Tag: genre fiction

Swordpunk Manifesto in Blue

G. Derek Adams8 Comments

What’s the problem with fantasy?

Two great gods, hovering in the firmament.

The Rules and The Backstory.

Those are the two driving forces, theinspirado of a grand bulk of the genre. Either the writer has a really neat system of magic, combat or dragon-sex and they hammer a plot and some characters into a framework to hold it — OR the writer has a really neat world, or character, or setting for dragon-sex and they hammer a plot and some less interesting characters into a framework to hold it.

I’m not really complaining that these forces exist. [Especially about the dragon-sex.] I’ve invested a massive amount of geek-hours into consuming as much of this content as I can, and I never plan to stop. My complaint derives from the endless mimicry, and the bone-certain belief that these two masters are the only ones that the genre can serve.

That is not the case, more on that shortly. But first, a primer.

In general, there are two types of fantasy authors. Nerds and Dungeon Masters.

Nerds love their shining rules, and Dungeon Masters love their precious backstory.

So when you are reading a fantasy novel and realize you’ve just spent two pages reading about how Flame-aligned Slaughter Wizards cannot use their Flambe attack when Ice-aligned Tempest Mages have spent a fortnight attuning their Ava-crystals to the Fourteenth Ley Line —- then the author is a Nerd.

“Well, they can’t.”

Uh, thanks Mr. Sanderson.

And when you finish a blistering passage on the Archduke Sargasso and the five-year conflict he endured developing the Draconian Congress, including the Riddle-Game played in the jaws of Tyrinel the Inferno, Red Dragon Lord – with exacting minutes provided, including three water breaks and a complete rundown of the Inaugural Dylithic Council’s attire, facial hair and a five stanza limerick sung by Jargon the Time-Sworder — ALL of this read by the protagonist on a discarded scroll in the waiting room of his dentist’s office. Then, my friend, your author is a Dungeon Master.

“Roll versus Total Despair, bitches.”

Both of these ideas sound pretty awesome, and both of the authors above are titanium-plated awesome. There’s nothing wrong with either approach, and in a skilled scribe’s meaty grip each style can keep you patently enthralled. I’ve spent more than a few minutes thinking about everyday applications of Allomancy from Sanderson’s Mistborn series — and you better believe I’m far more concerned about the fate of the Iron Throne of Westeros than the outcome of the 2012 Presidential Race.

Democracy in action.

This isn’t about what those authors have already written. It’s about the fantasy that hasn’t been written yet.

The fantasy that you and I are writing.  The new fantasy, which is also old fantasy — as opposed to the middle fantasy that we’re currently sitting in. The new/old  fantasy where we basically don’t give a shit.

What am I talking about?

Swordpunk.

I have chosen this term because:

a) It sounds cool.

b) Fuck you, that’s why.

Are there rules? Yes, of course. But they are to be like a kindly sour-smelling uncle. You send them a card on their birthday, a sincere hug at Christmas — but you’re not inviting them over when it’s time to party.

Is there backstory? As long as there is linear time there shall be Stuff That Happened Before. But we shouldn’t drag it with us like those creepy dudes wearing their high school letter jacket to English 101. Leave that shit behind.

Not wearing pants.

And world building? Of course, building your own little bolt-hole from reality is the bleedin’ point. But why do we need to reinvent the wheel every time? Tolkien did it and generations of fantasy writers have been doing their best to ape him ever since. Too many fantasy writers think like Carl Sagan:” If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe”.

How about we just have apple pie? You know, the apple pie that is at the store and we’ve all had it and we all know what it is?

Swordpunk is all about just eating the fucking pie.

I think the fear that fantasy writers have is that if they don’t reinvent the wheel, they won’t be taken seriously. Like Tad Williams is going to roll up and revoke their Fantasy License. [I’m imagining him in a lime green golf cart and wearing a jaunty scarf. Are you imagining it that way? Just me? Okay.]

The worlds are there. The tropes are there. It’s all in how you use them. I think there can be more power in connecting to the old stories, then running down the street and trying to start up your own Disneyland. “Oh, no — this ain’t Mickey Mouse, this is my own character Mouselord McQueen. He’s totally different.”

I don’t want to waste energy convincing you that my world is more clever or more original or ‘waaaaaay fucking different” [WFD] from any other fantasy author’s world. That’s a fool’s errand, and honestly more than a little outside of my skillset.

When I have a hero step forth and raise his sword, I don’t want to try to sell you on how he’s different than the inumerable sword-slingers in the genre. I want you to think of them. I want you to think of Sturm Bright-blade, Simon Mooncalf, Logen the Bloody-Nine, Brienne of Tarth, Lancelot, Garet Jax, Neville Longbottom, Reepicheep, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter and Conan the Barbarian,

Pictured – License to be snooty and pedantic.

himself. I want you to think of them all. I want to connect to that resonance, that legacy of character.

Is it getting a little Joseph Campbell-y in here?

Beyond that, fantasy needs to be more of a wackadoo fever dream. I want more Fritz Lieber and Michael Moorcock – more Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser, more Elric of Melnibone.  Beautiful little offshoots of the genre, grand and strange, bizarre and gleefully weird.

That’s what I’m trying to do at least, with Spell/Sword, my first novel. And if I can keep going, I’ll keep trying.

My book has rules. My book has backstory. [Shit, you better bring some Post-It Notes, dog.] I’m a Nerd and a Dungeon Master, just like all of you.

But thinking about these things, and giving them a silly name made me feel free. It made me feel empowered, it made me write the book I wanted to write — not the one that I thought would ever sell.

I hope it makes you feel the same.

Swordpunk

1. Eating the pie is more fun than making the pie.

2. No one cares about about your character’s grandfather.

3. Only trot out the Rules on special occasions.

4. Don’t let anyone tell you how to make your art. Make it. Make it scream and bleed, make it shine and shatter. Be true to the moment, to the beauty of it — and make no excuses for putting it on the page.

5. There should always be more minotaurs. Preferable riding on cherry-red mopeds.

And if Brandon Sanderson wants to start an internet feud, he can GET IN LINE.

Thanks for reading my ramblings. This is what happens when I’m not editing.

Blowing the dust off…

G. Derek Adams1 Comment

Let me just knock some of the cobwebs off  here.

I don’t know who this guy is, but he is most displeased at my lackadaisical posting schedule of late.

But I was editing, black and white photo soldier guy, who I hope is not some sort of war criminal! I can see that ceremonial dagger on your belt, and I’m sure you’d like to dispense some pre-Internet justice, but hear me out.

In between normal life errata and work neccesity, my creative-time has been in short supply. Lodestar has taken a turn for the awesome as we rocket towards the conclusion – and I’m determined to deliver on the storytelling and gameplay promise of the campaign and not leave my players disappointed when it wraps up in September. On top of that I’m running a short side-game for some neophyte nerds in the neighborhood, plus planning for my Top Secret Next Campaign. Compounded with time rolling in the floor with the new puppy, and other general puttering about – I’ve been swamped.

I finished the rough draft of Spell/Sword back in April, then put it away for as long as possible before diving into editing. I made it a full four weeks, which was torturous indeed.

True editing began in May, here was my process:

1. Print out the draft, and read through it. Making only absolutely necessary notes in the margins.

2. Cry.

3. Read through it again, making nit-picky grammar notes.

4. Take all of the comments/edits from the paper version and add them to my Google Doc. “No argument” edits were implemented immediately. [Grammar fixes, word choice, spelling mistakes, erotic centaurs scene] More complicated edits requiring more thought or massive chapter-spanning revision entered as Comments onto the G-Doc.

5. Man, there’s a lot of these Comments. [63 total, only 17 of which were related to petticoat description. ALWAYS NEED MORE DESCRIPTION OF THE COURTLY LADY DRESSES]

6. Worked in fits and starts on the larger edits. The easy ones first, picking at the edges — then finally dived into the more serious ones in June.

7. Anxiety Quicksand. Edits seem to be making book worse. Every thing I read seems to be terrible, even if not explicitly marked for revision. I hate the book, and spend a lot of time polishing a terrible, shiny thought. Writing this draft was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done — a goal in my life that I never imagined I would accomplish. To have made it this far is nothing short of miraculous — but the book still might not be any good.  Effort does not equal excellence in writing, or any art.  I might have a completely unusable draft, rotten to the core.  I might have written a book and still not have a book.

8. Kept editing.

9. Started to lose the feeling of forward momentum, so I engaged the Saving Grace of Art. A deadline. Contacted my Alpha Readers, and let them know that I would be printing the draft the first of July to send them copies for review. I embrace that deadline, and editing redoubles in ferocity.

10. I like the book a little better. Well, let’s be serious — I love the book, but understand that I have lost any objectivity. I’ve read it too many times, I’m way too close.  I finish up major edits, with the salve that I’m going to go through this whole process again once my Alphas have a crack at it. Only they can tell me whether or not my child is a Goofus or a Gallant.

Highlights reference! These always bothered me. Maybe Goofus’ friends needed a little “tough love”, and who’s to say Gallant even liked oranges? Look at that smug S.O.B. — he probably poisoned that fruit. Yes, I was a child concerned with logical fallacies, move along.

11. I have one last brainstorm for my editing before releasing it to the Alphas. I read the entire draft out loud in one sitting. I catch innumerable grammar, tense, spelling, and logic errors in the process. Best thing I’ve done, next time around I’m planning on doing this much, much earlier. I also record me reading it [TECHNOLOGY!] for further review.

12. I like the book.

13. I send the draft to be printed for Alpha Readers. I feel a sense of pride that my closest friends and advisors will soon know how fucking clever I am.

14. I listen to the recording, and immediately catch a dozen glaring syntax and logic problems.

This sand is filled with irony!

15. Cry a little bit. But you know, in a badass way, like Chow Yun Fat in The Killer.

 

I  know I’m not unique in my process, or in my reactions — I know my colleagues and associates are sick of my talking about these things like I invented Author Malaise. But, you’re my blog and this is my first time up this thorny path — so get prepared for some serious whining and navel-gazing.

Also, some ruminations on various literary and genre concepts. I’ve been struggling to put my novel in context with others in the genre, and I’ve had some thoughts. SOME THOUGHTS, I SAY.

I’m also thinking about pulling my old weekend STORY ON DEMAND out of mothballs, now that I have a little more brainspace to spare.

What do you think, Corporal Steely Breadcrumbs?

I’m just here for the ladies. And the oppression of the Proletariat.

Strange words.

G. Derek Adams5 Comments

I was looking for something else in my notes, when I stumbled across the piece I put up this morning – The Umbra.

Apparently, I wrote this.

Do you ever have that happen? You read something in your notebook, or Google Docs — and it’s clear that your brain and hands produced it — but you have no memory of actually writing it. It’s like reading something that your doppelganger from another dimension wrote.

It’s a neat feeling, honestly — approaching your work as a reader only, without any context of the process.

I’m sure this is the goal, when sages suggest you let your first draft sit for a month or two before giving it the first read  — it helps with objectivity — and wouldn’t it be amazing to read your novel as a stranger? That Thing occupies a sizable portion of my psyche — how cool would it be to read it that way?

So get on it, doppelganger!

Any of you guys have stuff like that on your blog? I’d love to read it — hear your anecdotes!

This line is bold for no reason.

The Umbra

G. Derek Adams1 Comment

Or Various Thoughts and Extrapolation Fantastical upon the Theoretical “Shadow Plane”.

By Kellean Turbspik

There are many of my colleagues and antagonists in the academic press who claim that I have lost control of my mental faculties – some even going so far as to insinuate that I have gone insane.

They are correct.

For to grasp the true nature of reality, the frail mold of the mortal mind is too shallow and constricting – only a consciousness thoroughly shattered could have any possible chance to conceive its wonder.

My colleagues – or “dabblers” as they should more honestly be called – worship a quaint and comforting view of reality, and the various planes thereof. I have seen learned scholars wag their gray beards confidently over various maps and charts of the Outer Planes, laying out the various demesnes as confidently as a bricklayer mortars a wall. The Corporeal Plane [commonly, Material Plane] in the center, with the other planes neatly arrayed around it, first the Elemental Planes evenly spaced at the cardinal directions – then the planes of Chaos and Order slotted between, along with the planes of Altruism and Malevolence, all strung together like a child’s bracelet.  Some even go so far as to draw connecting lines, showing easy locations where the planes may be bridged.

All of this is nonsense. Mythology masquerading as science.  Reality does not conform to your pretty scribblings, gentlemen, no matter how carefully you select the proper ochre shade for the Plane of Fire, or how expensive a scrivener you hire to depict fanciful drawings of the demons in Abaddon. Had I time or inclination I could pierce your simple theses like wet tissue paper thrown before an oncoming lance.

Suffice it to say that everything you have ever read, or been taught about the Planes of Reality is wrong.

This is not the subject of my research, however. My research is into the plane of reality that my colleagues claim does not exist. A glaring omission on their precious maps, as they lack the cognitive capacity to even grasp its existence. Perhaps it is because they view the other planes as physical spaces, like rooms in a house – easily traversable and susceptible to cartography, planned by some divine architect perhaps.

They are incorrect.

The planes overlap and shift, a Cosmic Wind whirls them endlessly. And this is doubly certain for the Umbral Plane – or as my detractors have dubbed it, the “shadow plane”.

The Umbral Plane overlaps the material plane – we walk through it every day. Multiple planes using the same physical space – this is what most cannot grasp.

Throughout this treatise, I will prove beyond any argument that the Umbral Plane is the most important of all the planes of reality.  The Lesser Planes, including the Corporeal Plane follow certain natural laws and internal consistencies – the Plane of Shadow follows none of these.  It seems to permeate all of the other planes, comprising the same physical space – but kept disparate.  I theorize that all of reality is but a crude echo of the Umbral Plane – how else could one explain its prevalence throughout the other realms? It is we who are the shadows of that greater reality, the Master Plane – a greater Candle burning that produces our weaker, ephemeral reality.

As my colleagues refuse to admit the Umbral Plane exists, so has research been exceedingly slow to prove my hypothesis. But even from the smallest grain of sand, a true Scholar can glean some knowledge of the desert. Those of you who seek the true knowledge of Reality, read on – but be prepared to leave the comforting confines of sanity behind.

The bennies.

G. Derek Adams6 Comments

You know what’s nice?

Realizing that I haven’t mentioned minotaurs even once in That Thing — and abruptly putting in a minotaur.

YEAH.

Best job in the world.

I want there to be more minotaurs. BAM. Minotaur.

No discussions, no forms to fill out, no concerns about tone or ‘realism’.

“You know what this tea party needs? A FRICKIN’ minotaur.”

"Yes, I'll take a few crumpets. Two sugars.. and NO MILK."

Suck it, other genres.  Fantasy and swordpunk win the day.

Quest Complete.

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

There! All three Stories on Demand completed — I hope to some sort of satisfaction.

I don’t know what it was, but I had a hard time with these three — and I’m not doing my normal level of self-back-patting.

But, there’s a value to delivering a product, even when you’re not in the mood, or feeling inspired.

Right, Gurney?

"Mood's a thing for cattle and loveplay, not fighting" -Gurney Halleck / DUNE / F. Herbert

Most troublesome.

G. Derek Adams1 Comment

I killed him.

My quill almost snaps in my haste to write it down.

I turned into a mist, slipped under the door and stabbed him fourteen times with my claws. I cracked a nail on his sternum.

It was most troublesome.

He was a Nai-Elf — a mighty shaman of his tribe — come to meet with my employers. He plead his case most eloquently – the poison in the seas, the lowered birth rate of his tribe, the incalculable destruction of the natural world. The glowing tattoos in his blue skin, and the elaborate mirrored earrings and and bangles at his wrists and ankles made him savage and strange to the board — but it reminded me of home.

Clarke Peters and Dominic West in OTHELLO. Holy crap, how come I didn't already know about this?

His breath stank of sardines and aged cheese. I hated to watch him wring his hands, so nervous and uncomfortable. My employers smiled, and laughed behind their hands at him — then nodded and said soft words. It made me angry to see this wise old elf disrespected. I rushed over as he stormed out, determined to salvage some measure of good will from the shaman – Mistress Karis’ derision and anger was a risk, but I couldn’t let him leave totally empty handed.

He was angry, but he heard me – the lines in his face softened. He thanked me for my concern, and placed both of his hands out in front of his face, in a Nai-Elf gesture of respect.

I saw his eyes casually look into the tiny mirrors at his wrist. Then widen, then dart to my face.

Shit.

I whispered the word, completely surprised. He realized that I didn’t have a reflection.

The shaman left , keeping his eyes on me as his hands reached for the door. He knew what I was — which meant his fate was sealed.

I felt regret looking down at his corpse — even as I fed on his strange blood. Just a taste, our of principle.

In short order, the body was discovered , and the captain — a good, decent man himself – put the ship on lockdown, seeking the murderer. My employers were annoyed by the inconvenience, completely untouched by the shaman’s death.

I had guarded my secret for too many years to let if fall now — my sire’s commands ring in my ears as loudly today as they did a hundred years ago.

I am the spawn of Zed – the Neclord himself, and I will not fail.

There is a commotion on deck — apparently a small ship has come alongside, a group of investigators perhaps?

I sit in front of the mirror, and imagine my face — a picture held in my mind. I make the picture smile kindly, I make the wrinkles fade.

A knock at the door – I leave to go make myself helpful.

– The Journals of Enton Blake, 21st of Arrowspan – 1179

 

[Story on Demand for Steven.]

Barbarian read book.

G. Derek Adams1 Comment

[Was discussing exposition with Kristin McFarland, and how it’s preferable to have characters find clues or learn new information via in-world texts – instead of having Jagerspike Shatterpaw, Bear Pugilist and “Wise Wizard” show up and dump some plot on the main character’s heads. Here’s an excerpt from Lodestar with an example.]

The green flame’s bored directions soon led the barbarian to a large tome, nearly four handspans in length, and almost as thick as Agnar’s arm. The cover was simple leather, embossed with an ornate representation of the Arkanic symbol, Knowledge.

The Northlord found a quiet desk, hidden away in the towering stacks and set his guide down on the stand provided. The sprite brightened visibly, giving Agnar sufficient light to read.

Opening the first page, a musty fume filled the air. Heady and thick, but not unpleasant. The scent of old books.

The first page was filled with large block representations of several major Precursor symbols, a few of which Agnar found himself surprised to recognize. The numbers, and the symbol for Fire seemed to jump out at him.

Turning the page, the barbarian found a simple rhyme.

How’d they come, and where’d they go?
Little boys and girls all want to know!
East of the Sun, and West of the Moons
On silver roads born of Star
Walking and singing their secret tunes
Far and near, near and far!

The green flame tried nobly to roll its eyes, before remembering that it didn’t have any.

The next few pages are gorgeously illustrated with a series of landscapes.

Primitive people going about their simple lives, farming and hunting. Agnar gazed critically at some of the spearmen — they were holding the weapons completely wrong.

Flip.

A time of darkness, fire and death. Monsters roam the land, killing and maiming the simple tribesmen.

Flip.

A shining knight, marked with the Precursor Sigil of Power — light shines from him in all directions, making the monsters flee.

Flip.

The simple people’s village rebuilt, but grander and stronger. The shining knights walk amongst the people, helping them build things, till the earth.

Flip.

The village is a grand city, with ships that sail through the air and towers in the clouds.

Agnar stops a third of the way through the tome.

The barbarian finds several pages missing, sliced neatly from the overall tome — the barest stubs of paper remaining at the center of the binding.

The next pages showed fanciful illustrations of scholars and researchers looking through the ruins of Precursor structures, with descriptions of the undying wonders left behind by their civilization.

Maybe you will solve the mystery! Maybe you…. one page had solemnly written.

Ring of Silver

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

Material Plane/Lodestar

“Look!” Alice interrupts with a hushed whisper, pointing towards a gash on the Browncloak’s leg.

At the edges of the wound, the flesh was beginning to blacken like the charred edges of a fireplace log.

The princess immediately resumed binding his wounds with scraps of fabric, tying quick knots with a spool of twine. The black corruption was obvious on several of his other wounds. She spoke hurriedly as she worked.

“I’m not familiar with the energy of the floatstone — but my magic is aligned to the plane of Light. I’m afraid that any similar energy will only harm this….person? Demon?”

Her hands stopped moving momentarily, and she looked across Izus’ body at the assembled crew.

“Should we really be trying to save him, then?” she said stricken.

Spirit World/Lodestar

Careful — careful! Don’t you think we should return to the World of the Living now, pet? The Ianu stone whispered.

Echo ignored the stone’s pleas and pushed towards the shining man. She felt the heat on her face, and smelled sulfur in the back of her nose.

At the center of the man was a hole. The golden light radiated from the opening, glowing white-hot at the center — like a ring of candle-flame.

The druid leaned forward, and peered down into the chasm.

She saw a ring. A silver ring, pitted and worn — no more than a handspan across.

Bound to the ring, with cords of gold were five black hearts.

Five black flames.

The ring spun slowly, as the black flames pulled and fought. Sometimes at each other, sometimes at their bonds — always straining against the circle of silver.

There was something more. Something in the center of the ring, but the erratic spinning of the ring made it impossible to make out.

Time to go, pet. Leave that alone.

Why write fantasy?

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

Because the steel is sharp, and the laws are cloudy.

Because the pits are dark, and torches gutter.

Because there is no need for explanation, or justification

Because you can have a purple goblin sucker-punch a dragon, a noble minotaur strumming a lute made of stolen moonbeams, and a half-elven, half-DARK ELVEN maiden break your heart from the back of a crimson unicorn.

Literally break your heart – she cast a spell that crystallized it into Soul Ice, and her gauntlets are enchanted by a fire daemon.

Because, because, because….

[This was a comment I made on a thread asking to justify genre fiction. Comments, rebuttals, and counterspells welcome.]