, ‘and has been much afflicted by chance. She is a widow, has little in this world, and only one child, who has always fallen short of her dreams: myself. If it is within your power, O djinn, would you please give my mother the son she has wished for all her life?’”

     The shock was almost unendurable. “Did the human know that we cannot create life, that we are restricted to altering that which is and nothing more?”

     Khalid shrugged. “I do not think so, Najib, but it does not matter. I had to grant his wish, and I did so. And before my eyes, he straightened, grew tall, became fit, trim, and handsome. A fine, straight specimen of young manhood. He could not believe what he had become through that third wish. He sang my praises most fulsomely and ran off to present himself to his mother, and I vanished back into my lamp.”

     The djinni gathered around us moaned in sympathy.

     “Let us pray,” I said, “that this episode went unwitnessed, and that no tale of it will ever be told among humans or demons.”

     “If the Lord of All should deign to hear the prayers of djinni,” he said.

     “Do you think so?” I said.

     “It is uncertain.” He finished his drink, nodded farewell, and left us behind to ponder and lament.

==<O>==

     Copyright © 2020 Francis W. Porretto. All Rights Reserved Worldwide.

Friday, September 4, 2020

The Direction Of The Money Flow

     One of the things my first agent told me, when I set out to market my first novel, was to beware the scam artists. New writers, excited about their creation and full of hope for its prospects, are unusually vulnerable to scamsters. I, being a callow youth of only 44 – Ah! Those golden days before hypertension, prostatitis, and type 2 diabetes! – was uncertain what would constitute “bewaring” them. The first step would be recognizing a scam artist’s entreaty for what it is. So I asked around: How does one distinguish the scamsters from all others with reasonable reliability? She gave me a simple touchstone:

If he wants you to pay him up front, before you see any revenue, he’s a scam artist.

     “Money,” she said, “should flow to you before it flows from you. The scam artist will promise you the sun, the moon, and the stars if you’ll just purchase his promotional efforts at this really, really low rate – ‘because this book has such potential.’ I know you’re smart, Fran. But don’t imagine you have a more discriminating eye or ear than that. Decline politely and walk away quickly.”

     Words to live by, Gentle Reader. If you write – and these days, who doesn’t? – keep them close to your heart. It will reduce the likelihood that you’ll want to tear that organ out of your chest at some later date.

     Now, these days it’s very difficult for an indie writer to stand out from the crowd. It’s not enough to be good. It’s not enough to be original. It’s not enough to be devastatingly handsome, incomparably brilliant, incredibly witty and charming, and to have a huge...oh, never mind. So we’re all casting about, virtually all the time, for some way of getting attention for our books. And sometimes, the scamsters can seem really, really reasonable.

     So “follow the money.” Make sure it flows to you.


     All that having been said, I’ve occasionally succumbed to wishful thinking and speculated on a promotional technique. For example, I recently contracted for a review from Online Book Club, which appeared (prima facie) to be a legitimate organization. As I mentioned some weeks ago, their reviewer favored The Warm Lands with a positive review. I waited and watched to see whether there would be any impact on my sales...and there wasn’t. I resolved to chalk it up to experience and learn from it.

     But hark! What have I found in today’s email?

Hi!

This is Scott from OnlineBookClub.org. First, let me congratulate on the perfect 4/4 rating that your book earned from our professional review team. Our reviewers are very tough. Most books we review do not get a full 4/4 rating. So you have achieved something genuinely impressive. You should definitely be proud.

As a result, I have issued a special discount on the price of a Book of the Day promotion for your book due to the amazing rating. Book of the Day is an incredible proven way to drastically boost the sales of a book. You can see the full details, including the specially discounted price, all with the link below:

The Warm Lands -
https://forums.onlinebookclub.org/shelves/promo-botd.php?book=447450

---

Have a book not reviewed yet that you want to make Book of the Day? Submit it for review first at:

https://onlinebookclub.org/submit-book.php

View the full advertising options for all of your books at:

https://forums.onlinebookclub.org/authors/social-ads.php

If you have any questions at all or need help with anything, please reply to this email. We are happy to help!

Thank you,
Scott
OnlineBookClub.org

     The first red flag was that my name appears nowhere in the email. The second was the sop to my vanity. So, having already spent a considerable sum on their review, it occurred to me immediately that it would be prudent to check the checkable factual assertion:

     Our reviewers are very tough. Most books we review do not get a full 4/4 rating.

     Izzat so? Well, let’s see about that, shall we?

     Now that Reviews page changes with the passage of time, so your assessment might not match mine. But when I pulled it up this morning, of the 571 reviews on that page, 324 displayed a 4 out of 4 rating. That’s 56.7%, which doesn’t affirm the scarcity of 4 out of 4 reviews; rather the reverse. Given that result, how much credence would you put in the claim that “Book of the Day is an incredible proven way to drastically boost the sales of a book” -- ?

     The discounted price of their “Book of the Day” promotion is $598. So I shall decline to be mulcted further.

     Online Book Club might not be a “pure” scam, but by the available evidence, its claims are hollow at best. Beware, Gentle Readers who write! Let my experience be a protective lesson to you.

Wednesday, September 2, 2020

The Last Lap

     I set out to write a short romance, something like my popular Love in the Time of Cinema. I had my Marquee characters. I had my setting – Onteora County, New York; where else? I even had a plot line, and I had solemnly sworn to follow it faithfully. I looked forward to a quick development and an early summer release.

     Then I started having ideas.

     I don’t recall who, but some chess grandmaster long dead once quipped that “When you don’t know what to do, wait for your opponent to get an idea – it’s sure to be wrong!” He might not have been serious...but he spoke the truth. Ideas, you see, are dangerous. Yes, they’re useful as well – sometimes. But an idea that tempts you to rip up several months of work and redo it completely should be regarded with maximum skepticism.

     I tend to get ideas of that sort, ironically enough, when I’ve reached the point from which I’m able to see the goal I’ve sought. One such idea caused me to delay the completion of a novel by several years. Please don’t ask which one; the answer would do you no good and might even upset you. The experience taught me to do something I’d long known about in another context:

     Write it down and go back to what you were doing.

     The “plains of hesitation” quote above is a good one. When the finish line is in sight, don’t pause for a quick change of costume. Don’t stop to contemplate the beauty of the tableau. Don’t call your companions together for a pre-celebration. Cross it. As the Philosopher-King of the Bronx once said, “It ain’t over till it’s over.”

     And watch out for the ideas. When you’ve begun the last lap of the journey, they become almost certainly destructive: Satan whispering in your ear. If you’d like to save an idea for later consideration, write it down. Have a pen and notebook handy for the purpose. (In my experience, ideas you don’t intend to use at once are better saved on paper than in your computer. Writing them down gives them a serious feel. Besides, you could easily misplace a short digital document. It’s happened to me often enough.)

     This most recent intrusion of an idea stopped me for a while. It was seductive in that it was quasi-relevant to the tale I was writing and was connected to other things I’d intended to write...other ideas. And it very nearly derailed me from my romance-under-construction.

     A confession: I did use part of it. And it has cost me some time and effort in backtracking through my manuscript, shoring up passages here and there to provide the required support. I don’t think it’s ruined the tale, though it has compelled me to think of the novel as something other than a pure romance. The readers, whoever and how many they prove to be, will get the last word on that.

     But do watch out for those ideas.

Monday, August 31, 2020

The Pressure Must Be Irresistible

     There are days...sometimes one after another...oh Good Lord, how many days there are!...when my storyteller side cringes in despair. The way writers buckle to trends! The way they praise their own work! The way they bandwagon! But I suppose I should be more specific.

     You’ve heard me rant and rave about the prevalence of the unending series several times before this. You’ve heard me petition the heavens for a few decently plotted, characterized, and written novels that don’t have twenty-three sequels (with more in the offing). You’ve heard me fulminate when I’ve reached the end of a novel whose promo blurb gave no warning about being the first volume in a series...only to discover that that was what it was. So I shan’t assault your eyes with further harangues of that sort.

     When I go shopping for fresh reading material – a daily event here at the Fortress – I have my antennae fully extended for all the known warning signs. It takes a strong sense of the original, unique, and exemplary to get me to start reading a series, when I know that that’s what lies before me. Even then, the odds tick upward only slightly – perhaps slightly more if the first volume is a freebie.

     But what do I find this morning?

     The book has as its kinda-sorta subtitle:

(A Standalone Sci-Fi Thriller)

     Glory be to God! Someone out there is thinking of us poor, series-addled readers who want a few stories that actually end! Though I’d never heard of author Jasper T. Scott, I figured I’d give it a try. I’ll let you know if it’s any good.

     Yet there is irony in store, Gentle Reader. For the book has a kinda-sorta sub-sub-title:

(Scott Standalones Book 1)

     So Mr. Scott has grouped his standalone novels into a kinda-sorta series!

     Oh! The pain, the pain...

Wednesday, August 19, 2020

Writer Reviewing Other Writer’s Books Experiences Great Consternation

     (Film at eleven!)

     Seriously, as a writer with nearly three decades of experience under my belt, it can be very difficult to assess another writer’s work in a fair and evenhanded manner. After all, most readers are not writers themselves – yea verily, even today – and are mainly interested in learning whether they would be likely to enjoy the book in question. If your review doesn’t give them a sense for that, it’s essentially pointless.

     But readers who write approach others’ fiction with a different perspective. Its essence is well expressed in this piece by Writing Observer:

     When a writer reads someone else’s work, unless they are one of the lucky few that can switch off that part of their brain at will, they are simultaneously analyzing the text flowing beneath their eyes. We can’t help it — like any other professional, we are constantly looking for help with our own efforts. What doesn’t work here, and how do I avoid it? What is a beautiful, shiny piece of prose, or scene, or entire chapter, and how do I make mine look so good?

     It’s an uncomfortable feeling — and sometimes a dangerous one. We can lose sight of the forest for the trees, people. We have to cultivate an ability to step back and look at the work as a whole — that is what makes a good (or bad) piece of work, not a few blemishes or a few shining passages. The whole work is what matters in the end...

     A writer who undertakes to review is obliged to remember that any writers who read his review will be heavily outnumbered by ordinary readers looking for a few hours’ entertainment. Any nitpicking he might express to himself about the book in question should be downplayed in favor of an emphasis on the book’s entertainment value.

     An example: Back when Tom Clancy was churning out the techno-thrillers, I purchased, read, and greatly enjoyed virtually all of them. Yet Clancy’s prose is a study in a wide variety of errors young writers are counseled to avoid. Some of those errors are serious: for example, ambiguity of viewpoint and head-hopping in mid-scene. Others are minor glitches of phrasing and style that a multitude of other writers – far less gifted than Clancy at crafting and narrating a compelling story – also commit. But the writer-who-reads and notices them can still be enthralled by the storytelling. If he chooses to review, he’s ethically obliged to keep that uppermost in mind.

     And so we come to my episode of consternation.


     I receive a daily email from Freebooksy that reports on the day’s free-eBook promotions. Now and then I pick up a book from that email. I last did so about a week ago: Emergence, by Liberty Speidel.

     The nitpicky, Uber-perfectionist lobe of my brain was in overdrive from the very first page. There were a lot of stylistic glitches. There was also a revelation that should have occurred but didn’t, as I would find out much later. Main character Darby was portrayed in a fashion that struck me as ambivalent: equally likely to strike a reader as sympathetic or unsympathetic. But the central premises are original, especially considering that the tale is part of the “superheroes” genre, and the plot moved me smartly along. So when I finished Emergence, I went on to Retaliation,the next book in the series.

     Well, the stylistic glitches didn’t trail off. If anything, they increased in frequency. Darby’s characterization continued to be jagged, not always effectively sympathetic. I also deemed one of Speidel’s “structural” choices to be dubious. But there was a sense of freshness about the story’s sociopolitical backdrop and its most important plot motifs. When I finished it, I went directly on to book three, Capitulation.

     I could go on in this vein through books three, four (Omission), and five (Escalation). There were more errors of the sort in the previous books, plus lots of loose ends, and at least one continuity error of note. Perhaps worst, main character Darby was ever more portrayed as headstrong, disrespectful of higher authority and heedless of others’ greater experience, and prone to acting without thinking or pondering the probable consequences – i.e., who struck me as a brat who should be sent to her room without her dinner or cell phone.

     By now you must have the idea. As much as the writer in me wanted to take Speidel across my knee and spank her soundly for her myriad errors of craft, she’d invented a setting of considerable originality, had made use of motifs that were either inherently original or original as employed, and had kept the stories moving forward at a good tempo. How to review the series?

     Great God in heaven! My writerly side kept wanting to chastise Speidel. But I’d read all five books, end to end, without pausing. To write a nitpicky, hypercritical review, as if I were critiquing my own fiction, would unfairly shortchange the entertainment value of the books. Yet not to mention the flaws at all would grate severely against the part of me that values craft and precision in writing.


     I’m still dithering. Perhaps the only place I’ll mention my consternation is right here. (Or at my op-ed site, where this will be cross-posted.)

     I wrote some time ago about the importance of being reasonable in one’s expectations of an indie writer, especially a relatively inexperienced one. I still feel that way. So if and when I get around to actually posting a review of Speidel’s “Darby Shaw” series, I’ll have to rein in the impulse to harp on what I saw as failings of craft and emphasize the entertainment value the series offers. Ordinary Christian charity would dictate that course. For now, the above emission of steam should bring the pressure down to a manageable level.

Thursday, August 13, 2020

Because We All Need A Little Catharsis Now And Then

     If you’re familiar with Mervyn Peake’s neglected fantasy trilogy Gormenghast, you’ll know the story of Fuchsia, the daughter of Lord Sepulchrave Groan, 76th Earl of the isolated community of Gormenghast. Fuchsia begins the story as an immature yet sensitive child, isolated by her position and her personality, who finds her deepest solace in dreams. As her young brother Titus, who is destined to occupy the Earldom, ages toward maturity, her isolation deepens, and she spends ever more time in the pursuit of love and acceptance through dreams and reverie.

     Fuchsia is perhaps classic fantasy’s most pathetic character: incapable of fulfillment until the instant of her accidental death. Yet it is her very insufficiency that makes her appealing. As the daughter of a noble house whose powers pass through primogeniture to the oldest male descendant of the expired Earl, she is of no use to the house except as a means by which to form a useful alliance through a politically advantageous marriage – something impossible to the completely isolated House of Groan.

     Readers have lamented and dreamed alongside Fuchsia for decades. But John Ford and Richard Hudson of the Strawbs were the first to immortalize her in song. Immerse yourself in her sorrows now, along with some beautiful images, woven into a compelling pastiche.

A child denied all love can't weep
But bravely bears her life alone
So Fuchsia as you try to sleep
You dream of friends you've never known

In troubled years when no one cared
You searched for comfort everywhere
For heavy burdens never shared
Became too much for one to bear

So much to give, but those who live
Don't know of you...
Your fantasy of love to be...
Cannot come true:
Oh Lady Fuchsia
Oh Lady Fuchsia

Now poised above the castle walls
You look your last on lonely skies
Night owls pray for you as they call
Returning ere the dawn shall rise

Your loveless life has led you here...
Not knowing why
Your troubled mind's no longer clear...
To live or die:
Oh Lady Fuchsia
Oh Lady Fuchsia
Oh Lady Fuchsia
Oh Lady Fuchsia

Sunday, August 9, 2020

Pursuing The Heights...Or Scorning Them?

     There are days I have to withhold myself from others. Not to do so would be dangerous – to the others, not to me. Such occasions are triggered by a variety of stimuli. Blame it on my Irish temper, if you like. It’s integral to me, and I’ve had no luck taming it.

     Today was such a day. The stimulus was a couple of comments at another site which I will forbear to specify. It involved a conversation among writers, including several too cowardly to give their real names. In the course of that conversation, certain things were said that lit my boilers and turned the flame up to its maximum.

     What was said that redlined my tachometer, you ask? First, this: that trying to make your novel as good as it can possibly be, as close to perfect as you can bring it, is a waste of the author’s time.

     Need I explain why that flicked me on the raw?

     No, I didn’t think so.


     I’m a (retired) engineer. If there’s any characteristic that unites all engineers everywhere, it would be this one: We want our designs to be perfect.

     I can’t bring myself to submit anything to anyone if I can still detect a flaw in it. I was that way as a working engineer, and I’m that way as a writer of fiction. I love my (imagined) readers too much to subject them to anything that isn’t the very best I can make it. But while that would be enough reason to strive for perfection, there’s more involved.

     It involves my opinion of myself as a responsible artist. A responsible sculptor wouldn’t leave a few extraneous stone chips on his statue. A responsible painter wouldn’t fail to correct for errant brush strokes, as far as possible. A responsible musician wouldn’t fail to correct – or to redo entirely –a recording that was stippled with errors.

     A responsible writer takes comparable pains. He reviews his work with a critical eye. If possible, he enlists others in the effort. He corrects any flaws he can detect before he presents his tale to his readership. To do less is to say “This doesn’t matter that much.”

     But it does matter that much, damn it all! It will bear my name. It will be taken as representative of the larger body of my work. And if my readers can find fault with it, they’ll be that much less inclined to read other things I’ve written. Some subset of them will dismiss me as a second rate writer.

     I can’t bear the thought, much less allow the reality. So I labor to the utmost to seine out any ambiguities of plot or viewpoint, any awkward phrasings, and (of course) any low-level errors of grammar, spelling, or punctuation that I can find in my manuscripts before I release them to the world. I regard it as an ethical obligation, to say nothing of the impact on the maintenance and enlargement of my readership.

     But an unnamed commenter who goes by an anonymizing moniker has called it a waste of time. Perhaps his / her / its anonymity is for the best.


     The above was bad enough. There was worse.

     Another anonymous commenter at the aforementioned site said, in effect, that he / she / it didn’t want thematic content. If that’s not clear, here’s a paraphrase of the comment:

     Stories with serious themes turn me off. I avoid books that I “should” read. I seek to escape reality for a while, nothing more.

     Let’s see, now: A story that lacks a theme:

  • Could involve protagonists and antagonists that are morally indistinguishable;
  • Could ignore the nature and implications of sentience and causality;
  • Could award the palm of victory to an evil participant.

     Why would anyone read such a thing? For the vampires and werewolves, the elves and wizards, the ray guns and rocket ships? It would have no connection to life as we know it: a world in which limited beings with individual abilities and motivations must strive against all manner of opposition to fulfill or defend their values, while simultaneously straining to respect the moral and ethical constraints our nature lays upon us. There would be no point to such a story. It would be akin to watching a wrestling match between unnamed, interchangeable contestants.

     The notion is so offensive that words fail me. The lowest, cheapest hackwork fiction at least nods toward some sort of theme. Pick up any Harlequin Silhouette romance. The least engaging of them makes an effort to say something about the nature of our world and the people in it.

     I must assume that the commenter cited above is completely unconscious of what makes a story worth his / her / its time, and is unaware of what he / she / it really enjoys about the tales he / she / it finds enjoyable.


     There’s no risk to me in encountering such bilge, of course. I’ll do as I think best regardless of anyone’s contrary opinion. But younger writers, not yet completely formed and ready to fly, could be affected by such emissions. That disturbs me.

     Writing fiction is a serious business. Whether or not he’s aware of it – whether or not he admits it to himself – what a writer writes will help to mold his readers’ diction, knowledge, attitudes, and convictions. He can’t avoid it. To be blasé about the quality and content of his work is shameful.

     Yes, I know mine is a minor voice. But ought my sentiments to be dismissed, merely because I have a tiny readership?

Thursday, August 6, 2020

Using The Great Stories

     Among the phenomena that irritate me most, in these days when everyone with a word processor and an Internet connection can call himself a writer, is the blatant theft of tales told by other, better writers. Such thefts aren’t always outright plagiarisms, though some of that takes place, too. More often, they take the form of setting and motif appropriations: the use of places and characters (or character categories) made famous by other writers in their best known, best loved works.

     The targets for such appropriations are usually the very best fiction writers in the English language. Of course! If you’re going to steal, why limit yourself to what you could pilfer at a 7-11? So we see what are often called “imitations” of Heinlein, Asimov, Tolkien, Stephen King, and other great storytellers of years past: mediocre stories that exploit the creations of those writers’ imaginations.

     Why would an aspiring writer do such a thing? Lack of imagination alone doesn’t strike me as a satisfactory explanation. No one wants to be known as an unimaginative petty thief, and the “serial numbers” on such a story can’t be adequately “filed off.” It seems more likely that the aspirant is entranced by the tales he chooses to mimic. He might be fully aware that he lacks the power to concoct something nearly as good, and has resolved to settle for some adulatory fingerpainting along the margins.

     Deplorable and sad. Yet the notion of a “subcreation,” composed as a “homage” to the great work of another creator, has considerable legitimacy. It can be done in an acceptable way, and I’m here to tell you how to do it.


     The prog-rock band Glass Hammer, headquartered in Chattanooga, Tennessee (is that enough doubled letters for you?), includes in its oeuvre works that constitute subcreations beneath the expansive umbrella provided by J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien’s fantasy has inspired a huge number of imitators, but few have been respectful enough to do what Steve Babb and Fred Schendel of Glass Hammer have done. In their CD Journey of the Dunadan, they make use of an “unexplored space” Tolkien left in his epic fantasy: the wanderings of Aragorn and his yearnings for Arwen Evenstar, daughter of Elrond Halfelven and fairest of all the children of the Eldar race. This tale weaves artfully among the threads of Tolkien’s well known adventure, in such a fashion that it enhances the greater saga without contradicting or distorting it.

     That’s how it should be done. If a creator has left such an unexplored space, and if a story can be inserted into that space that neither violates nor distorts the original tale, it can stand as a valid subcreation with its own value. As the overwhelming majority of fantasies written since The Lord of the Rings borrow from it to some degree, Journey of the Dunadan constitutes a pattern to be followed by others equally respectful of Tolkien’s prerogatives.


     There’s another way to exploit an earlier creation: the “what happened next?” approach. If the original creator completes his tale and leaves the future events in the characters’ lives open, a capable writer can take up the threads from there – once again, assuming he can do so without violating or distorting the original. The late Robert B. Parker, a mighty storyteller in his own right, did this in his novel Perchance to Dream, which Parker bills as a sequel to Raymond Chandler’s magnum opus The Big Sleep. Parker adapts himself smoothly to Chandler’s “L.A. noire” style and portrays detective Philip Marlowe in this follow-on adventure in a fashion Chandler would applaud. This sort of subcreation should only proceed with permission from the original creator (or his estate). If that can be secured, it’s a legitimate way to borrow from an earlier creator.


     Finally, a subcreation can be rooted in the great classical and pre-classical legends, or in a story from the Bible. E. William Brown’s novels of Daniel Black make use of several mythologies: Nordic, Greek, and Egyptian. He combines elements from those sagas into a brand new epic set in a world like our own, yet unlike it. Brown’s “Midgard” is a place where magic actually works – indeed, it’s the dominant force in all of society, including the societies of the gods. The epic is so convoluted that I could hardly do it justice in a squib here, so take my word for it: Brown has concocted an original and intriguing alternate universe in which to exploit those myths. (And nobody will be suing him for his borrowings!)

     If you’re going to reach into the Bible for some foundation stones, great care is required. You don’t want to offend anyone unintentionally; it wouldn’t be gentlemanly. As for risking God’s wrath, that’s even more serious. I’ve taken my fate in my hands on two occasions: my short stories Names and The Last Vigil. Two minor characters – one a complete fabrication, the other the Roman soldier Longinus who attended to Christ on the Cross – were my foci. As I could speak of them without contradicting or distorting the greatest story ever told, that of Jesus of Nazareth, the Son of God and Redeemer of Mankind, I felt I could get away with it. (I’ll find out for certain in the afterlife.)


     So: it can be done. Viewed apart from the attitude of the subcreator, the requirements are fairly simple. Yet in the final analysis it is the subcreator’s attitude that matters most. He must respect the earlier tale as something over which he has no rights whatsoever. Moreover, he must respect its creator in the fullest sense: as one who, having brought something original and striking into the world, deserves to be shown homage for it. He must not mock or deride that earlier artist with an attitude of “I’ll show him how it’s done.”

     Keep this in mind should you elect to travel the road of subcreation.

Thursday, July 23, 2020

When No Real Locale Will Serve

Stephen King has Castle Rock, Maine.
Scott Turow has Kindle County, Illinois.
William Faulkner had Yoknapatawpha County, Mississippi.
And I have Onteora County, New York.

     There are no such places, of course. Yet quite a lot of interesting stuff – headline-making, really – happens in each of them. I have no idea whether King, Turow, or Faulkner’s ghost is ever asked this, but one of the questions I get most frequently from readers of my fiction is “Why did you have to invent a fictional county to site your stories in?”

     Well, sometimes no real place will serve. Sometimes the general knowledge readers bring to the fiction they select is just too great – too likely to undermine what every storyteller must get from his readers: the willing suspension of disbelief. I know I’d be lost without it, because of the strangeness of my tales and the larger-than-life heroes I prefer to depict.

     It’s best to avoid the use of real places if your aim is to speak of world-class intellects and men of unprecedented moral courage. There’s a shortage of both varieties. The problem intensifies if you intend to create a whole lot of them – which I did.

     In part this is an aspect of the prevailing cynicism: the “people just aren’t like that” / “no real person would take such risks or make such sacrifices” attitude that’s endemic to our time. Yet it’s my firm conviction that people need heroes. We need to admire their deeds and hope someday to rise to their level. It’s why good parents still tell the great myths of Greek legend to their youngsters...and why far too many youngsters who never hear a heroic story grow up admiring sports figures and entertainers.

     But if you need a place where a gaggle of heroes can germinate and blossom into national or global stature, a fictional place will probably serve you better than any real locale.

     There are variations on this practice that ought to be compared. For example, consider the current trend in romance toward the employment of a very rich male co-protagonist: a multimillionaire or billionaire. There are a slew of such books out there, and from what I can determine they’re very popular. Yet how many ultra-rich persons are there really, and how many of them make it into their thirties and forties without being securely mated, pre-nuptial agreements and all, and thus romance-proof?

     I’ve used that motif too. However, I “flipped the script” in my short romance Love in the Time of Cinema, by making the girl the multimillionaire. That’s certainly a valid approach...but candidly, it’s even less realistic than the prevailing tendency, in which the male protagonist is the rich one. (“You can’t do anything the usual way, can you?” – my wife. Heh, heh, heh! Just wait till she reads Love in the Time of Capitalism!)

     Of course, the “extreme” pole of this practice occurs in the outright speculative genres of fantasy (The Warm Lands), science fiction (Which Art In Hope), and horror. Some things require whole new worlds – even whole new universes. That’s the case when you want to break a few of the laws of physics, not just those of Congress. And once again, the great ones, the Tolkiens and Benfords, do what they must to make it work.

     As I wrote above, it’s about the willing suspension of disbelief: getting the reader to accept the premises of the story. If you can’t win that from him, he won’t get full value from your tale. But this is a special case of the much larger subject of the rules of storytelling: doing what you must do to please the reader with the tale you hope to stell him. Ultimately, that’s the one and only absolute rule. All the others are useful guidelines. The aspiring writer must absorb and respect them, but as he matures he will learn that each of them, like all rules for doing anything practical, has a proper domain of application. Outside that domain – the regions on the storyteller’s map marked “Here there be dragons” in Gothic Blackscript – he may sometimes set them aside to his advantage.

     If he has a hero’s courage, that is. For that, too is an essential of the good storyteller. Why else would it be “To boldly go where no man has gone before,” eh, hero?

Monday, July 6, 2020

The Centrality Of Story

     This one is for the “writers” who think all that matters is a profusion of the trappings of their selected genre: ray guns and rocket ships in SF, elves and magic items in fantasy, werewolves, vampires, and zombies in horror, and so forth:

     I do see a lot of scripts where the “message” of the movie is given more importance than the story, and those scripts are predictable and boring. The heart of movie-making is story, no matter the issue you are attempting to address, and if you don’t make the story work, your message will flop anyway. -- Nick Searcy

     Bravo, Mr. Searcy. That needed to be said. But it isn’t just “message” that can deflect the creator from his proper aim.

     I recall a missive I received long ago from an agent. He described a novel he’d been sent in which protagonist “Bart Preston” had holstered his “proton blaster” and set forth in his rocket ship to head the villain off at the Horsehead Nebula. There was more (and equally ludicrous) detail, but that should be enough to clue my Gentle Readers into how that tale had emerged. The writer had taken a piece of inane Western drivel and substituted space-opera paraphernalia for those of the Western genre, hoping to get a foot in the door his Western had previously been denied. Needless to say, it didn’t have the desired effect.

     A worthwhile story is about people changing in response to some problem or problems. It’s why a good book takes time to conceive and to write: The author must live with his protagonists, and often with his antagonists, long enough to feel how they’ll develop in response to the stresses he plans to impose on them. There is no eluding this requirement, or the time it takes to meet it.

     The just-churn-‘em-out types that simply keep pushing mountains of genre gingerbread, without bothering to address character development in a setting that features significant challenges for those characters to surmount, are nothing but hacks. No matter how many books they sell to semi-adolescent readers of whatever age, I will never respect them.

Sunday, June 28, 2020

The Central Conceit Of Fantasy And Science Fiction

     Originally I employed the word conceit in the title of this piece in its contemporary meaning: “an excessively favorable opinion of one’s own ability, importance, wit, etc.” However, I’ll allow that the earlier meaning, as a synonym for conception, would also apply. But onward to the main point.

     The central distinction between “mainstream” fiction and F&SF is an idea or practice often called worldbuilding: i.e., the creation of a fictional setting that deliberately departs from the mundane reality around us in significant ways. Worldbuilding may be considered a special case of setting: the writer’s use of descriptive and related techniques to delineate the overall characteristics of his fictional environment for the reader. Viewed thus, it differs from the sort of setting-creation mainstream writers practice only in that it embraces possibilities that aren’t (currently) possible.

     The difficulty of depicting a fictional environment is considerable. That’s true even for one rooted in mundane reality. When the writer has dramatic departures from reality in mind, the difficulty is far greater. Yet contemporary F&SF tales abound in worlds so greatly at variance with our reality that making them real to the reader is a feat only the most courageous should attempt.

     (Notice the card I palmed there? First, “mundane reality” gave way to the unqualified term “reality.” Then I shuffled both to the bottom so I could speak of making a fantasy world “real to the reader.” Beware; there may be more switchbacks to follow.)

     When the writer’s fictional world is intended to be distant from the one we live in, he faces a challenge of no small magnitude: How much of my effort – and prose – should go into the description of this world’s distinctive characteristics?

     Many F&SF writers put the greater part of their efforts into worldbuilding. It implies that they regard their fictional settings, and the imagination that went into them, as the “really important’ aspect of the stories they tell. There’s a substantial community of F&SF readers that agrees, though I’m not part of it.

     Emphasis on worldbuilding, especially as it was practiced by SF’s “Golden Age” writers, is a large part of the reason literary critics tended to dismiss science fiction as “all rocket ships and ray guns,” not a serious genre at all. Similar criticisms have been leveled at fantasy fiction and its practitioners. It’s a point that should not be fliply dismissed.

     How best to approach his worldbuilding chore is one of the most vexing questions before the aspiring F&SF writer.


     In other writings on storytelling technique, I’ve exhorted the aspiring writer to “cultivate an eye for the telling detail.” I go into this at some depth in my little tome The Storyteller’s Art. I continue to think it the best approach to description in fiction – and worldbuilding really is just a special case of description. But aspiring writers put the question to me even to this day, so it’s time to go into it with particular attention to the speculative genres. Let’s start by contrasting the approaches of two very different writers.

     First, we have Leo Tolstoy. Tolstoy gets more praise for his “descriptive prowess” than any other critically acclaimed writer. But he describes everything in every scene, as if he were cataloguing the scene for some unseen painter to reproduce from his descriptions. It makes reading his books an exercise of the reader’s patience, for he leaves it to the reader to separate the important details from the rest. It’s a large part of what makes War and Peace a “classic:” i.e., a book everyone wants to have read, but no one actually wants to read.

     Second, we have Dr. Alice Sheldon, better known to SF readers as “James Tiptree, Jr.” This exceptionally gifted writer practiced a sparsity of description that surprises most who encounter her, especially on first acquaintance. Her motto, which she actually articulated on at least one occasion was “Don’t tell them!” – by which she meant, of course, don’t tell the reader: make him claw for purchase on the setting while you (the writer) concentrate on what’s happening to your characters. Sheldon’s stuff reads like a swift-flowing stream, though if you’re not sufficiently “in tune” with her method, you can miss some of what makes her stories striking.

     The contrast between these two is amplified by several orders of magnitude when we add this: Tolstoy’s “world” was Russia. Whether he was writing of Russia of his time or Russia of the Napoleonic Era, the milieu was already familiar to his readers. Yet his descriptions were extraordinarily detailed, sometimes painfully so. Sheldon’s science-fictional “worlds” were a considerable distance from her contemporary reality, as anyone familiar with her stories would agree. Yet her descriptions were so terse as to disappear in the flow of story events; she expected her reader to absorb important details without lingering over them unduly, as it was what her characters were doing that really mattered.

     The F&SF writer must aim at the tastes of the F&SF reader. But even among those readers, there’s a range of appetites for description that runs from Sheldon’s starkness to Tolstoy’s lushness. Ultimately, it’s one more demonstration of the importance to the writer of conceiving of his intended readers and writing to appeal to them.


     “But what about you, Fran?” I hear you cry. Well, not to put too fine a point on it, I tend to “cheat.” When I write SF, it’s usually very-near-future stuff with only one or two departures from contemporary reality. So my “worldbuilding” task is remarkably simple, at least in comparison to the inventors of huge, galaxy-spanning epics such as Malorie Cooper’s Aeon 14 series.

     My recent fantasy The Warm Lands was another kind of “cheat.” The simplified, nearly depopulated world of Aeol after the Dieback demanded very little in the way of worldbuilding. Its pretechnological character gave it a starkness that didn’t demand a lot of description. Neither did the ascetic, rather scholarly environment of the Scholium Arcanum. But in those choices I was partly expressing my own emphasis on character development within a challenging context.

     There’s no “right” or “wrong” way to approach the challenges of worldbuilding. That having been said, allow me a caveat: Very few readers are “there” for the ingenuity of your fictional world. As I wrote recently in a somewhat different context, the reader is there for an emotional journey. Excessive concentration on your fictional milieu, no matter how proud of it you may be, will fail to satisfy their thirst for a tale that satisfies John Brunner’s Laws of Good Fiction:

  1. The raw material of fiction is people.
  2. The essence of story is change.

     Never forget that.

Friday, June 26, 2020

Why Romance?

The perfume that she wore was from some little store
On the down side of town
But it lingered on long after she'd gone
I remember it well

And our fingers entwined like ribbons of light
And we came through a doorway somewhere in the night

Her long flowing hair came softly undone
And it lay all around
And she brushed it down as I stood by her side
In the warmth of her love

And she showed me her treasures of paper and tin
And then we played a game only she could win
And she told me a riddle I'll never forget
Then left with the answer I've never found yet

How long, said she, can a moment like this
Belong to someone
What's wrong, what is right, when to live or to die
We must almost be born

So if you should ask me what secrets I hide
I'm only your lover, don't make me decide

The perfume that she wore was from some little store
On the down side of town
But it lingered on long after she'd gone
I remember it well

And she showed me her treasures of paper and tin
And then we played a game only she could win
And our fingers entwined like ribbons of light
And we came through a doorway somewhere in the night

[“Affair on 8th Avenue,” Gordon Lightfoot]

     As I'm somewhat...old, most of my musical favorites are from decades long past. Gordon Lightfoot is prominent among them. It’s a pity he’s not better appreciated today, as he was one of the most accomplished lyricists of his time. The lyric above is a good demonstration of his romanticism.

     Lightfoot’s romantic lyrics never fail to evoke the romantic in me. (His contemporary “competitors” mostly evoke alimentary disturbances.) His imagery is unique and uniquely memorable. It puts me in mind yet again of a saying attributed to William Faulkner: that every novelist is a failed short-story writer, and every short-story writer is a failed poet. But this morning it also has me thinking about the question that forms the title of this piece, which is really a special case of a far more general question.

     To be maximally kind, most romance writers aren’t very good. That’s part of the reason contemporary romance writing features so much sex. The author knows she’s incapable of eliciting the sense of great, loving passion from her characters – see can see the lack of it in her own prose – so she falls back on something most of her readers can relate to: the physical experience of two persons coupling. Yet it’s not sex but the emotion of passionate, all-consuming love, at a height that most people will never experience in real life, that the reader is there for, which makes the substitution of sex for passion a cheat.

     The yearning to experience a strong emotion is why any consumer of fiction, in any genre or form, is there in the first place.

     Yes, I’ve written about this before. Yes, it’s something that “should” be “obvious”...though given how many hacks are out there churning out bad fiction – fiction whose primary impact is more emetic than dramatic – at mind-boggling rates, my habitual codicil that “obvious” means “overlooked” seems applicable.

     Now, I don’t think my own drivel is any great improvement on the Thundering Herd of Semi-Literate Poseurs with Word Processors. But every now and then, I’ve hit that special note for someone, and have been rewarded with a personal note of thanks, or a review like the following:

     Science fiction writer John C. Wright had something to say about this to us who lament our tiny readerships and pitiful revenue streams:

     I write for that one reader I will never see, the one who needs just such a tale as I can pen, in just such a time and place, some rainy afternoon or dark hour, when providence will bring my book into his hands. And he will open it, and it will not be a book, but a casement, from which he will glimpse the needed vision his soul requires of a world larger than our own, or a star in a heaven wider and higher than ours, a star aflame with magic more majestic than any star mortal astronomers can name.

     I humbly but strongly suggest you write for that unknown reader also, and not for worldly praise, or influence, or pelf, or applause. The world flatters popular authors, and the clamor of the multitude of brazen tongues is vanity. It is dust on the wind. The unknown reader will greet your work with love. It is a crown of adamant, solid and enduring.

     You will never meet that one reader, not in this life. In heaven he will come to you and fall on his face and anoint your feet with tears of gratitude, and you will stand astonished and humbled, having never suspected.

     And the key to it is emotion. Laura Schultz found in The Sledgehammer Concerto the emotional experience she seeks from her fiction reading. How many other readers received – or failed to receive – that experience, I’ll never know. But one did, which made the labor of conceiving and writing the book entirely worthwhile.

     Which makes the “sex instead of passion” tendency among contemporary writers of romance even more deplorable.


     All the above is essentially prefatory to this: I was recently privileged to read an advance copy of Margaret Ball’s soon-to-be-released Regency fantasy romance Tangled Magic. It’s set in the same fantasy-Regency milieu as her marvelous novel Salt Magic. If anything, it’s even better than its predecessor: more magical and more romantic, though with many humorous and ironic sub-threads woven into its fabric. If you have a romantic bone in your body, this book will find and thrill it for you. Keep an eye out for it.

     Bravo, Margaret! At last, someone else who understands the point of all this suffering! And with that, it’s time to get back to my own steaming-pile-of-crap-under-construction. Have a nice day.

Tuesday, June 23, 2020

Fantastic SF or SFey Fantasy?

     The argument over where the boundary – if any – between science fiction and fantasy lies will probably go on forever. Now that I have one foot in each world, it’s on my mind with increased force.

     I’ve often thought of SF as a realm in which there are rules, even if those rules are not those of our contemporary reality, whereas in fantasy it’s “anything goes.” Yet several great fantasists have put a lot of effort into rationalizing their fantasy worlds, imposing binding rules and limitations upon their operation, while in SF important technological motifs are often presented as “part of the scene,” such that the reader must take them on faith despite the clash with known physical law.

     Perhaps it’s really a matter of “feel:” the sense the reader gets from the setting and the key motifs. Elves? Fantasy. FTL travel? SF. At this point in my own writer’s journey, that might be the best I can do.

     But there’s another aspect of fictional construction that’s on my mind at the moment.


     “It’s really going to happen, isn’t it?” Martin murmured.
     Althea felt him pull himself more closely against her back.
     “Yes, it is,” she said. “Tomorrow afternoon or evening at the latest.”
     “Why, love?”
     “Because I’m ready, the ship is ready—”
     “No, not why tomorrow.” He rotated her in his arms until she was facing him. “Why go at all? What makes it so bleeding important?”
     She studied his face in the evening gloom.
     “I’ve already told you,” she said. “It was my grandparents’ deathbed request. Grandmere Teresza said it was what she and Grandpere Armand wanted for me. They left me five million dekas’ seed money. But you knew all that. What else can I say?”
     He took a moment to respond.
     “Yes, you’ve told me all that,” he said at last. “But that just tells me it was important to them. What made it important to you?”
     She started to reply, bit it back, and thought about it.
     “You’re right,” she said. “There’s a missing step. It is important to me. It’s the thing I want to do most in all the world. It has been since I was eighteen years old. Even with all the expense and the effort and us about to be apart for three years. But I’ve never thought much about why that should be.”
     He waited in silence.
     She put her hands to the sides of his face, pulled it close, and rubbed her lips gently over his. His lips parted and she ran the tip of her tongue over their inner surfaces.
     “Do you like that?” she whispered into his mouth.
     “You know I do,” he said.
     “But why?”
     “What? Because—” He paused, drew a little back, and looked at her curiously. “I just do. It feels good. It’s you, you loving me. It's a little reminder of all the rest of our intimacies. Why do you ask?”
     “Because,” she whispered, “I don’t have any better answer. I want to go to space, Martin. I just do. I want to wander the stars. I want to see other worlds, and rub their soil between my fingers, and learn to love them as I’ve loved this world. I need to know whether there’s life on any of them. I hope there is. It will mean more to see and learn...more to love.
     “Grandmere Teresza once told me that I have the look of an adventurer. She said she expected that I’d be unsatisfied with a single world. I was very young, but I knew what she meant. When she told me about her and Grandpere Armand’s ambition for me, it became my ambition too, right then and there. The five million was just help getting started.
     “Life is pretty pointless if you don’t have an ambition. If you have a really big one, complete with dreams of fame and fortune, and you have even a ghost of a chance of pulling it off, you’d be a fool to point yourself in any other direction. It’s got its downside, of course. If you succeed, you get the sense of fulfillment, and the fame and fortune, but if you fail, you have to live with big failure. There’s the what-next problem, too. The bigger your successes, the tougher it is to think of something to follow them up with. But the alternative is accepting mediocrity. Boredom. Doing what other people could do just as well, and never knowing what you could do with your full powers.” [From Freedom’s Scion]

     Althea Morelon is my most fully realized character. She fulfilled a number of desiderata for me. She’s a woman of a kind otherwise unknown to speculative fiction. She combines great physical, intellectual, and paraphysical powers, yet she’s also a woman of strong emotions, who needs to be loved, especially by her husband Martin and her large, widely extended clan. Beyond that, she’s afflicted with a yearning for adventure that can only be slaked by doing what others have never done...indeed, what others cannot do. In other words, her needs are as imperative as her powers are potent.

     There are no Altheas in the real world. In all probability, there never will be. The psi powers I granted her are impossible to the human, low-voltage, direct-current brain. Yet her adventures in the Spooner Federation novels have the “SFey feel,” such that ten out of ten readers would classify those books as science fiction. The central character’s impossible powers don’t seem to dent that feel.


     My most recent novel, The Warm Lands, was my first step into fantasy fiction. It’s equipped with fantasy trappings: magic, a pretechnological milieu, a social separation between nobles and the common folk, and between sorcerers and everyone else. Yet it garnered this review:

     That got me thinking. There is a “sciency” cast to my depiction of sorcery and sorcerers in The Warm Lands. While not everyone has “the gift,” even the gifted require training, discipline, and access to a “natural resource.” The master sorcerers of the Scholium Arcanum are thinkers as well as magicians. They know they can’t merely wave their hands and command that the universe “make it so.” They study the world and the nature of Man, that they might grasp accurately what they can and cannot do, and just as important, what they should and should not do. The Precepts of the Arcana, the “laws” by which sorcerers are governed, illuminate this:

The Seven Precepts Of The Arcana

1. The mind of Man is sacred. It is not to be violated.
2. Mana is the most powerful of all known forces. It is not to be trifled with.
3. By the natural order of things, the world will resist the operations of the sorcerer. Be ever mindful.
4. The sorcerer must know his business. He must refrain from the uncertain course.
5. The sorcerer will always be feared. He must harm no innocent and must speak only truth.
6. The sorcerer must always suspect hidden motives in one who petitions him to act on his behalf.
7. Of only one thing must a sorcerer be perfectly certain: There are laws which he does not yet know.

Theron of Malagra
First Grand Master of the Arcana

     Those strictures seemed to me to be essential to an orderly, comprehensible fantasy: one in which mere power doesn’t suffice for all things and the deus is kept far away from the machina. “Sciency?” Yes. But as with the Spooner Federation books, ten out of ten readers would unhesitatingly declare The Warm Lands to be fantasy, because of its “fantasy feel.”


     These are just a few thoughts about a pleasant, unthreatening subject, Gentle Reader. The news is uniformly bleak. The nation is in turmoil. I’ve been looking longingly at the Barrett .50 and wondering how long it would take me to hunt down racialist huckster and counterfeit Negro Shaun King, whose cranium could stand to be enhanced by a round of high-velocity lead. So today instead of a political Jeremiad, you get a piece about one of the oldest and most contentious subjects in speculative fiction.

     Have a nice day.

Friday, May 8, 2020

An Interesting Incident In A Boring Life

     Just so there’s no misunderstanding, the “boring life” of the title is mine. And Gentle Reader, I mean it the way it sounds: most people, were they compelled to live as I live, would probably sleep about twenty hours per day. Not much happens around me – and I like it that way. I read. I write. Occasionally I make a phone call. I leave the house to go to church, and occasionally to shop. Now and then I go to the range and spend an hour or two blowing holes in perfectly innocent paper targets. But actual events are all but unknown around here.

     So when an event occurs, it commands attention.

     This event is about “two days long” at this point. It’s possible that it will fail to affect you. It pierced me deeply, undoubtedly because I write fiction. Anyway, here we go.

     A couple of days ago a promotional service notified me of a free novel that piqued my interest. Mind you, that’s not easy. I read a great deal, and I have a nearly perfect memory. In consequence, originality being far rarer than mimicry, the plot of a novel will sound familiar to me far more often than not. So getting my undivided attention with a promotional blurb is an achievement all by itself.

     I downloaded the novel and found it mesmerizing. Genuinely imaginative, very well characterized, and well written. Unfortunately, because I must protect the identity of the author, I can’t tell you anything more about it, except for this: it’s the first volume in a series.

     I praised the novel lavishly. That’s me: I lavish praise when impressed, and I scathe when disappointed. But I am a sincere reviewer. I don’t praise what doesn’t deserve praise; neither do I condemn what doesn’t deserve condemnation. And I don’t mince words.

     That review had an unexpected consequence: the author wrote to thank me for it. Thus began an exchange of emails that started in a fairly conventional vein but did not remain there.

     The author, whom I’ll call Jane, described herself as “not good with reaching out to strangers.” Even so, her initial email was quite warm, so I wrote back assuring her that I meant what I had written about her tale and was on to the next volume in the series.

     I was just as impressed – perhaps even a bit more – with the second volume, wrote another praiseful review, and immediately purchased and started the third volume. I did not expect what followed.

     Jane pleaded with me not to read her third book. She was certain that I’d be disappointed by it…and she underscored that by saying that my opinion had come to mean too much to her.

     Talk about being bowled over! Why would Jane, whose first two books had already established her as a skilled and imaginative storyteller, expect me to be disappointed by the third book? Not that it mattered, as when her note arrived I was already deep into it and utterly absorbed by it. (I wish I could point you to her stuff; it really is that good. But I’m committed to preserving her privacy.)

     I don’t know how to characterize Jane’s reaction. I know the fear that comes from stepping (or being thrust) into the light for the first time. I know the nerves that beset even a well-traveled creator upon allowing the world to see his latest work. (I was unbearable the day I released The Warm Lands for public consumption – ask my wife – and that’s my fifteenth novel.) But when someone who owes you nothing praises your work in the highest terms, shouldn’t it help to dispel the fear? Shouldn’t it gratify you and reinforce your will to carry on?

     Perhaps the desire to understand such a thing is inherently misguided. Not everything fits some categorical pigeonhole. People vary in more ways, and more dramatically, than a lot of younger folks would believe. Even this old recluse confronts previously unknown variations among individuals every day.

     Perhaps the important lesson is to accept others as they are, and not try to pre-assign them to some category from which you can expect to predict their actions and reactions.

     If there’s a Last Graf, it would be this: Be kind. Allow others the space they need to share this ball of rock with you. To those who seem to need reassurance, offer reassurance. To those who seem to need comfort, offer comfort. Don’t take it badly if your offers are rejected, for some people aren’t able to accept such offerings. And of course, judge not, for you too will be judged, and the measure you use will be the measure you receive. We have that on the very highest Authority.

     “Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind; the second is to be kind; and the third is to be kind.” – attributed to Henry James.

Saturday, March 28, 2020

"The Same, But Different"

     I’d say there are plenty of writers blathering on about the Wuhan virus, our overreaction to it, and the political foofaurauw over it, wouldn’t you, Gentle Reader? So I’m going to deviate. Of course, what I’ve chosen for today’s topic might prove even less appealing, but that’s a risk you’ll simply have to take. Just remember to wash your hands frequently, drink plenty of fluids – I recommend Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry – and refrain from kissing random strangers, and you should be all right.


     First, The Warm Lands has already received a few positive reviews, though I could always use a few more, hint hint. The most striking of the official ones comes from my treasured colleague Margaret Ball:

     No Quest. No Chosen One. No adolescent discovering mysterious powers. No oracular ancient prophecies. And no magical MacGuffin... is this really a fantasy novel? Yes, and it brings a delightfully original take to a field in which too many of those elements have become virtually de rigueur. In a departure from his usual near-future science fiction works, Francis Porretto gives us strong and intriguing characters in a fantasy world with some surprising problems and even more surprising solutions. If I have any caveat, it’s only that the fascinating world of the Scholium is not always described in as much detail as I’d like. But one can always hope that future books will delve more into the Scholium and the Great Waste .

     That was very pleasant to read – and by the way, if you like genuinely original fantasy and science fiction, be sure to read Margaret’s stuff. I particularly recommend her Applied Topology, Language of the Dragon, and Harmony series. She and I share an affinity for departing from overly well-traveled paths, which made my discovery of her stuff a true delight.

     However, a statement from one other “reviewer” – my wife Beth, who was a large part of the reason I wrote the novel – has seized my attention in a rather immediate way:

“This is your best book yet.
There had better be a sequel.”

     And after some cogitation about how I could extend the ideas and conflicts without repeating myself, and a review of the various ways life with a disappointed wife could become...unpleasant, I have decided that a sequel there shall be. Probably two, in fact.

     Yeesh. So there’ll be yet another fantasy trilogy out there. Oh well. I doubt the prospect will cost Tolkien’s heirs any sleep.


     The title of this piece is one version of an editorial mantra that has tremendous force in conventional publishing houses (a.k.a. Pub World). It arises from the terrible difficulties publishers have in predicting what will sell. A business must succeed in selling its products to remain in business, and publishers know from history that most of what they put out will not “break even:” i.e., the revenues for most of their books will fail to equal (much less exceed) the aggregate costs of acquisition, production, promotion, and distribution.

     So publishers’ editors look for any indications whatsoever that a submission might sell profitably. There aren’t many such. The most reliable of all is the author’s name. If he’s well known and has a loyal following of adequate size, his latest book is a good bet. But of course, most submissions don’t come from the Stephen Kings and Tom Clancys of the world.

     The next most significant indicator is whether the submission resembles something that has sold successfully – and sufficiently so that it can be promoted to the readers of that previous success. Of course, the submission must not be identical to the successful book. However, the similarities must be marketable:

  • The same genres;
  • Comparable styles;
  • Comparable structures;
  • Perhaps some shared elements and motifs.

     ...all while maintaining sufficient differences from the predecessor to avoid being called an imitation. This is the publishing desideratum expressed by the mantra “the same, but different.”

     It’s also the reason genuine originality is more easily found among the offerings of indie writers than among those of conventional publishers.


     While I’ve harped on originality as a virtue, I must also admit that it has its downside. Most original ideas fall flat, in fiction as elsewhere. The writer determined to strike out on a completely untraveled path is taking a big chance. He might not click with any significant community of readers. So it takes a degree of daring – to say nothing of an adequate income stream from other sources – to put many weeks or months of effort into composing a tale that’s a true departure from all that’s gone before.

     For readers, too, have their expectations. That’s the reason for genre categorization. As the saying goes, some want elves, others want ray guns, and still others want trans-temporal interspecies sex. (You didn’t know that was a saying? I can’t imagine why not.) That’s a large part of the explanation for the arguments over genre hybridizations such as SF romance.

     So the fledgling writer, contemplating the architecture and key elements of his new novel, has to decide on his level of risk tolerance. He’s about to invest a lot of time and energy in something that might not produce a return. Should he “follow his passion” and boldly go where no novelist has gone before, or should he “play it safe” until he’s established himself as a reliable purveyor of entertainment worth its purchase price?

     It’s a tough call, and no mistake. I’ve certainly struggled with it. I can’t imagine that other indies have found the nut any easier to crack. There are so many of us that getting even a little attention from adventurous readers – persons willing to take a chance on an inexpensive novel from someone they’d never heard of before – is a major challenge. It’s why book giveaways, which eliminate all risk from a potential reader’s acceptance of the book, are popular promotional tools.

     But that publishers’ mantra can be of service. You want to get established before you start defying the norms with your brain-twistingly original concepts? If you find it congenial, pick a hot sub-genre and start by writing something that fits in it. Balance the chance that it will please readers who love that category against the possibilities that the category is already overcrowded, or that your book will be dismissed as “just an imitation of the great Harry Glumph.”

     Most important, resolve to stay rigidly within your chosen sub-genre. Don’t introduce cyclotrons into your medieval fantasy. No ray guns in your Regency romance. Save that for when you’re a household word.

     Publishers’ editors aren’t stupid, after all. If you desire fame and fortune, you might do well to use a little of what they already know from long and dreary experience. Not that there are any guarantees, of course!