The Fantasy-Horror Version of Blogging

I was always reluctant to blog. Why? Because I had a misconception of what it meant to blog. What did I mistakenly think blogging was?

I thought blogging was either "navel-gazing" or "incendiary amateur politics." The story of why people blogged went one of either two ways in my mind:

(1) People blogged in order to share what they had for dinner, or information about their bowel movements, or pictures of the cool new sweater they bought for their poodle "Snowball."

Or,

(2) People blogged in order to share their half-baked reflections on politics or to express their extremist opinions about political issues they probably knew nothing about.

Yes, I have an irritating cynical strain in me.

Let me be clear (and I think this is highly appropriate given the focus of my blog): this vision of blogging was a "fantasy-horror" I had concocted with no basis in the reality of what blogging actually is.

How was I able to weave such a repulsive illusion? Well, I never read blogs of course. I formed an opinion based on what I heard in snatches of conversation or what I gleaned from an occasional glance at a newspaper in an airport.

How did blogging transform from "navel-gazing" into a favorite pastime to engage in while drinking my morning coffee?

I started reading blogs.

I can't retrace the many aimless digital wanderings that landed me at the two blogs that I now identify as, say, my "gateway drugs," if you will, into the blogosphere. They do deserve mentioning.

The Blog of Black Gate Magazine: This is the blog associated with the heroic fantasy magazine Black Gate, and they are always posting on something I find extremely interesting regarding fantasy, fantasy art, sword and sorcery, contemporary writers, etc.. I started reading it, commenting, and reading some more. Against any plans, I became engaged in a brief dialog played out in the comments on a post that discussed what made a science-fiction/fantasy/horror classic, which was a lot of fun. I was hooked.

Grognardia: This is a blog that a lot of people involved in OSR (Old School Roleplaying) read. I find this blog so interesting because the writer knows so much about a hobby that has influenced my writing and my love of genre literature in unquantifiable ways. To a large extent I would say my writing has always been a struggle to recreate that feeling of wonder I had when I first started playing Dungeons and Dragons as a young child. I feel as though the folks who blog and read about OSR are kindred spirits to me.

What did these blogs teach me?

Blogging is less about sharing your personal feelings and more about building communities about some greater thing: a hobby, an issue, an art form, etc.. 

Sure, one shares their personal feelings, day to day encounters, opinion, hobbies, etc.. on a blog, but your personal contribution is not the main point. The point of blogging (this is my current impression of it) is to interface with communities, to build communities of like-minded people so that something like, say, fantasy-fiction or old school roleplaying, can be given fuller life. In a strange way the hobby (OSR) or the art (genre fiction) subordinates the individuals who write the blogs. In other words: you start out expressing a personal opinion on an issue… and you end up enhancing and growing something larger than yourself.

New Year's Resolution: to keep blogging. 

My Favorite Author of 2011: Jack Vance

I'm going to put off continuing with my "Aesthetic Analysis of Genre Fiction" posts for now. There's a history of the fantasy genre I want to read before I continue: Lin Carter's, Imaginary Worlds.

Today I'm going to spend some time discussing my favorite author of 2011. 

I've already discussed how I have a serious problem with not reading contemporary genre fiction. And so, it should come as no surprise that my favorite author of 2011 wrote and published many years ago: Jack Vance.

I hadn't given Jack Vance a long, thorough read until this year. I'd read his famous short story, "Mazirian the Magician," in book 1 of Isaac Asimov's Magical Worlds of Fantasy series, Wizards. I remember wanting to follow this reading up with more Vance and so I purchased both The Dying Earth and Eyes of the Overworld. 

I subsequently put them on my shelf and quickly forgot about them. It just so happened The Dying Earth was on my qualifying examinations list for my degree, and so I found myself reading it again earlier this fall. This was followed by Eyes of the Overworld. 

I wrote a review for almost each book I read during my qualifying exams reading. I know this is a short-cut, but I'm going to cite those reviews. 

The Dying Earth

I read Jack Vance’s The Dying Earth (New York: Baen, 1986, originally published 1950) and I loved it. It’s a collection of loosely related short stories about all sorts of different fantasy scenarios; however, the main character, I think, is the setting: the dying earth.

Some words about “the dying earth.” All of the stories take place in an extremely distant future where the sun has become a huge red giant and it could nova at any time. Meanwhile, magic has returned to the world but it has been forgotten. Sorcerers and wizards continue to weave spells, but they are no longer imaginative or understand the principles upon which magic is based. Thus, their magical art is a decadent endeavor marked by atavism. These sorcerers know how to do magic, but they do it by rote, by simply following through the formulas of previously developed spells. The spells have interesting names like “the Excellent Prismatic Spray,” “Phandaal’s Mantle of Stealth,” and “the Spell of the Slow Hour.”

If you’ve played Dungeons and Dragons before, then these names will seem familiar. Why? Well, Jack Vance’s The Dying Earth and its sequels were influences on the creators of Dungeons and Dragons. This is of course why I came to these stories in the first place, to see the mythic forefathers of the magical spells of Dungeons and Dragons.

But the interest of the stories aren’t exhausted in that one, esoteric characteristic. Vance has an extremely distinct style. He writes with humor while depicting cruel violence. Amid horrifying scenes—say, an orgy wherein a cult cavorts with demons—love and beauty can blossom. Eclectic is the adjective that best describes Vance’s fantasy.

I recommend giving these stories a read. Of all the stories, I believe “Mazirian the Magician” is the best. The main character—a sorcerer who is obsessed with a girl--will linger with you for a long time after reading of him.

Eyes of the Overworld

I finished The Eyes of the Overworld (New York: Pocket Books, 1966) last night and enjoyed it. For me its better than the earlier Dying Earth collection of short-stories because each of the stories are embedded into an overarching, picaresque plot (though at times some of the stories due seem incidental and random, though I enjoy the tone of playfulness this creates). Though such a comparison is silly because obviously the originality of Dying Earth is the platform upon which Vance constructs this narrative. Rather than make more bald assessments, let me tell you a little about the novel.

Published in 1966, The Eyes of the Overworld is the second book in Jack Vance’s Dying Earth series. Many of the same plot elements show up in this story: powerful sorcerers, strange creatures, an extremely dangerous yet beautiful wilderness. What anchors this series of stories is the main character’s quest. His name is Cugel the Clever, a roguish figure who I thought was hilarious. He’s a great anti-hero: extremely self-interested, narcissistic, borderline crazy, a fast-talker. In the opening frame story he gets tricked into burglarizing a powerful sorcerer’s home who catches him and threatens to curse him with the “Charm of Forlorn Encystment,” “which constricts the subject in a pore some forty-five miles below the surface of the earth” (14). The novel is filled with all sorts of cruel, interestingly humorous curses and spells like this. Rather than accept this punishment, the sorcerer and Cugel work out a deal together. Cugel is required to go to a far away land and retrieve a magical contact lens that allows one to see the world as a paradise.

The sorcerer’s magic quickly spirits him far away to where he discovers the lens; the rest of the novel is Cugel’s adventures in making his way back to his home in Azenomei. I won’t spoil the story by listing these numerous adventures, but many of them are strange, disturbing, hilarious, intense, and sad.

Swords and Dark Magic: Showing versus Telling and Narrative Pace

To escape the my "cherubim" three-year-old niece who is happily terrorizing my folks house (where I'm currently lodging in the guest room), I've exiled myself to a local Starbucks to write this post.

I don't mind Starbucks. I like their brewed coffee, which is not unique but consistent. But they play their music too damn loud. *Grumble.*  

Today I'm taking a break from my "Aesthetic Analysis of Genre Fiction." I thought I'd do something more light-hearted and return my extended review of Swords and Dark Magic: the New Swords and Sorcery (edited by Jonathan Strahan and Lou Anders).

Here are links to the other posts: Swords and Dark Magic, an Extended Review

The third story in Swords and Dark Magic is titled "Bloodsport" and is written by Gene Wolfe. I identify Wolfe with The Fifth Head of Cerberus, and so discovering him in this anthology was somewhat of a surprise.

Though it had its moments, this story wasn't my favorite. His prose style here is just not to my taste. It felt like he was writing more in the mode of epic poetry as opposed to realist fiction, which I think is a key register for good fantasy.

The tone I think he was trying to strike was "mystical," or "lyrical." In this way his prose style suggested that of Ursula K. LeGuin in the Earthsea Trilogy. Don't get me wrong: I love Ursula K. LeGuin; but she can pull it off.

Let me try to be more specific by referring to a specific passge from the story. Here is a passage the relates the victory of the main character in the "Bloodsport."

His head struck the wretched stony soil of the black square first, and I feared a broken neck. Yet he lived, and I was mewing and moving when they bore him away. The spectators were not pleased with me, but I was pleased with myself; it is winning that matters, not slaying. (81, my emphasis)

The first two sentences show the narrative events as they happen; the third and final sentence tell us about the narrative events as they happen. The slogan, "show, don't tell," is often bandied about in creative writing classrooms, and I think it generally applies in terms of contemporary tastes in fiction.

Sometimes writers need to work against this largely accepted proverb. Writers too heedful of this risk doing nothing but showing and never telling. The consequence? Concrete narrative events can become stifled in what narrative theorists call retardation. In other words, sometimes, "The spectators were not pleased with me," is better than, say (let me try my hand at some retardation...),

"The spectators foamed at the mouth, grit their teeth, howled in rage! They were like a great tide, ebbing and flowing, crashing against the pier brake. I stood there and narrowed my eyes and turned my thoughts to their many horrible faces: chins jutted, tongues waggling, fists raised in the air defiantly like so many the bristling hairs on the nape of a slavering dog."

Wow. That was intense. And it also retards the narrative flow.

Events don't continue forward until the indulgent showing ends with some telling.

With that said, Gene Wolfe--for my tastes--did too much telling in this story and not enough showing.

Telling, I think, lends itself to specific aesthetic effects. For example, you can really intensify action with telling. The simplicity of the linguistic device really enhances it. You can also, I think, speed the narrative up. Here is some pure telling:

A boy was born. He grew up, found a career, was married, had children, and retired. He died.

This is a pretty lame story, and yet--AND YET! it traverses the entire life of a character. The temporal range is, say, 70-80 years. And it's only telling. I could do some showing, but it would retard the plot.

A boy was born. As a newborn he never cried. He would often stare into nothingness, as if transfixed by an invisible specter. He grew up, found a career, was married, had children, and retired. He died with that same look fixed on his face. 

This story is much more interesting. Nevertheless, in terms of narrative speed, it is slower.


Writing fantasy that is heavy on the "telling side" can be done and has been done; but I think it tends to create a more "fairy tale" tone rather than a "fantasy" one. There are writers who I think can do this. Without a doubt, LeGuin pulls it off. Another comparable writer is Andre Norton. With Gene Wolf's "Bloodsport's" emphasis on a chess-like game, it resembles Andre Norton's somewhat widely know--at least by D&D enthusiasts--Quag Keep (this was, to my knowledge, the first Dungeons and Dragons novel).


I would arbitrarily give this story a 3/5 in relaton to the stories in the anthology. Let me back up and give numbers to the other ones:

Steven Erikson, "Goats of Glory": 4.5/5
Glen Cook, "Tides Elba: A Tale of the Black Company":2.5/5

Oh, and by the way, I recently was referred to a full review of this anthology, if you're interested. Here it is: Review of Swords and Dark Magic on SFFWorld

This is a great site with a lot of good information on it and a very friendly forum. Check it out.

Here is a relevant but brief exercise: Write a 20 word story and try not to show. Focus on core narrative details. Then write a 60 page story and do some showing, i.e. highlight some sensory details. Then write a 350 word story and show even more.

Aesthetic Analysis of Genre Fiction (Part 2): The Rule of the Scalpel

The extended holiday visit to Columbus continues.

I spent the day with my little brother drinking coffee at a Columbus, Ohio institution: Stauf’s Coffee Roasters in Grandview. It’s a great coffee house but also a very fine roaster. 

Public service announcement (not an advertisement! I swear!): they’re shipping for free until the end of the year. If you like Ethiopian coffees, do yourself a favor and try their Baba Budan roast. They were brewing it today. I had about four cups and feel quite ready to proceed with some blogging.

In my last post I attempted to articulate what I am calling “the aesthetic analysis” of genre fiction; that is, I’m attempting to articulate the nature of the artistic effect this work provokes in its readers. In other words, I’m trying to put into words just how science fiction, fantasy, and horror moves us.

But there are some loose ends that need tying up before we proceed.

I’ll focus on the first loose end in this post: terminological precision.

Science fiction, fantasy, horror, mystery, tragedy, comedy, the picaresque: generally speaking these are taxonomical concepts developed by literary historians for the purpose of organizing and making sense of Western literary production in all of its diversity and plenitude. 

In large part, they are fictions, mere interpretive apparatuses.

I believe we should conditionally be suspicious of such taxonomies.

Anytime someone categorizes they downplay differences and foreground similarities. Thus, the categorization of literary genres, aesthetic effects, thematic preoccupations, stylistic propensities, etc., are necessarily simplifying, reductive—some would say disrespectul to the full richness, plenitude, and subtlety of authentic pieces of literary art.

Before you call hypocrite on me (I am, of course, happily using such taxonomic devices), consider this: in spite of my description of genre categories and literary historical models as simplifying and disrespectful, I fully acknowledge they are useful. 

Dissecting a frog isn’t necessarily respectful to the frog; nevertheless, dissecting a frog does teaches us a lot about frog anatomy! 

Put a little more directly: categorizing literature may do a disservice to its full richness, but it is too useful of a practice to forsake.

So one of my first principles is that of suspicion of genre distinctions. Because of this I rely on a rule I call “the rule of the scalpel.” This is a simple enough metaphor if I spend a little time unpacking it.

Here goes:

If, in order to understand literary art, we need to dissect it, then it is best to use the most subtle carving implements, yes? Scalpels rather than chainsaws. The question becomes, “How do you make interpretive apparatuses as subtle as possible?” Or, “How do you make them scalpels rather than chainsaws?”

You do so through specificity: historical, stylistic, thematic.

For example, when using the term “fantasy” to refer to a specific genre of literature there are, I think, two general ways of approaching things: a general way and a specific way.

I would be using it in a general way if I understand “fantasy literature” as any literature that represents deviations from reality. Thus, The Odyssey—with its cyclops and spirits of the dead—becomes just as much a fantasy as The Hobbit. I resist this (although I can imagine a completely valid argument for this proposition).

To use "fantasy literature" in this way, I think, is to use an interpretive apparatus that is more like a chainsaw and less like a scalpel. Both, of course, get the job done.

To use “fantasy literature” like a scalpel you need to bracket the general concept and prefer the more specific concept.

Let me offer this alternative though no doubt draft definition of fantasy literature:
"fantasy literature" is narrative fiction of the 20th century written in the tradition of Robert E. Howard and J.R.R. Tolkien that combines a stylistic reliance on the conventions of realism with a glaring disregard for the reality principle.

This definition combines…

(1) stylistic idiosyncrasies—the conventions of realist literature
(2) a specific historical tradition—the work of Robert E. Howard and J.R.R. Tolkien
and
(3) a thematic preoccupation—deviations from the reality principle.

We can quibble about the details of these specific categories. For example, does the historical tradition of modern fantasy begin with Lord Dunsany? Does every piece of literature that we define as fantasy rely upon the conventions of realist fiction? For a work to be a fantasy how much does it need to deviate from the reality principle? In other words—is one goblin enough?

In order to understand how “fantasy literature” moves us, i.e. in order to describe as precise as possible its aesthetic effect (so that we can recreate it, intensify it, master it) we first need to know what, precisely, it is we’re talking about. 

I don't feel fully confident defining "fantasy literature," "supernatural horror," and "science-fiction" in this post. I'll take a more focused stab at it tomorrow.

Brief Update: Original Flash Fiction with a Short Meditation on Hack Writing for Profit

I've been reluctant to post my work online. Why?

First off (this one is obvious), I'm not one of those writers who is very willing to share their writing for fear that it sucks.

Secondly, I'm not one of those writers who like to do a lot of work for nothing. I'm a mercenary. I'm a self-styled hack.

Don't get me wrong: I don't need a lot of payment for my work. Considering many of my favorite writers were pulp hacks, I romanticize getting paid crappily for spinning yarns.

And yet, I think payment validates artistic efforts. Unlike many literary artists who historically fear the market as a contaminate, I believe a modicum of profit motivation keeps writers "honest".

Blasphemy you say? Let me explain!

Off the top of my head I can think of two substantial justifications for why writing for money is good and productive:

1) The pleasure of the audience doesn't become wholly subordinate to the artistic vision of the writer. 


2) The writer must respect the fundamental "communicational" nature of language, its social utility; thus, "money-writers" are more reluctant to withdraw into solipsistic flights of subjective delirium. 

I don't mean for this to sound cynical nor do I mean to downplay the power Modernist aesthetics.

Forsaking the market and writing for themselves and themselves only was a move that Modernist writers made that produced some of the most stirring and enduring literary masterpieces.

My strange attempt to celebrate hack writing is not to denigrate pure literary art. That's not the point!

My point is to celebrate lowbrow writing that was written for cold, hard cash with specific markets, audiences, and, if you will, social needs in mind (being entertained is a social need, yes?)--writing that was puffed up to eek as much money out of a cents-per-word markets as possible!

I believe this kind of writing, in moments of intensity, effects a unique and profound type of beauty.

For many pulp writers making good art was concomitant with making a sale.


What does this have to do with the introduction of flash fiction to my blog?

Well--I feel less guilty leaving a 500 word short flash fiction on my digital front porch with nothing but the honor system protecting it than, say, a 10,000 word short story or a 30,000 word novella I've spent hours of my time and lots of my emotional energy on.

But I do feel compelled to share some of my fiction and would be honored if you glanced at it.

Some self-imposed rules: the fiction I release on this blog will be written for this blog and will not exceed 600 words in length. These fictions will be complete narratives--nothing unfinished will be posted. And they will be of diverse generic modes. I might try my hand at a science-fiction one month, a horror another, a fantasy another; I might do serials. I might do stand-alone narratives.

Here is the inaugrual one, a sword and sorcery about a rogue who assassinates a god-king with a sorcerer's demented trinkets: The Rogue and the Emerald Eyeballs.

Aesthetic Analysis of Genre Fiction: The Pornographic Nature of Science-Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror (Part 1)

There are many different modes of literary criticism.

• There is evaluation, in which you discuss the merits or flaws of a specific piece of work. This tends to be practiced by book reviewers.
• There is historicism, in which you discuss the historical context of the literary work in order to clarify its meaning for modern audiences. Historians do this quite well.
• There is biographism, in which you situate a specific work into the context of an entire authors oeuvre. Much of the literary criticism done today on famous authors--say, Shakespeare and Joyce--is done in this mode. 
• There is structural analysis, in which you consider the structural apparatuses used by the specific literary format and analyze it in those terms; for example, the formal analysis of metered poetry is a good example of what I would like to call structural analysis.

These are, of course, caricatures of work that is never one of any of these and always a mixture of many modes.

By the way, these are my coinages that more or less resemble other conceptualizations more formally defined by historians of literary criticism. 

But in this post I want to briefly talk about a specific type of literary criticism: aesthetic analysis.

Before proceeding with my micro-discussion I need to answer this question: what relevance does this topic have for aspiring weird fiction writers? Fair enough. Just how is this important in terms of the purported focus of this blog: the writing of science fiction, fantasy, horror?

Hmm...

Here's my argument put briefly: in order to create good literature you need to be able to identify, describe, and distinguish between good and bad writing. You need to be a literary critic to be a literary artist.

This belief is obviously underpinned by a primal, perhaps more controversial belief: I believe that writing is a skill that can be honed and mastered as opposed to the more romantic view of writing as a miraculous expression of singular linguistic/narrative genius. 

For me, writing is just as much like carpentry as it is an inherited gene. In order to produce good writing, you not only need to be talented and creative but you need to be able to identify good writing and discuss its features. 

I don't deny that innate artistic skill and inspiration are *the* key elements of writerly success; nevertheless, I believe with enough commitment and enthusiasm and input, writers can more fully reach their artistic potential. With that said, developing a strong "literary critical" sensibility is a must.

O.k.. Back to aesthetic analysis. I'm not sure what the most proper term is for what I mean by aesthetic analysis as a mode of literary criticism; and so, this is what I mean by it: aesthetic analysis is an attempt to understand the effect of art on the audience of art. 

In other words, it is the study of *drum roll* how art moves us. 

Some folks might call this reception analysis or cognitive poetics. These terms are too precise for me. I'll spare you my many reservations.

Here's the major premise of aesthetic analysis: art effects people in specific ways. In other words, fantasy fills people with wonder! Science-fiction stirs people with a feeling of the sublime! Horror horrifies! Thus, we can think of each type of art as connected to a specific--let us say "emotion."

Fantasy: feelings of the "fantastic."

Science-fiction: feelings of "science-fictionality"

Horror: feelings of "horror."

Articulating things in this way then lets us imagine how each genre sets out to stir within its readers a specific bodily reaction.

And here is where I get to let loose my scandalous though hopefully thought provoking slogan: weird fiction, by which I mean science-fiction, fantasy and horror (by which I mean genre fiction), is fundamentally pornographic. 

Why?! How?! What?!

Well, let me answer this is a roundabout way by indulging in a little literary historical syllogism: 

Premise 1: Because science-fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror are often cited as 20th century phenomenon, "genre fiction" is often defined in contradistinction to the other 20th century literary phenomenon: "high modernist literature" or "pure literary art." 

Premise 2: Modernism attempts to create in its audience a kind of negative emotional state, a kind of emotional, cerebral detachment. Thus, it is considered pure art.

Conclusion: It's "opposite," genre fiction, attempt to stir its audiences emotions. It quickens their pulse, takes their breath away, boggles their mind.

Pornography acts on the body, too.

I'm opening up a big can of worms here and I'll follow up it tomorrow. I'm thinking this may be a 3 or 4 parter. 

But we have taken are first step into understanding precisely how weird fiction works. Understanding how something works then allows us to speculate on its effectiveness. And with effectiveness we then have a means by which to sharpen any value judgments we might deploying in evaluating genre literature. 

"It is good or bad?" becomes "is it effective or ineffective?" 

I'm sure there is payoff here.

Swords and Dark Magic: Secondary World As Distraction

Having my coffee and writing in a coffee shop this morning. I'm apartment-sitting for a friend of mine. Conveniently, its located right next to a coffee joint *and* what is widely considered Columbus, Ohio's best book store: The Book Loft, a *huge* overstock book store that boasts 32 rooms filled with books. I'll be heading over there after this. 

Also, if you haven't noticed, I sketched out a banner. It's amateurish and the letters are crooked. But, I stand by my work! I was inspired by the lettering of *Weird Tales* and tried to emulate it. The wine-snob devil sitting on the wine-barrel: I have to chalk that up to spontaneous inspiration. 

Enough biographical preamble!

Today I’m returning to the anthology *Swords and Dark Magic* (EOS, 2010), edited by Jonathan Strahan and Lou Anders . This is the third of a series which I will recap for you in 30 words: I’m reviewing and analyzing each story in this anthology of so-called “new sword and sorcery” in order to begin to bring myself up to speed on the fantasy being written *today.*

Here are links to previous posts for your convenience and my self-satisfaction: 

Swords and Dark Magic Post 1 Introduction

Swords and Dark Magic Post 2 Analysis of Steven Erikson's "Goats of Glory"

The second story is titled “Tides Elba: A Tale of the Black Company” and written by Glen Cook. I’ve never read anything by Glen Cook. I’m always surprised by how one can never fully consider oneself *well read* in genre literature—there are constantly authors who show up who you’ve never heard about and yet—and yet! Everyone else has. And not only has everyone else heard of this author but this author has a *huge* following and has been writing for many years.

Such was my experience of Glen Cook.

Apparently his *Black Company* stories have been going on for quite some time.

I glanced through a Wikipedia article and read the editors’s description of Glen Cook’s work and found that his *Black Company* stories are related through a series of novels beginning in 1985 and are still going strong today. I find that so fascinating!

For me, sword and sorcery was a proverbial flower of the 60s, 70s, and 80s that died in the 90s in the midst of a resurgence of epic, “non-adventure” based fantasy. But the work of Glen Cook’s—a novum in and of itself—is forcing me to reevaluate this assumption.

I’ve come to the point in my blog where I realize I need something: *a better model for historically narrating fantasy literature.*

It seems most blogs *answer* questions or at least relate useful information, but here is a deviation: *does anyone know of a recent history of fantasy—1970-2011?*

Anyhow, I wander. Back to “Tides Elba” and the Black Company.

Some summary: The story assumes a lot of contextual knowledge about the Black Company, their world, and their situation, and thus gets started quickly—the Black Company Mercenary Army is ordered by their employer to search out a rebel leader by the name of Tides Elba. These orders are delivered to them by a magic-carpet riding sorcerer by the name of the Limper. The members of the company are suspicious of the Limper, having had dealings with him in the past; therefore, they work together to both satisfy their obligations to their employer and to protect the welfare of the company. They do this through conspiratorial, cloak-and-dagger subterfuge. And that’s all I’ll give away.

Let me just say I didn’t care for this story as much as the first one by Steven Erikson. Why? I felt disoriented through this story and it took about 10 pages before I stopped being confused and got a handle on the situation. Wherefore? I have a hunch that I think is an important one that contains within it an useful lesson for genre writers: this story is so invested in the micro-politics of its “secondary world” that someone who is unfamiliar with it *cannot* enjoy it.

But thats not to say this story had *nothing* to endear it to me.

I liked the gruff personalities that populated the world Cook presents to us here. The main character(s) of this story is less a single individual and more the collective of the military company itself (and in this way it is similar in terms of narrative structure to the first story in this anthology, “Goats of Glory”).

But, even though the military collective—the Black Company—subordinates, to some extent, the narrative roles of individual characters in this story, the individuals are nevertheless *individuals.* Furthermore, they are individuals in an *intense* way. This intensity of character is related through some really great dialog, by which I mean natural dialog, dialog skillfully pervaded by idioms of intimacy.

Exercise: Think of one of your favorite “secondary world” fantasy novels. Next, think about the characters and conflicts this novel relates. Try to summarize it in 150 words by stripping it of the details of its secondary world. Here’s a brief example wherein I strip J.R.R. Tolkien’s *The Hobbit* of all its distinguishing characteristics—purge all traces of Middle Earth from it--while retaining the core of its narrative.

A story about a young man from a quaint village where nothing happens. He encounters a group of artisans who have been divested of their wealth and who have a plan to get it back. They set out together, have a variety of strange encounters in the wilderness, and at the end of their journey find themselves engaged in a great war after their wealth has been returned to them.

Though the micro-political details of some “secondary world” fantasies are what attracts a lot of readers to these stories, sometimes, I think, the too heavy-handed foregrounding of these details can be alienating and distracting from the core narrative. This is why, I think, more people read J.R.R. Tolkien’s *The Lord of the Rings* and less people read his histories. I think an exercise like this, rather than training us to de-emphasize such details, is a good way to remind us of the importance of plot.

Holiday Post: the Gift of Pulp, the Pleasure of Acquistion

For my first holiday post, I’d like to share some Christmas presents I received from my infinitely wise and always surprising wife, Nicole: four issues of *Weird Tales.*

I don’t want to assume everyone knows about this magazine (it’s really hard not to!). And so, here’s a little background: this is an important pulp magazine not just in terms of genre fiction but in terms of popular culture in general: film, television, comic books, etc., you name it, important elements can be traced back to *Weird Tales.*

In other words, it’s a Ur text of our popular culture (and many sub-cultures).

I study *Weird Tales* academically and have never collected it myself. Why? First: it’s an extremely expensive habit and grad students are scandalously poor (I, alas, am no exception). Second: one of the nation’s best—if not the best--popular culture library is no more than a two hour drive from my house (the Bowling Green Popular Culture Library). They have a full run of it.

I always told myself I wasn’t going to try and collect *Weird Tales* because it is one of the most sought after periodicals and can quickly become a financial liability. Well, Nicole saw to it that that tidbit of self-discipline was destroyed.

Within 10 minutes of receiving these I had begun imagining the fantastical day when I complete my collection (this will never happen, of course, unless I become an oil tycoon or a “ dot com” millionaire—better keep blogging!)

Here are the issues she got me: May 1944, January 1947, March and November of 1948. And here are some pictures of the covers:

I apologize for the crappy photography. I’ve never been good at it; however, for me, the cover art of *Weird Tales* is just as interesting as the material inside. I thought they would be a treat to see.

Here is a link to a full catalog of Weird Tales where you can consult the table of contents and see better graphics of the covers, if you so desire: Weird Tales Catalog

This is a great site for archival information on *Weird Tales* I’ve relied on often. While I’m at it, I might as well throw a reference book at you. If you’re interested in learning more about *Weird Tales,* then you might take a look at *The Weird Tales Story* by Robert Weinberg. It’s a history of the magazine with a lot of inside information related by previous writers that is simply not available anywhere else.

I am *drafting* a resources page on *Weird Tales* that you can access here. I plan on throwing things informative and useful in here as I come across them.

I plan on devoting more time to substantively discussing *Weird Tales* writers, artists, and fiction in this blog—but now! Now is not the time. Now is the time to celebrate the simple pleasure of *acquisition.*

I’m really interested in the May 1944 edition because the cover was done by Margret Brundage. She was a famous illustrator and artist who did some very good covers for *Weird Tales* from 1933-1938; however, this is only of her last covers (her final *Weird Tales* cover came out in January of 1945). I feel like I’m becoming a broken record, but, ::sigh:: I hope to devote a series of posts to her specifically in the future.

Anyhow—happy holidays!

A Critical Assessment of My Creative Output for 2011

I want to change things up today.

Lately I’ve been doing critical analyses of the “weird fiction” I’ve been reading (reminder: by “weird fiction” I mean science fiction, fantasy, and horror). But I don’t conceive of “literary criticism” as the core goal of my blog (although there will be plenty).

Ultimately, I want to merge *analysis* with *synthesis,* to go from reading good genre fiction to writing good genre fiction.

With that in mind, I want to publicly take stock of my writing efforts, attempt to characterize my creative endeavors, and in that way gain some critical perspective/detachment. I hope this isn’t just *navel gazing* and that it might be useful or instructive—even as a blueprint for *not* how to proceed—to aspiring genre writers.

My current goal is to write creatively for 15 minutes per day.

I’ve been doing this *somewhat* consistently for a year now. In terms of word count, here is how I figure it: if I do this 7 days a week, thats exactly 1 hour and 45 minutes of writing (give or take, considering sometimes my 15 minutes becomes 30 or even 45 minutes). Considering I average 500 words per 15 minute session (give or take), my output in terms of word count is approximately 3000 words per week. Thus, in two weeks I can reach 6000 words.

Most of the short-fiction markets I’ve been researching want 5000 - 10,000 word stories (you can get a thumbnail sketch of them in my “markets” section, although for more in-depth information I suggest checking out their webpage directly). And so, considering my output page, 15 minutes of writing a day—if I’m consistent—gets me *a draft* for a story for one of these markets in two weeks.

Add about a week for revision, and in 3 weeks I can have a story to send off.

And yet—and yet! this is not how things have been working out!

I’ve been writing seriously since December of last year and I’ve finished *drum roll* 7 short stories (these have been significantly revised and polished)! Of these seven stories, I only feel truly confident in 2 of them. I sent them out at the time I started this blog (approximately 10 days ago—I’ll report in as I hear back).

Summary: in a year of relatively consistent writing, I’ve gotten to a position where I have two stories under review by magazines.

Yes. It seems I need to work harder.

In all honestly, though, *I haven’t been consistent in my writing.* For the months of August, September, and October, I barely wrote at all considering I was researching for and studying material for my qualifying examinations (I passed them, by the way, and am therefore no longer a Ph.D. *student* but a Ph.D. *candidate*—::self-satisfied smile::).

And now I’m starting my dissertation project. *gulp*

The key to productivity, I realize, is to stay consistent. 15 minutes a day, ideally, equals one story written every three weeks. That means in a 52 week year I could conceivably write 17 stories.

This year I wrote seven. ::sigh:: I didn’t realize how far behind I was. Of those seventeen I aim to write, I’m sure 4 or 5 will be worth submitting.

Anyhow, I did want to share some of the logistics I’m been rolling around in my head. Its refreshing to take stock of these things.

Onward. Excelsior! Engage! Roll initiative!

Shadow Over Innsmouth: Sneaking Past the Lovecraftian Shieldwall

I recently read H.P. Lovecraft’s “Shadow Over Innsmouth,” a novella about a strange town that has become entangled with a race of fish-people who worship a dark god (this summary is probably gratuitous considering the fame of this story). Generally, I love Lovecraft’s fiction. Specifically, I love this novella.

Some general comments about Lovecraft before proceeding: I’m reluctant to write about him. Why? Because of all the weird writers I’m interested in, the “critical/scholarly/fan” community—I like term “shieldwall”—that comments on and critiques him is very large and intimidatingly well read. This is, of course, connected with, among other things, the establishment of Arkham House Publishing, a company founded to preserve Lovecraft’s legacy.

As I continue this blog, I aim to more fully delve into this work (side note: I will begin with the relatively new biography of Lovecraft written by Lovecraft afficionado S.T. Joshi titled *I Am Providence*). And so, please please consider this post as a tentative and “amateurish” step into a field that is quite large—a single toe into a pool of eldritch slime-horrors.

Now. Let us return to “Shadow Over Innsmouth.”

The pace and structure of the story is what truly endears me to it. It begins subtly. The protagonist wanders aimlessly through Innsmouth gathering this or that tidbit of information which begins to accumulate allowing him to piece together a vision of horror. To some extent it emulates the structure of a traditional detective novel like, say, *The Maltese Falcon.* After he has a talk with a drunken homeless person, all the pieces fall together and the novella actually becomes a psuedo-action thriller. I won’t spoil the ending, which is great.

Aside from “cheerleading” this story, what else can I offer? Well, here’s a little information. The story was written in November and December of 1931. It wasn’t published until 1936 and, according to August Derlath, it is the only fiction written by Lovecraft that was published independently and not in a periodical. I find this intriguing because the material circumstances of the periodical market determines, to a large extent, the narrative shape of the stories published within it.

How does the material circumstances of this story’s publication play out in terms of the story’s structure and style? Here’s some conjecture: the pace is unhurried and, though it still split up into sections, it reads as if it organically holds together the way that some other longer Lovecraft pieces (I am particularly thinking of “Herbert West-Reanimator”) feel stitched together from otherwise distinct episodes.

Some interpretation: this story is preoccupied with racial purity and a fear that informs it is the fear of the racial purist who is afraid that somewhere in their family tree are some “alien” elements. I don’t find this particularly scary. What I do find intriguing, however, is the idea of “inhuman” elements secretly infiltrating human society, of other worlds—older than our own—existing outside of what we consider the norm. The fear of genetic contamination that pervades a lot of Lovecraft’s fiction is difficult for me to understand and *may* be anachronistic here in 2011 (this is, of course, being optimistic).

Fear of the Other is more universal. For me the power of this story is that Lovecraft has created a village of Others who are strange not because of how *different* they are from us. It’s the other way around. They are anthroid fish people. Thus, they are creepy because of their *resemblance* to us. Therefore, the predominant aesthetic effect of the story is—(::sigh:: I hate using this word.) *uncanny.* In other words, the fish-people of Innsmouth are a distortion of ourselves, but the distortion is skillfully tempered. This is why I think the final scene in the story is so disturbing—the protagonist staring at himself in a mirror.

Swords and Dark Magic: Steven Erikson's, "Goats of Glory"

I recently read Steven Erikson’s “Goats of Glory,” the first story in the “Swords and Dark Magic Anthology.” I liked it a lot. To a large extent, it has everything I would expect from a sword and sorcery yarn. Here are some highlights:

Conventional Sword and Sorcery Elements

The “secondary world” where the adventures take place is dark, gritty, and unforgiving. It is violent and the violence is portrayed (struggling for the right adjective here) “beautifully.” And the antagonists, rather than being mere mortals, are otherworldy, demented, and imbued with magic. In other words, the main conflict is between the natural/ the immanent—soldiers who are road worn and wielding steel—and the supernatural—demon sorcerers from other planes.

This violent confrontation, between the worldly and the otherworldly is, for me, the essence of sword and sorcery. The mundane and the magical, in sword and sorcery, tend to be suspicious of each other. In this story, this is indeed the case.

Unconventional Sword and Sorcery Elements

In spite of its traditional sword and sorcery elements, there is a lot about this story that is indeed new.

On the level of plot, the protagonist is not a single, lone figure but a group of people, a fellowship. Let me explain why I think this is new.

When I think of sword and sorcery., I often think of “the one versus the many,” the barbarian versus the sorcerer and the spirits he summons. Think of all the Franz Frazetta paintings that depict a single barbarian facing off with a sorcerer or demon. In this story you have a group of people confronting the darkness of sorcery (i.e. demons). I’m probably overstating the case here, but Robert E. Howard’s Conan stories, C.L. Moore’s Jorel of Joiry stories, Michael Moorcock’s Elric of Melnibone stories, and, to a certain extent, Fritz Leiber’s Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser stories—these all depict a single individual (or a duo) facing a pluralistic force. To some extent, these writers setup this theme of the one versus the many (I get the sense that the “fellowship” of folks fighting against evil is more of an element of high or epic fantasy). In this sword and sorcery yarn you have what seems like a platoon or fellowship facing a (evil?) force together. I am reluctant to write “evil” because sword and sorcery often blurs the distinction between so-called good and evil; this story is no exception.

Secondly, gender is portrayed somewhat neutrally in this story; thus, there are a unique type of “strong women” characters. Sure, you may cite Jorel of Joiry or Red Sonja (or Red Sonja), but the “strong women” in these stories are different. Jorel and Red (the comic book girl or the literary version) are sex objects and unique *because* they are women. Even though they are Medusa-like females who often expose the emptiness of their male antagonists so-called masculinity, they nevertheless become portrayed as sexual objects and are unique because they are women.

In this story, however, this is entirely not the case. The Captain is a woman and this situation is in no way portrayed in this story as unique. Furthermore, the women aren’t portrayed as being “sexy” or attractive; and furthermore—this was an interesting element of this story—they are sexually aggressive, i.e. they seek out males “for hire” when they arrive in town.

I know that non-sexualized woman who seek out sex aren’t anything new as far as fantasy literature; nevertheless, this type of neutral approach to gender in a traditionally masculinist genre like sword and sorcery seems interesting and perhaps new to me.

A reminder: this is the first of a series of reflections I’m going to do on the anthology of new sword and sorcery titled *Swords and Dark Magic,* edited by Jonathan Strahan and Lou Anders (New York: EOS, 2010). I’m probably going to take a break from this as I have another post idea in mind. But I’ll return to it later this week.

Swords and Dark Magic: Setting Aside the Road Map and Risky Reading

I recently purchased an interesting anthology of fantasy short stories titled, *Swords and Dark Magic.* Edited by Jonathan Strahan and Lou Anders, it purports to be an anthology of what they refer to as “the new sword and sorcery.” This is awesome.

I have to admit: the concept of a *new* sword and sorcery gets my pulse going. Why? Because I’m an enthusiast of sword and sorcery. Furthermore, I want to write sword and sorcery. And further furthermore, I thought sword and sorcery was dead. Imagine my surprise at founding this book on an end cap in a bookstore in Portland.

Being that this anthology was published 2010 (a scant two years ago), I find it extremely inspiring that something like *new* sword and sorcery exists. And here is where this blog becomes a confessional: I admit it. I don’t read contemporary fantasy fiction. Before my fast-talking attempt to evade your well-justified scorn, let me just acknowledge how *uncool* that is, especially considering the goal of this blog.

I get the sense that if one wants to be a writer, one should be reading contemporary fiction. Why?Well, it seems that if you set out to write fiction and don’t read any fiction being written today, you set yourself to be neglected by everyone. I’m not preaching to you: I’m preaching to myself.

O.k.. Now for the explanation. You see, I have been reading fantasy ever since I’ve been a reader; however, at the same I’ve also been reading the “literary” texts (I won’t bore you with the strange relationship I have with that adjective, which is both a value judgment and indicator of a specific tradition). For a long time, I made no distinction between so-called “literary” and “genre” texts (oh, the innocence of childhood!). To this day, this distinction is one I adopt somewhat awkwardly.

So, conditionally agreeing that there exists things called “literary texts” and things called “genre texts,” I have to admit that genre literature has been only a portion of my reading (albeit a large portion—let us say approximately 50%).

Here’s some more conjecture: academic training in literary studies, of which I have had a fair amount, makes one read in a specific way: in accordance with a road map. It takes the *risk* out of the exploratory work. In other words, it conditions ones to read in conformity with pre-established canons. I haven been reading “the canon,” if you will, of science-fiction, fantasy, and horror rather than, say, the work being produced today.

There’s a very pessimistic subtext that informs this bias for the old, the established, the work that has generated commentary: the idea that the stuff being written today is *ephemeral* and may or may not stand the test of time. Carrying this logic forward: if it is written today, then it *may not* be worth one’s time.

Thus, the way one decides what to read is to ask if this given text has “withstood the test of time.” How do you know if a text or writer has withstood the test of time? Well, that writer or that novel appears in a list or canon. But who decides who makes the list or canon? Folks who are well read in the canon. And here we have an echo chamber, the implications of which are worth further meditation.

The consequence of reading in conformity with “canons”--whether they be the canons of science fiction, fantasy, or the “Western Canon”--means that you end up missing out on authors who haven’t “made the cut.” Or who *have yet* to make the cut. I truly believe this. And so, as I set out to become a writer, I hereby make a commitment: to change my ways, to read texts that are being written today. To seek out the ephemeral and quit seeking after the eternal. Hence, my purchase of an anthology of *Swords and Dark Magic*.

I’m going to be spending some extra time on this anthology in the coming month. Here’s the plan: I’ll read a story from it and react to it and also try to compile some information about each author: their website, their twitter feed, their blog. My hope is that by doing this I’ll be able to get a clearer sense of the kind of sword and sorcery being written *right now*.

In other words, I’m setting aside the road map for a little bit.

Harold Lamb, Viking Deathblows, and Point of View

Recently I started reading Harold Lamb (1892-1962), a “historical/adventure writer” in our context but many other things in other ones. I purchased an anthology, Swords from the Sea (Lincoln: Bison, 2010), from an amazing used bookstore in Portland called Powell’s. This is notable as I usually purchase my books online from Amazon (sidenote: it was strangely satisfying to wander around through aisles and aisles of books picking up what catches my eye). What drew me to this book? First, I noticed the editor. This anthology is edited by Howard Andrew Jones, the editor of Blackgate Magazine, one of the only existing markets for adventure fantasy (don’t bother to see if they’re accepting submissions. They’re not. Apparently they are backed up by a couple of years.) Second, I’ve encountered Lamb’s name through the various fantasy blogs I’ve been reading. I was eager to check him out as a lot of the “fantasy” I read could just as honestly be categorized as “adventure.” Furthermore, Lamb published in the pulps of the 20s and 30s (and later), and I’m particularly attracted to this period. I’m not going to pretend I know a lot about this guy but I do want to reflect on the little I’ve read.

The first story was “Longsword,” the story of a viking, Brian Longsword, and his encounter with a Byzantine Caesar, John Dukas. Caught in the middle of this encounter is a girl, Irene, the daughter of a assassinated nobleman who is being sold into slavery for protection. The second story was “Wolf Meat,” another story of a viking who goes by the nickname “the Red Fox.” This is the story of his encounter with a king nobleman Sir Thord who has a daughter Astrid who “did not know her own beauty” (19). I don’t have the space to summarize them adequately, but in both stories the protagonist fights a scheming villain,. In “Longsword” the Caesar John Dukas tries to evade a fight with Brian Longsword and, failing, is killed by him on a boat as he flees Constantinople; in “Wolf Meat,” the villain, by the name of “Valgard,” steals Astrid but is hunted down by “the Red Fox” only to be killed by him; of course, the Red Fox then woos Astrid.

I’m less interested in the narrative of these stories and more interested in their style. These are the only works of Lamb’s I’m familiar with, so I’m not sure how they hold up in terms of his entire output. With that said, they seem well written to me. His style is sparse. He relates complex action scenes in simplistic language. For example, consider the death of John Dukas, related from his point of view: “He staggered, his crippled arms flapping at his side. A voice was screaming in his ears, and it was his own voice. His jaws snapped together and fell apart, while the Viking’s sword was sweeping toward him a third time” (13). This is disturbing in its implication. You have a point of view switch here folded into the language. The creepiest part is how it is describing bodily action from the point of view of the actor that is not the product of the actor’s agency. In other words, John Dukas, who is dying, is doing things against his will: he is screaming, his arms are falling; one gets the sense that he is falling. I find this a pretty sophisticated effect. Furthermore, the effect is done using simple, “pulpy” language.

I’m eager to read more Harold Lamb; and yet—and yet! I am glad to share some of my first reactions to him with you here.

Bar Review: Ground Kontrol, Portland, Oregon

A few nights ago, I paid a visit to a classic arcade/bar in downtown Portland, Oregon called "Ground Kontrol". It was such a great experience. I review it here because I get the sense the readers of this blog will get a kick out of it. And the concept of an "arcade/bar" is a cool, unique concept I haven't come across before. If you spent time pouring quarters into arcade games as a kid (as I did), then I think this place is for you.

Here's their webpage: Ground Kontrol

Some details about the place: the games span the early 80s to the late 90s. They have the famous X-Men arcade game as well as many of the more famous machines, i.e. Donkey Kong, Pac Man, Double Dragon. And they have a great pinball machine collection. I was particularly enthused by the Star Trek: the Next Generation machine which was signed by Wil Wheaton.

One drawback: the place is kind of crowded. They have limited space for tables, having so many large arcade systems hanging around.

Strangely enough, however, the crowdedness of the place added to the "Cyberpunk vibe" they have going. There are tablestops of fully illuminated plastic, loud techno music, and a plethora of abstract art hanging from the ceiling. And, of course, the place attracts patrons that fit their aesthetic perfectly. I glimpsed some kids who looked like they had just left a Ramones concert or strolled in off the set of Clockwork Orange.
It was a great time, having a brew while playing Mortal Kombat and Tron.

Clarke's Third Law, Time Travel, and Power

I finished L. Sprague de Camp’s "Lest Darkness Falls" and enjoyed it. The story aside, I have to admit much of the fun came from the unique copy of it I procured from Powells bookstore in Portland. My copy is a 1949 magazine edition of the novel published by “Galaxy Publishers.” Don’t ask me why, but I took a lot of pleasure in the physicality of the book: its acidy paper, its margins that are far too narrow, its colorful cover.

Some summary: it’s about a guy who gets transported back in time just before the wars the resulted in the dark ages (not sure about the historical accuracy of this). Drawing upon equal parts civic altruism and selfishness (he doesn't want to live in the dark ages), he sets out to help the Goths defend Rome from the conquering armies of the Byzantine Emperor Justinian. To do this he starts using his 1940s technological knowledge. For example, he introduces into 6th century Roman society the printing press, the telegram, and the canon. In the course of doing this, he comes to be considered by a lot of people as a sorcerer.

Some analysis: I love the way this story defies clear cut genre distinctions. It is considered by a lot of people as one of the founding texts of a specific genre called “alternative history.” But it can equally be situated within the “science-fiction” genre because of the novum of what is called “falling back into time” (i.e. the process by which the main character falls back in time nearly 15 centuries). It very cleverly, I think, dramatizes Clarke’s third law, which goes like this: “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” The main character, Martin, in his ability to predict the future, “invent” technology, utilize the insights of modern medicine, comes to resemble a magician to the naive people who come to know him. Some even go so far as to accuse him of consorting with devils and “satanas”.

Aside from his critical/biographical work, this was my first exposure to de Camp’s fiction. In terms of his style: you can tell he was an engineer. It’s sparse and straightforward, and suggests the writing style of Robert A. Heinlein and Isaac Asimov. I know him mostly as a biographer of Robert E. Howard and H.P. Lovecraft and as a companion-in-arms to Lin Carter. Together they compiled (and some would say destroyed) many of the Conan stories of Robert E. Howard for Ace Science Fiction.

Let me bring this post to a head with an exercise: compose a scenario where an individual arrives to a community with a power the community *does not have access to.* For example, imagine a star traveler who comes to a primitive planet who can cure a disease that is ravaging its people. Imagine a sorcerer comes to a village on the eve of a great festival who can turn water to wine. The key issue in this scenario’s construction, I think, is the power differential and the personality of the one who holds the power. In spite of the their power, are they altruistic? Do they use their power to accumulate more power? To manipulate others? Or, does their power result in their being shunned by those who do not have the power?

Hamlet, the Supernatural, and Juxtapositons

Tonight my wife and I went to see the premiere of Northwest Classical Theatre Company's performance of Hamlet.  It was a wonderful production that I highly recommend to you if you're in the Portland area; however, my goal is not to review the production but to trace some genre-related thoughts it inspired in me. But I can't resist saying the actor who played Polonius was one of the best I've seen.

Why am I discussing Shakespeare on a genre fiction blog? Let's start there!

I agree with the obvious argument against the relevance of this topic for my blog: Shakespeare is not a "fiction" writer; he is a playwright. His obvious medium difference aside, when viewed through the lens of genres like science-fiction, fantasy, and horror--in a word, through the lens of the "supernatural"--Shakespeare become relevant. He has composed with this play a narrative of the supernatural. We must remember Hamlet opens with a ghost encounter.

Rather than belabor defending the relevance of my topic, let me test this hypothesis: This play has a lot to teach us aspiring genre writers. Hamlet's summary of his encounter with his father's spirit in Act I, Scene V, addressed to his friend Horatio, pretty much sums up a first principle of fantasy, science fiction, and horror:

"There are things in heaven and earth, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

Of course you don't have to believe this in order to a science fiction writer (H.P. Lovecraft considered himself a staunch materialist/atheist), your work is necessarily informed by a version of this idea. Weird fiction--by which I mean fantasy, horror, or science fiction--is defined by its deviation from a kind of reality principle. The core element of its aesthetic effect derives from its flagrant disregard for daily, quotidian, mundane existence .

But here is the rub: I don't think weird fiction's power comes exclusively from deviations from a reality principle. There's a more insightful way of articulating and therefore thinking about this. The power of weird fiction comes from a juxtaposition of (1) quotidian, everyday reality with  (2) the fantastic/the unreal. In other words, the aesthetic power of science-fiction, fantasy, and horror derives from a marked contrast between the strange and the normal. If you create a secondary world where unicorns are as plentiful as deer, as common as field mice, they stop being fantastic. Contrast is the key.

Returning to Hamlet: I find it so interesting that this play that features a ghost also features a character meditating on a fundamental material nature. Yes, I'm referring to the famous "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio" speech with the jawless skull.

Exercise: Brainstorm a scene or scenario in no more than 100 words where you describe or relate an encounter between (1) the mundane and (2) the supernatural. You can write this as a soliloquy spoken by a character who is relating a story to another character. Or, you can write this as a summary of a larger project--a short story, a novel. Either way, set it aside and save it. It might be useful later.

Fritz Leiber, "Adept's Gambit," and Embedded Narratives

Over my coffee this morning I was reading more Fritz Leiber and I came across a passage I’d like to share. It demonstrates Leiber’s playful, yet not-entirely-superficial style in an intense way. It’s from the first section of the story, “Adept’s Gambit,” which relates a time when Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser get magically whisked away to the Hellenistic world. A little more context: Fafhrd is upset because he can’t woo any girls because he’s suffering from a curse. Whenever he starts “making out” with girls, they turn into swine (not proverbially, but literally—a strange curse, I know). In the story he encounters a philosopher who tries to give him solace.

Excuse the long quotation:

***

It was then that an ill-advised curios young Greek philosopher suggested to [Fafhrd] that the soul or inward form of the thing loved is alone of importance, the outward form having no ultimate significance.

‘You belong to the Socratic school?’ Fafhrd questioned gently.

The Greek nodded.

‘Socrates was the philosopher who was able to drink unlimited quantities of wine without blinking?’

Again the quick nod.

‘This was because his rational soul dominated his animal soul?’

‘You are learned,’ replied the Greek, with a more respectful but equally quick nod.

‘I am not through. Do you consider yourself in all ways a true follower of your master?’

This time the Greek’s quickness undid him. He nodded, and two days later he was carried out of the wine shop by friends, who found him cradled in a broken wine barrel, as a new-born in no common manner. For days he remained drunk, time enough for a small sect to spring up who believed him a reincarnation of Dionysus and as such worshiped him. The sect was dissolved when he became half-sober and delivered his first oracular address, which had as its subject the evils of drunkenness. (Leiber, Adepts Gambit; New York: Ace, 1968, pg. 111).

***

So, there is a thread of “frat-boy” humor to this. I fully admit it; however, there is nuance here that truly makes Fritz Leiber great. First off, you have an exhilarating juxtaposition here. Here we have married both a high philosophical register with a low, base register. You have philosophy over quaffed wine, a discussion of metaphysics shaded by liquored up blood. You have humor with a serious theme: outward appearances and inward beauty. And even more interesting, on an explicit level, this embedded story has nothing to do with the overarching narrative of the plot. It’s kind of an aside, a pleasurable little jaunt, a quick flash of humor.

I love how Leiber follows these little anecdotes out. It’s almost as if he identifies a thread and then follows it to its source to illuminate this or that unique element of his imagined world. This is how, in spite of the fact that so many of his stories are about Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, much of the focus is the city of Lankhmar and Newhon itself. The setting, usually subordinate to the characters and their actions, is set on an equal plane in Leiber’s work. These kinds of fun, “embedded narratives” work to achieve that effect.

Exercise: Write a brief story, no more than 300 words, where a character talks to another character. Have one of the characters relate an embedded story to that character that is somehow connected to their relationship. In other words, write a story within a story using dialog. Save this. It might serve as the beginning of a new story.

Feel free to post your work on the workplace. I'd love to read it!

Fritz Leiber's "Bazaar of the Bizarre"

This morning I read “Bazaar of the Bizarre,” a Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser novelette by Fritz Leiber which was published in 1963 in Fantastic Stories of Imagination, a pulp magazine that focused on fantasy. First off, I love Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. If you don’t know who these guys are, then I highly recommend checking out their wikipedia page for more information than I can provide here. A basic summary: aside from being two of the most famous characters in the sword-and-sorcery tradition, they are also skilled swordsmen. More detail: Fafhrd is a giant, red-haired barbarian; the Gray Mouser is a tiny, tricky rogue. Without turning this article into an introduction to these characters, I do want to say that, aside from Robert E. Howard’s Conan the Barbarian, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser define that particularly American version of fantasy known as “sword and sorcery.” And, yes, Dungeons and Dragons derives more from American “sword and sorcery” than Tolkieneqsue “high fantasy.” I could spend some time talking about the distinction between the two, but now is not the time.

This specific story is great for its humor. It kind of reminds of me of Don Quixote in that its main theme is about the disconnect between what one character perceives as beautiful and what other characters perceive as mundane/ugly/absurd. Here’s the premise: a sorcerer has set up shop in the city of Lankhmar. The goods he is hawking are useless garbage; however, he has bespelled his garbage so that it seems to those influenced by his magic that this garbage is exactly what they desire: delicious food, interesting books, beautiful treasures, attractive girl-slaves. Long story short, the Gray Mouser is enspelled by the sorcerer and Fafhrd is not. I won’t give away the conflict which ensues, but this story was highly entertaining.

A simple writing exercise: Write a 200 word summary of a character who has a personality trait that corresponds to a particular skill. For example, a *greedy* merchant who is very good at *selling* his wares. Or, an *honest* priest who is very good at revealing lies. You could start with coming up with the personality trait and then thinking about skills that might correspond to that trait. You can use the word-count of your description to justify your decision or to trace the history of your character or to physically describe them. Afterwords, file this character away for development later.

Inaugural post! The goal of this blog! An invitation!

So, I've been thinking about starting a blog for a long time but never got around to it. Why? Because I've been working on a Ph.D., and, believe it or not, that leaves far too little time for this sort of thing. But, guess what? I just finished my qualifying exams and am slated to start working on my dissertation. What am I writing my dissertation on? Well, I inclined to believe that part of it will consider the pulp fiction of the 20s, 30s, and 40s. But I don't want to just scrutinize and interpret genre fiction. Although it's great fun to do this, I want to do something more primal. And so, when I'm not working on my dissertation, I aim to create. I aim to meet writers. And I aim to draw inspiration from them like a vampire draws blood from a jugular.

A confession of a literary scholar: my whole life I've desperately wanted to write "weird fiction," the term I use for science-fiction, fantasy, and horror fiction. It's true. I've always, always, always wanted to be a writer but, like many other pragmatic folks, I've never completely committed to it for fear of failure. Well, I'm approaching thirty and realize I need to get to it. I'm ready to try. And fail. And try again. And fail again. Why the change of heart?

Over the past year I began setting aside some time each day for creative writing (as opposed to the academic writing I do, which is an important and major part of my life). Since Spring of this year, I've written seven short stories. I'll be honest: they're not the best. They need some spit and polish. But, hey!, I've actually produced something! A sculptor needs a brick of marble to chisel his masterpiece.

As the end of the year approaches, I can look back on some substantive literary output. And it has inspired me to make writing creatively an important part of my life.

I don't write too often. My goal right now is 15 minutes per day. I'm currently 10,000 words into a novella, my first attempt at the form. But alongside working on my dissertation, I do indeed aim to develop and hone my craft.

I'm a strong believer that literary endeavors are never undertaken in isolation. There is a widely disseminated myth of the writer as an isolated individual, all alone, sitting in their attic typing away at a type-writer.

This is all wrong. Writers need each other for a variety of reasons:

• to serve as sources of inspiration
  
• to serve as readers
  
• to serve as editors
  
• to serve as references to relevant literature and other professional resources
  
• to serve as companions in the struggle!
  

My hope is that by writing this blog I can connect to communities of writers thinking about, writing about, celebrating, and writing weird fiction and related topics like fantasy art, fantasy role-playing, science-fiction and fantasy movies and television shows, etc.

Ancillary to this primary goal of this blog is a desire that fuels it: I want to be a published writer. A short story? a novella? a novel? I don't care. As long as its published. I want to share my demented imaginings, my characters, my fantasies, with the world.

And so, I offer you the following invitation: if you've ever wanted to write science-fiction, fantasy, or horror; if you've ever, in a passing moment of fancy, wanted to create a "secondary world" where you can create characters that have amazing adventures; if, say, you've read widely in these genres and have itched to engage with them on a more fundamental, creative way... THEN... join me! Let's talk about science-fiction, fantasy, sword-and-sorcery, and horror together! Let's talk about characters, settings, plot structures, styles, literary market-places together! Let's write together! (Wow, that was a lot of exclamation points.)

A disclaimer/post-script: although I want to become a published writer, that is not the goal of this blog. The goal is to write, to meet writers, and hone and develop my craft with them. The success condition of this blog is seperate from the desire that fuels it.