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...

The Grand Unification Curse

     There have been several large-scale, powerful, and highly observable trends in fiction this past half-century. Paradoxically, the most conspicuous ones have been in the speculative genres: fantasy, science fiction, and horror. I say “paradoxically” because those genres are commonly conceived of as where a writer goes to do something offbeat and innovative.

     The channels into which spec-fic writers mainly funnel themselves are well known:

• Fantasy has divided into two paths:
  • Traditional (also called medieval or “high” fantasy)
  • Contemporary (also called urban fantasy)
• Science fiction has also divided itself in two:
  • Technologically oriented (also called hard SF)
  • Sociologically oriented (also called soft SF)
• Horror’s divisions are much the same:
  • Traditional: i.e., it employs the traditional monsters: vampires, werewolves, zombies, ghouls.
  • Non-traditional: i.e., it employs contemporary motifs such as serial killers.

     There are sub-subvarieties within the subvarieties – e.g., vampire as good guy vs. vampire as bad guy, or zombie horror vs. zombie humor – but those too are “deeply grooved,” such that little discernible deviation occurs within them.

     This seems to me to be a marketing phenomenon. When one particular channel attracts a large following, whether due to a breakthrough novel or a hot new writer, other writers flock toward it in the hope of “getting in on the action.” It might be amplified by the great difficulty of actual innovation, but that’s a subject for another time and another screed.

     However, there’s another trend that unites all these pathways. It strikes me as a dangerous one, for reasons that will shortly become apparent: the trend toward coercing one’s works into a grand unification around a single “future history” or “alternate history.”

     I don’t know who was first to promulgate the notion of a “future history.” I first encountered the idea in Robert A. Heinlein’s early stories, including the ones in The Past Through Tomorrow, Orphans Of The Sky, and Methuselah’s Children. It is notable that while Heinlein continued to develop the characters and themes in those early stories, he also explored several other threads of development that had no relation to them. Nevertheless, he was among the earliest writers to adopt the future history approach to science fiction.

     Big ideas tend to be attractors. The notion of a consistent grand-unified history proved to be one such. These days, a great many speculative-fiction writers go to great difficulty to fit everything they write into that kind of vision. As with the spec-fic subvarieties enumerated earlier, this has had a depressing effect on actual imagination.

     I’m not trying to be critical here; I’ve felt the impulse myself. Indeed, I’ve been encouraged in that direction by my readers. But I’ve tentatively decided that it’s a pull I should resist...and perhaps that others should resist for the same reasons.

     Among other things, an active imagination dislikes to be bounded or blindered. If you’re fortunate enough to possess such an imagination, you know the delight that comes from having it surprise you with an idea you’d never previously entertained. But when it presents you with such an idea, straining to force it into a previously determined paradigm is at best a dubious use of the gift.

     This came to mind this morning when my very own backbrain awarded me a fresh idea for an SF story. After I’d marveled over the uniqueness of it for a few minutes, I sat down to write it out so I wouldn’t forget it...and as I was writing it out, I started to ponder how I could fit it into the established “future history” of my Spooner Federation series.

     A subconscious alarm bell went off at that point, and thank God for it.

     Genuinely fresh ideas deserve to be treated as fresh ideas: not as suffixes to older, already-exploited ideas, however popular they might have been. It’s not because they’re “rare.” As Isaac Asimov has told us, ideas are all around us; all a writer needs to do is observe his own surroundings with an open and receptive mind, and he’ll have more story ideas than we can exploit in a normal lifetime.

     This is a plea of two kinds. I’ve wearied of never-ending series founded on a single set of characters in a consistent setting. I’ve formed the habit of automatically turning aside from any fiction offering that purports to be a volume in a series. But beyond that, I’ve encountered a number of ideas that deserved to be treated with more respect by their originators: ideas that would have been excellent foundations for stand-alone stories, but which the originator forced, Procrustes-like, to fit into a “future history” or “alternate history” structure for which they were not suited.

     The “grand-unified history” series has its attractions. Among others, if such a series starts out well, the reader may reasonably assume that further readable and entertaining stories will be available to him, soon if not immediately. But lately that’s gotten to be a less reliable assumption. Many of us are hungry for freshness, for intriguing departures from what we’ve already read. The “grand-unified history” series doesn’t promise that; indeed, it’s an unbelievable promise in the nature of the thing.

     I could go on, but that fresh SF idea I mentioned a few paragraphs ago is beckoning to me. I simply have to see what I can do with it. Later, Gentle Readers. Wish me luck.

More On Series Writing And Reading

     I read a great deal. A great deal. Perhaps four to six hours of my every waking day are put to consuming the words of others rather than producing any of my own. (That might have something to do with my low output of late, but that’s a subject for another time.)

     Time was, I eagerly awaited new offerings from several writers who had wholeheartedly adopted the “series” approach. That is, they wrote book after book in the same setting, or about the same protagonist(s) and / or antagonist(s). Some writers can do that without sacrificing originality or freshness. Such writers are jewels to be cherished...but not necessarily imitated.

     This is on my mind this morning because of a recent discovery in my own decision making as a reader. I’d stumbled upon and purchased two book-sets – in each case the first three books of a series that continued on from there – by writers previously unknown to me, and had read both sets with enjoyment. Yet, at the conclusion of each such set, I thought about purchasing the next volumes in the series, and decided against it.

     Why? One who goes through as much reading material as I should happily continue to read a series that’s begun worthily, no? Time was, I’d have thought so, at least in the abstract. But in the real world, I consciously decided not to go on with those two series. It required some thought to elucidate my decisions.

     These days, series tend to go on forever. At least until the death of the writer...and as some recent examples would suggest, even that’s not an absolute barrier to their continuation. When a reader suspects that he’s begun to read such a series, at some point he will decide to continue on with it or not. What basis for decision is he likely to use?

     If he hasn’t enjoyed what he’s read, the decision to stop is automatic and requires no explanation. But if he has, and suspects that the series will continue for the life of the writer, he must decide:

• Whether the setting and / or the characters are sufficiently attractive;
• Whether the overarching themes and the characteristic motifs are appealing enough;
• Whether the gestalt would support further, sufficiently imaginative and intriguing plots;
• Whether subsequent volumes would illuminate the conflicts and the Marquee Characters’ key decisions satisfyingly;
• Whether the prose itself is good enough.

     The evaluations of those considerations tend to be subconscious. The reader might not be fully aware of his decision. This is more often the case when the reader decides not to continue with the series: that requires no effort, and inaction is easier to “understand” than action. Indeed, the reader might tell himself several times that “I’ve got to get to the bookstore / Amazon / wherever and get the next book in this series sometime soon,” and never do so.

     I’ve had the experience of discontinuing my consumption of a series even with writers I greatly admire, whose other books and other series I’ve continued to read. Lawrence Block is an example; I read two of his books about professional thief Bernie Rhodenbarr and enjoyed them, but never went on to the subsequent ones, yet I slaver after his stories of private detective Matthew Scudder.

     Clearly, there are pitfalls in series writing. The tale can grow stale; the hero’s decisions can become mechanical, predictable, and unsatisfying. The writer himself might become irritated with the series. It’s happened more than once; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was desperate to kill off Sherlock Holmes, but his fans wouldn’t allow it!

     He who embarks upon a series must remain aware of the trend lines in his work. He must judge for himself – in this regard, his readers will be less helpful – whether his stuff is becoming clichéd, repetitive, or otherwise unsatisfying. And he must be willing, albeit with many a tear, to kill off favorite heroes and to terminate adventures that were once exciting but have devolved into formula.

     Otherwise readers such as I will report his deterioration to him through his sales figures...and that hurts worse than any other kind of negative feedback.