Swords and Dark Magic: Garth Nix's, "A Suitable Present for a Sorcerous Puppet" and Narrative Richness

Today I’m going to continue my extended review of the anthology of Swords and Dark Magic, edited by Jonathan Strahan and Lou Anders. I'm committed to working my way through this entire anthology, reviewing each story. Here is a link to previous posts in this series: An Extended Review of Swords and Dark Magic

The story I’m focusing on today is “A Suitable Present for a Sorcerous Puppet,” by Australian writer, Garth Nix.

This was my first encounter with Garth Nix, and it was a strange one.

To begin, I don’t think I would classify his story as a sword and sorcery. It was too light-hearted, playful, and comical. Consequently, it was more of a fairy-tale or a kind of parody of sword and sorcery.

Let me be clear: I don’t think comedy or playfulness shouldn't be in sword and sorcery. Of course it should. The Conan stories are tinged with dark comedy. The “Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser” stories are filled with joking and witty dialog. And yet, in both Howard and Lieber's cases, the comedy and playfulness is always juxtaposed with a dark and dangerous world.

In this Nix story there is a notable conformity, I think, between the humorous and playful tone of the characters and the world/context within which their story unfolds.

I’m wondering if a “dark, dangerous world,” is a necessary component of sword and sorcery.

In spite of its playful nature, I still found the story entertaining. Parts of it were quire amusing: the protagonist is likable enough, a wounded warrior who is otherwise infallible; and his companion, a “sorcerous puppet” named Mister Fitz, was interesting.

It’s most endearing quality for me were the glimpses of the fantasy world that came through. Let me explain by considering a brief passage. Referring to the unorganized nature and other strange idiosyncrasies of a book the protagonist is reading, the narrator states, “these might be symptomatic of the somewhat unusual end of Jerreke, a city-state which had defaulted on its debt so enormously that  its entire population had to be sold into slavery” (181). Here you have a “micro-narrative” that makes the short story what I call “narratively rich,” meaning, the overarching narrative trajectory is pleasantly sidelined to encapsulate additional stories, stories not included for the sake of their narrative functionality but for their own sake, the pleasure they offer.

Another way of referring to this effect is the “Arabian Nights” effect. This is where you fold narratives within narratives, not for the sake of furthering an overarching plot but for the visceral pleasure of storytelling. Nix doesn’t quite do that here. And yet, there is a tendency to do that in this story that makes the world quite rich.

This story is a firm 3 out 5 in my view.

Swords and Dark Magic: K.J. Parker's "A Rich Full Week," and the Health Benefits of Reading Bad Fiction

The last three days in my place has been inordinately quiet. Why? My wife has been working on her qualifying exams, but they were due out this morning. And so--I just heard her trudging up the steps. Her tread seemed quite heavy. Mine would be, too, if I had minimal sleep in 72 hours.

Anyhow...

This morning I’m going to continue my series of reviews of the anthologized stories contained in, Swords and Dark Magic (edited by Jonathan Strahan and Lou Anders). Proceeding in the order in which they appear, the sixth story I focus on today is titled, “A Rich Full Week,” by K.J. Parker.

Here is a link to previous posts in this series: An Extended Review of Swords and Dark Magic

Some summary: the story concerns the efforts of an unnamed priest of an nameless order (feels like a fantasy version of the Catholic church) who wanders around various “medievalish” villages doing services for folks, e.g. curing illnesses, putting to rest the restless dead. This story, as per the title, is an example of one week of his services. More specifically, it concerns his encounter with a dead person who had decided not to stay dead.

Let me just be frank and then justify my frankness: I loved this story. Three reasons.

Theme: It has all of the thematic elements that I find so intriguing about fantasy: the implications of other worlds; the subordinaton of material reality to consciousness and thought; the nature of life and death.

Protagonists: Aside from the thematic characteristics, the protagonist is great. He’s an underachieving wise-guy who obviously knows his stuff and yet, in spite of his irritation with his job, he does it quite well. I love that kind of character.

Narrative Technique: In terms of narrative technique, this story functions the way a short story should: it’s pacing is economic, and yet it doesn’t feel rushed. There are wonderful moments of pure reflection—e.g. when the narrator, staring at the earthen ceiling of the turf-roofed cottage he has been boarded in, wonders “if this what it’ll be like” (154)—and yet, these moments of reflection don’t retard the plot to the extent that the narrative grounds to a halt.

A minor flaw I perceive in this story is overarching narrative structure. There is an obvious split running down the middle of this story. There’s a micro-narrative, a pause, and a return to another micro-narrative that is connected to the initiating one. Ideally, in a short story, you want one narrative: one character, one fundamental transformation, one conflict, one story. This short fiction is like two stories that are related by a common element.

And so, I would give this story a 4.5 out of 5.

If you're interested in the ratings I've given the other stories, you can find them here.

Let me just say something about ratings like this before I proceed to a writing exercise.

I’ve been rating the stories in the anthology as I move along, a practice, to my mind, that’s kind of arbitrary; and yet—I guess it’s useful for folks who have limited reading time and want a blueprint as to which stories to read and which to skip.

I’m reluctant to rate because I think implied in the practice of rating is the idea that, if it’s bad, you shouldn’t read it. I don’t agree with this.

There’s something useful in reading structurally flawed fiction, aside from the fact that, to me, some bad writing has its own kind of beauty, i.e. it thrills in a unique way (I get this feeling reading L. Sprague de Camp, whose prose is just awful to me; and yet—I love his stuff).

I think identifying the flaws of certain specimens of fiction is just as useful for a craftsman as reading the best work. Sometimes reading “the best,” if you will, can be detrimental; if that’s all you read (and, if you’re anything like me and realize your writing needs some improvement), you paralyze yourself.

There is a separate issue here, which is, “As a writer, who do you adopt as your peers? Who are you, artistically, attempting to dialog with?” There’s a lot at stake in how you answer that question.

I’m not ready to answer that question just yet; I am, however, eager to consider the possibility that there are writers whose artistic projects have influenced mine. And so, without further ado, here is a writing exercise linked to that idea.

Writing exercise: Think of a genre writer who you love. Try not to pick an esoteric writer. Choose someone “big,” like H.P. Lovecraft of Robert E. Howard, or J.R.R. Tolkien, or H.G. Wells, or Isaac Asimov. Next, write two sentences describing, in your words, their writing style. Next, write a two sentence summary of a story they might have written. Finally, write that story in the form of a flash fiction (no more than 500 words). In writing this story, try to parody their style. Exaggerate the elements you described in their earlier description of their work.

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.

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.

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.