Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 25)

Here is serial 25 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


No one spoke for a span after the attack until Tauos commanded that Brol's wound be tended to. Then they began a somber search for their comrades, who they assumed were dead. Eerily, the fog seemed to lift directly after the monsters flew away, and all they found to indicate the fate of their comrades was a steaming pile of entrails. They did not sleep that night and were too frightened to go in search for the Rogue. Some assumed he had died, killed by the monsters. And yet, in spite of their fears, they organized a steady watch and prepared to leave in the morning. Indeed, they praised their god when the light of morning crept in.

By the time they finished telling their story to the Rogue, it was sunset.

Brol sighed as he sat forward: "And what of your scouting venture, slave? Tell me, please, that the settlement in the canyon is rife with fresh-baked bread, soft beds, hot baths, and that the folk who live therein speak the language of my fathers," he said. He shivered. His eyes were darkening. He was perspiring profusely. The Rogue wondered whether it was wise not to have held off on the telling of their long story and to have taken Brol, straightaway, to the settlement for his wounds to be tended.

Brol indeed looked pale. The attack had taken a toll on him. When the Rogue placed his hand on his master's brow, he was not not surprised to feel it burning hot with fever. "I am fine," chattered Brol, pushing aside the Rogue's hand.

The Rogue sighed, for her he knew his report of the canyon settlement would come short of Brol's desire, that all he could say of the settlement was that the folk who lived there were strangers but seemed to be good hosts. He forced himself to tell the whole truth and not to play into the merchant's hopes. He summarized his scouting thus: he wasn't completely sure if the people of the village were to be trusted. He had certain reservations. They were reluctant to discuss their god. Furthermore, he asserted that the merchant's they may seem "primitive," who, being from a city that was at the height of its decadent era, were used to comparatively luxurious amenities. Some of the merchants were offended by this assumption on the Rogue's part. "We're city dwelling folk," Tauos said, "but we've no right to expect a tavern and copper bathtubs this far out in the wild. I'm sure, if these folks will have us, whatever they offer will be appreciated. As to their trustworthiness: I cannot say."

In deliberate unornamented truth the Rogue spoke about their lack of a common language, about their alien culture, and about the strangeness of their customs. Not all of what he had to say was horrible to report, however; he told of the beautiful women, of their healing arts--crude though they were. He also told of the foreboding beauty of the ruins in whose shadow they had built their village. Of these ruins, he clearly articulated suspicions: "There are many folk who have been and who will be. There were many empires that rose and fell before your city of Tabun Stoh was built. For all I know, these folks have once lived in those ruins. For all I know, these folk are the descendants of those who had once dwelt there. That, I cannot say."

The Weirding of the Writing Process: The Protagonist as a Portal (Post 2)

On Friday I started writing about the "narrative function" of the protagonist. And, after some etymological analysis, I "distilled" the characteristics of the protagonist down to three attributes:

1) They are the main character.
2) They end up in conflict.
3) The audience identifies with them.

Afterwards, I brought these attributes to question.

1) Does the idea of a "main" character necessarily entail a certain narrative structure (can you tell a story where there isn't a main character?).
2) Do all protagonist have to move toward conflict? Can there be a protagonist who resists conflict?
3) Can you have a protagonist that repulses the audience or that cannot be identified with?

I explore these questions in more detail in my previous post. Here is a link if you're interested: Post 1

But in this post I'd like to offer an alternative definition of a protagonist, a different way of thinking about protagonists.

So, protagonist's have been traditionally defined this way: the main character who approaches the conflict of the narrative who the audience identifies with and who opposes the antagonist, the villain.

Hmm...let's modify this for specifically weird narratives (i.e. science fiction, fantasy, supernatural horror).

It seems to me, speaking strictly in terms of weird fiction, this definition structurally isolates the way the reader accesses your imaginary world. Let me explain.

In fantasy, you often have a secondary world; in science fiction, you often have a world of the future; in supernatural horror, you often have a world where supernatural terrors do indeed exist. In other worlds, you have in this narrative types a distinct "alternative aesthetic space" where the rules are different.

The problem that weird writer needs to solve is, how, precisely, do I get my reader into this world?

The protagonist seems to be the key narrative tool for doing this.

Let me offer an example. Let's consider an example everyone knows, J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. In The Lord of the Rings the protagonists, if you will--traditionally defined as, say, Frodo, is that access point into middle earth. He is a kind of modern character who lives in a cozy, civilized society who then branches out and explores the dangerous fantasy world.

I don't have much time to explore this idea fully here. In Post 3 I'll explore the following idea: the protagonist as a portal.

Is it useful to think of protagonists as portals to other worlds? We shall see.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 24)

Here is serial 24 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


The entire entourage lost their discipline then and scattered like deer in every direction, yelping, gargling out in fear. Some waved their blades wildly at the attackers, striking but thin air and shadow. Many of them were wounded straightaway--cruel scratches on face, neck, and flailing arms.

Brol, though his knees trembled with fear, carried the attack forward after the initial horror. He was accosted by two of the red implings and swung his knife madly and skillessly. The monsters, though they were lauging in the beginning, grew craven when they found one of the merchants had a fight in him. They spoke to each other in a fast, chittering language indiscernible by the merchants. They left their other prey alone to concentrate on Brol, who appeared to be a kind of threat. One of the implings--he seemed the largest of them, although he was small in comparison to Brol--seemed to take great offense at the merchant leader, and attacked with a viciousness unmatched by the others. He clawed Brol's face, gnawed his arm with a foaming mouth; and, using his long, black, forked tongue, he sucked one of Brol's eyeball's right out of the socket with a wet, suctioning "plop".

"I killed it then! I did this in spite of the pain and horror," Brol coughed. "By my god Evyat! I was determined to bring one of the beasts down to death, to the Vansts, with me!"

He then explained how he killed it. He brained it with the pommel of his dagger, ripped and shredded its leathery wing with his teeth, twisted its arms until the bones cracked and it stopped moving.

The other merchants testified that Brol had become an animal. It had crumbled, dead, to the ground.

The other monsters, chittering with rage, flew away screeching and cursing unknown curses in a language they did not understand. Though they were fierce, they were obviously cowards, for their fear had been bestirrred by just one death.

The Weirding of the Writing Process: Examining the Narrative Function of the Protagonist (Post 1)

Looking back through my February posts I realize I've written very little on the writing of science fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror. In large part, this is because the time I have to devote to creative has really went down. Why? I'm been working on my dissertation prospectus and so, I haven't had time for creative writing (I don't count the transcription of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants, as creative writing. I'm just mechanically transcribing it at this point. No editing. No revision.). Sure, I've been getting some flash fiction writing in. But the two flashes I wrote this month have been in "realistic" genres. I wrote a literary fiction titled, "Lift," and a hardboiled detective fiction, "I Met Her Seven Times."

Well, this morning I sent out the most recent draft of my dissertation prospectus. And so, I imagine I'm going to have more time to write creatively over the next couple of days as I wait for my adviser's input. 

***

This post I want to ask a question about protagonists. More specifically, I want to meditate on the relationship between readers and the protagonist of a narrative. What kind of a relationship should a reader have with a protagonist? Let's back up: what is a protagonist?

I can feel it. This is going to be a "two parter." This post will set up the problem. Tomorrow I'll try to respond to it.

Anyhow, once again, what is a protagonist? Lord Wikipedia defines "protagonist" this way:

A protagonist (from the Greek πρωταγωνιστής protagonistes, "one who plays the first part, chief actor") is the main character (the central or primary personal figure) of a literary, theatrical, cinematic, or musical narrative, whom ends up in conflict because of the antagonist and with whom the audience is intended to most identify.

So, according to this definition, that protagonist manifests a few characteristics:

1) They are the main character.

2) They end up in conflict.

3) The audience identifies with them.

Hmm..

I find this intriguing. Let me say a little about each characteristic.

1) They are the main character. This implies that there is a "hierarchy of importance" in a cast of characters depicted by a narrative. In other words, this definition implies that there are characters in a narrative who are more important than other characters. Is this always the case? It's a hunch of mine that is has been the case for many narratives since the emergence of "novelistic" narratives or "realistic" narratives. But there are certain types of narratives that do not incorporate a "hierarchy of importance" among their cast of characters. I'm thinking of an epic like The Iliad. 

Yes, Achilles and Agamemnon are important characters in this narrative. And yet, are they the main characters? Are they more important than, say, Hector? Priam? Odysseus? etc. etc.. I'm not suggesting there is no "hierarchy of importance" in terms of the cast of characters that are depicted by the narrative of The Illiad. I do want to suggest, however, something about an intensity of this "hierarchy of importance." 

Let me put this hunch simply: in an epic like The Iliad, there are many, many characters, and they are all important. In more recent, novelistic narratives, there is a demand for a "main" character. Modern readers prefer to know who is important and who is not important. This might be changing.

2) They end up in conflict. This implies that the protagonist has to struggle with something, usually an antagonist. They have a desire or a problem that comes upon them. Can you have a protagonist who doesn't experience a crisis? Who just sits and enjoys themselves? Tea? Reading? Maybe. I don't think this would make a very interesting story. But, I can imagine a narrative where the protagonist experiences no conflict. Perhaps this would originate a conflict in itself. Perhaps for the narrative to begin the protagonist needs to seek out conflict. 

This reminds me of a stem in protagonist. Agon. Agon is Greek for "a comepetition" or "a contest." It's connected to our English work agony, which means, "extreme and generally prolonged pain; intense physical or mental suffering" (dictionary.com). Pro + agon means "towards the contest." With the meaning of our English word taken into consideration, we can understand "protagonist" to mean, that person who goes forward, faces, and courts, physical and mental suffering. Hmm...

3) The audience identifies with them. Identifies. What does this mean? One definition of to identify (the one I think this particular usage is referring to) is, "to consider (oneself) as similar to another" (dictionary.com). Hmm... So, the audience of a specific narrative should consider themselves similar to the protagonist? I'm not sure about this. I've read a lot of thrilling narratives where the "main character" or "protagonist," if you will, have been repellent to me. I'm thinking of something like Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita. In terms of fantasy, Michael Moorcock's Elric of Melniboné is a borderline villain. I rarely identify with him. I'm definitely nothing like him. And yet, he's still a great protagonist.

There's much more to be said about protagonists. This post is a first step. And yet, this focused analysis of the concept of a protagonist has raised some interesting questions for me. 

Should my readers identify with my characters? 

Should all of my stories have a main character? 

What is the relationship between main characters and conflict? 

In part 2 of this analysis of protagonists, which I aim to write on tomorrow, I will explore this more fully.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 20)

Here is serial 20 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

Apologies for waiting so long to continue the serialization! I usually transcribe if I have the time in the evenings. Just can't seem to find the time lately.

Anyhow, here't the 20th serial!


***

At first, these strange words did not register with the Rogue. He thought Rew spoke figuratively. Demons.

And yet, after a moment's pause, Rew's clear conviction stirred the Rogue. Tauos and Brol did not speak up to elaborate what Rew had meant.

Demons. It was as simple as that.

But then the Rogue's natural skepticism overwhelmed him and he looked at these men, trembling, disturbed, speaking of demons, and he spat on the ground. What disturbed him more was that their superstitions had resonated with him. He then saw it as his duty to bring them back to reason. To do so he would have to identify and kill whatever it was that had attacked and wounded Brol. Perhaps it was a large cat. A wolf. It did not matter. It had become a specter to these men. And the Rogue would seek it out. The Rogue shifted his blade hanging from his belt.

"Speak clearly, man! Demons! Nonsense! You've obviously been smoking too much lassra weed to indulge in such phantasies! Now--tell me clearly. What was it that stole into the camp?"

Tauos frowned. Rew gritted his teeth. And Brol--after a moment--he laughed heartily. Standing from his chair against the protestations of the other two merchants, Brol approached the Rogue.

"Perhaps Rew and Tauos speak too soon by calling these things demons, but it was a sort of monster that crept into our sleeping camp last night. They have most surely killed three of us, or dragged them off to a fate word than death, at least. I'll prove it to you, my skeptical though good-natured slave. I managed to kill one. It's corpse is rotting outside of my tent, covered by a cloak because it was too horrible to look upon. If you're not too frightened, good slave, I'll show it to you. One look is worth an entire evening's discussion about what befell us when you went away."

The Rogue respected Brol, and so he assented. He helped Brol out of the tent. With the aid of a pole-blade used as a walking stick, Brol left his tent and proceed to go around to its back.

By that time the other merchants had heard of the Rogue's return. They had left behind their breakfasts, their steaming cups of blackroot, their conversations, in order to witness their savior's return. Many of them were mustering in the camp when Brol, the Rogue, Rew, and Tauos issued from it.

Eventually they all came to a small mound covered by a blood soaked cloak. They all stared at it wordlessly.

Brol was flanked by Tauos. Tauos was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Rew had his arms folded across his chest and his eyes seemed to tremble with suppressed emotion. And Paj--the groveling fool who met the Rogue when he returned to the camp--he was in the middle of the remaining merchants, gibbering and crying. He was muttering to himself and whispering to his companions, who leaned away from him, embarrassed and disturbed by his behavior. Obviously, whatever had happened the the merchant's during the Rogue's absence had deeply effected Paj's mind.

Brol knelt down next to the blood soaked cloak and sighed when his wound began to bleed again. "I warned you, Brol!" Tauos shouted, coming to his leader's aid. "Shut up, fool! I need to show our mercenary the horror came upon us last eve!"

With that Brol dragged off the cloak revealing a sight horrible to the Rogue. The Rogue's breath came shortly. He felt his mind reel, the knot of his sanity loosening. He swallowed.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 19)

Here is serial 19 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***

Paj lay groveling in the dirt clutching his hair and tear-streamed face. In spite of his efforts, the Rogue could get no more information out of him.

Shoving past him, he moved further into the camp, past the firepit and into the large, red pavilion that he knew to be Brol's, the leader of the merchants. When he threw back the flap and strode in, he saw Brol, sitting on a stool, holding a bloody rag to his face, which was wounded; a grisly gash ran the length of his cheek. One of his eyes had been removed and a cheek now hung in bloody tatters.

Brol was flanked by two of his lieutenant's, men of reason and stability who the Rogue respected. Their names were Rew and Tauos. They were only a few years younger than  the venerable Brol.

Outside the Rogue could hear the other merchants mustering. Word of his return had been announced by Paj's blubberings, and the other merchants were gathering around their leader's tent to see what was to be done about their dire circumstances.

"It's good to see that you live, young one!" Brol laughed, rising, throwing aside his bloody rag and approaching the Rogue, his horrible wound shiny in the light that shone into the tent. "We assumed those red-skinned beasts made a quick meal of you!" He embraced the Rogue like a father embracing a son. The Rogue recoiled ever so slightly, but relaxed after a bit. He waited until Brol relented and backed away.

"W-w-w-hat beasts?" he stammered, frustrated by his ignorance. "What happened? What happened to your face?"

One of the other merchants in the room, Tauos, rose up and unfurled his turban. He cursed and spat. "Isn't it obvious? After you left, a few hours into the night, we were attacked!" Tauos said. He took Brol by the arm and led him back to his wicker stool. "Sit down, you scoundrel!" he spat.

Brol began to protest, but Tauos shoved him down. Brol then grumbled inaudibly to himself while he put another rag to his wound.

The Rogue couldn't help but chuckle. Brol's stubbornness amused him. Although he assumed these merchants to be city bred softlings, he was surprised to see one--their leader, of course--acting like a fighting-man.  But the Rogue needed to know what happened.

"Who or what attacked you?" the Rogue asked again.

He assumed it was some aggressive or surly band of mountain men, or bandits who haunted the scrubs that lied outside of the power of Tabun Stoh and its armies. And so, he was surprised when all three of the merchant's faces grew somber and pale. A silence draped itself over them. For a while it lingered. Eventually, the third merchant, Rew, spoke:

"Demons," he said, spitting on the ground. "An entire roost of demons attacked us last night."

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 18)

Here is serial 18 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***

Pages transcribed: 6 ; wordcount: 7158

Shortly after this conversation the Rogue left the village with five warriors. He had little difficulty play-acting surprise when he came upon his horse, which was terrified, having had spent the night alone. It took only a few hours to meander out of the canyon to where the merchants had bivouacked for the night. When he could see the merchant camp in the distance, he stopped to consult with the warriors.

Although he could not speak their language, he was able to communicate with them, after a fashion. Their leader, the son of the graybeard--his name was Ah'gatar--was very intelligent and understood the Rogue's non-verbal signs with no some skill. Through various hand gestures, facial expressions, and noises, he told the wolf-cloak warrior that the merchants might be threatened by such an a war party as they seemed to be. The Rogue suggested that the five spear wielding warriors should stay back and allow him to approach his comrades alone.

The wolf-cloak seemed to assent, and the warriors, shrugging, sat down on rocks and began chattering away, passing their liquor filled bladders back and forth.

The sun was at full height when the Rogue strode into the camp. He was greeted by one of the younger merchants, by the name of Pej. This one's face was pale and his eyes were wide with fright, bloodshot, and trembling insanely.

"Thank Evyat you've returned!" he said, proclaiming the name of one of the many gods of Tabun Stoh. He fell to ground and grasped the Rogue by the calves. "They killed three of us! The monsters! I watched the entire horrible display, had to listen to their gargling screams as they were dragged into the darkness! All I found were their still-steaming innards strewn about!"

The Rogue, horrified and disgusted by the outburst and Pej's lack of composure, recoiled with a hiss. Reflexively, his hand went to his blade.

"Back away, Paj!" the Rogue shouted above the man's blatherings. "Give me room and silence, and then tell me the story like a sane-person, you fear-drunken fool!"

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 17)

Here is serial 17 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


The Rogue folded his hands, bowed his head, and touched his forehead. "Never! Not at all! To pay your hospitality back with such an unkindness would be not be human."

"There are some spell-binders from your city who would kill and betray to delve into the ruins of our ancestors," the graybeard returned. "I trust you are honest merchants and fighting men fleeing a tyrant, as you say you are, and not spell binders masquerading in the cloaks of humility. If you are, that would be unfortunate."

"Indeed," the Rogue said, his shame stirred in spite of his innocence. "Indeed, we flee the very kind of person you describe. It is said the tyrant of Tabun-Stoh is a sorcerer."

The old graybeard gazed at him for a moment and the intensity of his gaze disturbed the Rogue. And then the graybeard smiled, patted the Rogue on his back with force, and walked with him to the mustered warriors with the aid of his staff. "Wonderful!" the graybeard said. "If you are who you say you are--honest folk fleeing the tyranny of dark magic--then we count ourselves your friends. We rarely get visitors here, and experience your arrival as a source of excitement; but, you must understand, you make us anxious as well. When meeting strangers they are rarely anything but friends or enemies."

The Rogue recognized the words the old graybeard had just spoke; they were an aphorism that appeared in a philosophical dialogue of Trayat of Cohrus, an ancient poet-philosopher who had lived long ago and far, far away. This old graybeard was indeed well learned.

"You know the philosophies of Trayat!" exclaimed the Rogue, his love of the ancient literature overtaking his social composure.

"I know him well," said the graybeard gravely. He said nothing further.

They waited a bit longer while more soldiers mustered around them. Eventually a group of spears were gathered. The old man shouted an order to five of the warriors, who hailed him with the wave of their spears. Turning to the Rogue, the old graybeard said, "Spend this day looking for your comrades. And if you are lucky, bring them to us tonight. We will have a celebration in their honor. Together we'll share stories, enjoy food, and drink, and exchange secrets--if you have any to share. And, perhaps, after the celebrations, over a pipe of something, we might discuss Trayat together."

The Rogue could not help but smile. The old graybeard patted him on the back once more. "You have met who I consider my daughter. Now. Meet my son!" He then spoke to the warrior who wore the wolf-cloak, and he came over to them. "He doesn't speak your tongue. He isn't as fast a learner as my daughter. He is, however, our most celebrated warrior and tracker, and if you entourage are withing a day, then he will no doubt bring you to them."

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 16)

Here is serial 16 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***

It was a cold, gray morning. Into the Rogue's hand a particularly young villager--wearing a cloak woven with crudely flattened plates of what appeared to be metal--thrust a ceramic canteen of something very warm. It steamed in the cool of the morning. It was obviously liquor of some sort--perhaps a mulled wine--for it burned and made the Rogue's insides feel warm as it went down. He grunted his thanks to the young man as they began walking to the village center.

There it was swarming with beautiful women and children of every size and age. The Rogue glimpsed young Asha among them, sitting on a roof, her bare feet dangling over the side. She watched the Rogue as he approached with the group of warriors and grinned when he nodded to her.

The graybeard was squatting near a fire, warming his hands. He was flanked by two other warriors who looked  old and grizzled and sour, and their faces were scarred. As the Rogue came closer, the old man stood, took up his staff, and grinned.

"And you survived the night!" he exclaimed gustily.

The Rogue, however, was slightly distracted, and so the words the graybeard said did not register with him completely. When he came into the village the night before he did not see the peculiar place where these people had built their village-town.

High, high up on the section the canyon walls upon which their village was nestled were ruins built of the same black stone of the canyon. These ruins were built into the very wall of the canyon quarry that no doubt furnished the thick, black brick that composed it. Of these ruins's architectural style, the Rogue knew nothing, in spite of his great knowledge in the area and his old age. Worn smooth by years and years of wind and sand-blasts, the rock were smooth and sturdy, but the manner of construction--constituted of interlocking bricks of various sizes and arches with beautifully carved keystones--seemed far beyond the skill of these people. And there was an evil, "fang-like" quality to the ruins, which seemed to bulge and curve like so many fangs out of a mouth. They also suggested to the rogue the rib-cage of some dead and decayed god.

The graybeard saw the Rogue looking at the ruins, perceived his surprise and horror, and could not help but grin: "Yes, we live in the shadow of a great empire," he said. "The ruins are forbidden to us, and to you. We guard them. We welcome your friends, if you find them, but know this: we jealously guard those black-stone piles. We would be deadly offended if you attempted to violate them."

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 15)

Here is serial 15 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants


***

The Rogue finished his meal and felt satisfied when the girl took his wastes away. She tossed the dregs out of the door and scrubbed his plate with hot water, saying nothing. And then she went to leave. As she turned to go, a realization dawned in the Rogue's mind: "I do not know your name, little one," he said timidly. He fell idly into a pile of cushions and furs. "Gods! It is wonderful to be fed and warm and to speak in a language that is understood! To come to know strangers!"

The girl chuckled lightly. But following quickly upon this she frowned gravely and sighed. "Call me Asha, though that is not my name."

The Rogue nodded, and she left.

He sat there for moment, listening to the fire crackling, contemplating her parting words.

He then began to fall asleep, having been made drowsy by the delicious food and the warmth of the fire. Just before the darkness took him--after he gripped his blade firmly to his chest--he thought of his companions, shivering in the cold of their tents, subsisting on bitter-root tea and trail bread. He could not help a merciless smile from spanning his lips.

He awoke to the murmuring voices of about three of the villager-men. Pale light rays slanted in through some tiny window slits had had not noticed during the night. He was not completely sure of his safety, and so he pulled his blade close, ready to strike if he needed to.

His eyes were half open when the cloth at the portal of his dwelling place was thrown aside, and he perceived the man from the previous, the man wearing the wolf cloak. He held a spear in his hand, but it was not ready for battle.

He woke the Rogue up with a clacking noise, and stood there, casually leaning on his spear. He motioned to the door flap where the rogue saw mustered three other warriors with spears and furs. The Rogue assumed they were ready for him to go and find his friends, but he was concerned that there were none in this party who he could communicate with. Throwing on his leather jerkin, buckling it rapidly, and then securing his curving dagger, he rose to meet them.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 14)

Here is serial 14 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants


***

When he let the girl up, she bounded to her feet and ran to the guards and lowered their spears with her hands. They all began to talk excitedly to each other in their language, and yet, it did not matter, for the Rogue could not understand their language at all. This gave way to loud speaking and finally shouting. It seemed to the Rogue that the girl was defending him against the guards, and for this he was ashamed. Eventually, shoving and shouting, she removed the spearmen from the tent, who scowled at the Rogue as they left. She then turned to face him.

"I'm sorry," he said, bowing his head, "My reaction was not merited. Your men had a right to be concerned, to assume I aimed to cause you harm."

"Such an apology is unneeded," she said, smiling, "I'm too young to realize that some men cannot be accosted as I did you. There is such a thing as battle reflexes, and this was my first acquaintance with them. Please. Accept my apology. But please--do not speak of our god. It's too horrible a subject for me."

This stirred the Rogue's curiosity, but he had no option but to acquiesce. Why was she so reluctant to discuss her god?

Feeling no little amount of shame for attacking the girl as he did, he quietly submitted to her. He sat down and she approached him with a clay bowl filled with steaming water she had poured from her kettle. They did not speak as she dabbed his wound with a scrap-rag soaked in the same tea he had been drinking. After a few moments, she finished, and, going to the door, called for her folk to bring him food.

The two spearmen, who only a few moments ago threatened the Rogue, entered then, and they bore fruit and grains and a small joint of meat cooked in wine. By this hour the Rogue was voraciously hungry, and so he bolted his food with a great aggression and for a moment forgot the girl, who was nearby, lying on her belly, gazing on him with a distant look in her shimmering eyes.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 13)

Here is serial 13 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants


***

"An herb that heals the body. My people have known the secret of it for many years. It's called achras, and it was given to us by our god."

Directly after she said this, she closed her eyes, sighed, made a strange sign over her body--a kind of blessing gesture--and then, sighing again, she placed the palms of her hands to her eyes and rubbed. A great weight seemed to be upon her.

"Your god must be loving, indeed, and wise, to give such gifts," the Rogue said, sipping the last of his tea. He did feel rejuventated and his wounded arm tingled. He looked at the wound: though it gave forth an odorous puss and fizzed and bubbled, the feeling was strangely pleasant. This amazed him. "I would utter a prayer of thanks to your god, if I knew his name!" the Rogue said earnestly.

"Do not speak of HIM!" the girl said. She strode over to the Rogue and, covering his mouth with her hand, hissed for him to cease his speech. The Rogue, however, was a trained fighting-man, and, as she startled him, he reacted with instincts. Believing himself to be attacked, he grabbed the girl's wrist, spun her around, and pinned her, face down, onto the be-carpeted floor of the room. To her back he held the point of his wickedly curved blade. He drew a pearl of red blood from her bare back.

"No, no, no!" she shouted, her fear causing her voice to tremble. "Ix, ix azutha!" she shouted in her language.

Presently two strong lads ran into the tent, spears in hand, and shouted at the Rogue, who stood over the prostrated girl gripping his naked blade. They brandished their spears menacingly, and, foam flecking their mouths, they threw what were obviously curses at him.

The girl, however, shouted over them. The Rogue, whose sense had been lost to the battle-lust, snapped back into consciousness. When he realized what he was doing, where his instincts had brought him, he let his dagger fall to the ground. He let the girl loose and held up his hands.

Review of Jeff VanderMeer's Booklife: Strategies and Survival Tips for the 21st-Century Writer

So, I need to write my prospectus for my dissertation. And so, apologies in advance if my posts are a little lean for the next couple of weeks.

I need to work on brevity anyways!

Today I want to briefly review a very good book: Booklife: Strategies and Survival Tips for the 21st Century Writer, by Jeff VanderMeer.

Generally put, this book is a must-read for anyone who aspires to be a writer in our current, “post-print” context.

Let me be clear: this book isn’t about e-publishing specifically. It is, however, about surviving in an environment where the traditional road to publication is being metaphorically ripped up and re-paved.

Booklife was published in 2009 and so, in this fast-paced and changing environment, some folks might think any advice it offers—considering its ostensible purpose (to help you survive now)--is outdated.

I don’t think so. Not at all.

Reading this book I was struck how much of the advice he offers three years ago seems to prempt developments in publishing today.

One thing is certain: this book has definitely changed the way I plan to proceed with developing my life as a writer. Thanks to Mr. VanderMeer I have eagerly discarded my preconceived notions about the road to becoming a professional writer of fiction.

Let me try to distill in a few sentences the key lesson I took away from this book.

VanderMeer compares developments in professional writing and publishing today to previous developments in the music industry (post-Napster, ITunes music store, Myspace, etc..). He compares the profusion of independent musicians and labels to the emergence of independent publishers and “dyi” writers. Thus, just as independent bands needed learn to market and, more importantly, create their own niche markets/consumers, so writers of this moment and the future will have to learn to do this as well.

Gulp. That’s a tall order.

He’s has all sorts of ideas about how to create those audiences, and I won’t give them away.

To wrap up: this book is a must read if you want to be a writer today.

Arbitrary rating: 5/5

Opening the Skull's Trapdoor: Coming Up with Story Ideas by Association

Tonight I want to review another essay in the anthology, How to Write Tales of Horror, Fantasy, and Science Fiction, edited by J.N Williamson. I reviewed another essay in this anthology in a previous post. I had some reservations about this book, but, generally, find it quite useful. Here's a link to my original post: Short Fiction: Making the Premise Conform to the Treatment

The essay I’m reviewing is by Ray Bradbury and is titled, “Run Fast, Stand Still, or, The Thing at the Top of the Stairs, or, New Ghosts from Old Minds.” Talk about a mouth full of a title.

I trust Ray Bradbury. Even though his fiction isn’t my favorite, he’s a celebrated writer in the genres I care about. And so, any advice he gives on writing is worth our attention. 

His essay is somewhat general in approach and offers no pragmatic advice on the actual work of writing. It does, howoever, offer some very good advice on coming up with ideas.

It’s a kind of personal manifesto, an attempt to articulate where his ideas for his stories comes from. The most striking element of this essay is his description of his “list.” 

In this essay Bradbury describes a list of nouns he composed early in his writing career, and of this list he writes, “I was feeling my way toward something honest, hidden under the trap door on the top of my skull.” 

He talks about writing stories based solely on a single noun like “The Lake,” or “The Ravine,” or “The Basement.” In prose that is part revelry and part personal memoir, Bradbury makes a case for composing narratives through a kind of unconscious process of association. In other words, he suggests you think of a few nouns and just start telling stories about them. 

Let me give this a try. The Rock. Can I tell a story about “the Rock.” Hmm…

Let’s imagine a giant rock with a flat plane at the top. It’s kind of a stage, high up in the sky. Below it people gather, late at night. They stare up at the rock, where there is a fire burning. There is a priest up there. A table. A knife. Some burning incense. And, of course, a sacrificial victim.

Whew. That was strange. So it can be done! There be a story there!

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 12)

Here is serial 12 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***

In spite of it being in the middle of the night,
everything here was brightly lit.

The old man left, leaving the Rogue with his granddaughter. She took him by the wrist and led him silently into one of the largest huts. From the hut issued  a plume of black smoke. Obviously there was a fire inside.

The young girl held back the cloth that served as the portal door and nodded with no smile, "Go on," she said, "nothing is inside but fire to warm the water I need to clean your wounded arm."

The Rogue was surprised by her words. "You speak the language of Tabun Stoh!" he said. "Wonderful! I was afraid my conversation would be limited to your grandfather, young one!"

He entered, followed by her, into the hut.

"Oh, no," she said. "He taught me. He's a very wise man, educated in many languages. I understand your prejudices and expectations, considering how we live, which must seem a barbarous way to one from the city."

The Rogue said nothing. He was too distracted by the interior of the hut, which was clean and well organized. It was lit by a central fire that was ventilated by a smoke-stained hole in the roof. The floor was covered in many layers of furs; and there were what appeared to be cushions of woven cloth stuffed with wool. And the hut smelled wonderfully; some dried spices, hanging from supporting rafters, fragranted the place.

The young girl smiled and walked over to the fire-pit. Out of the various furs she pulled a bronze tea-urn, which she hung over the flames. Into it she poured a water out of a skin that had been hanging from a hook. In a few moments she had brewed a drink, a kind of root. She poured the rogue some, served it in a clay cup, and when he drank it it tasted bitter and vaguely sweet. It seemed to quicken his mind, which had been dulled from the cold night. In a few moments the colors in the room seemed more pronounced. The girl giggled when he held his hand before him and looked at it with great curiosity in his face.

"The drink you've brewed--it's powerful. What is it?"

The girl smiled.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 11)

So, here is serial 11 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. By the way: I will never type up another novel manuscript on a typewriter. Never again. Never. This is quite boring, transcribing this. I'm glad I've found a reason to type it all up, though, because otherwise, it would have lingered in my basement, in my filing cabinet, yellowing.

As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***

They graybeard climbed a kind of stone stump and announced in a loud voice something in their strange language, and then the village plaza began to empty of folk. The women who were weaving left their work unfinished, grabbed their children, and disappeared--looks of resent hanging about their faces--into their houses.

The men began to follow them, leaving the Rogue and the old graybeard in the empty plaza alone. The ones who were armed left their weapons at their portals when they went inside. And then, they were alone.

It was eerie for the Rogue, standing there in the flickering light of those strange, smoking torches, not speaking to the old man who had on his face the vague suggestion of a grin.

A moment later, out of the darkness, a beautiful, dark-haired female came up to the old man and the Rogue. She was young, barely a woman, and--in spite of the apparent custom of her tribe--she had long black hair. Her eyes, however, were painted black like the other women.

In spite of her longer hair, there were other differences about her. On her head she wore a circlet of iron, which appeared to be fashioned in the likeness of a crown of ivy. There were settings for gems, but the gems had obviously been removed. If the gems had been present, the Rogue thought, it would have been a beautiful piece of jewelry indeed. As it was, it was somewhat dull. And yet, the Rogue admitted to himself, this young one needed no jewelry to beautify her.

The old man barked an order at the girl, who nodded and answered him; but she did not hide what was obviously the resentment she felt in regards to the old man's orders. It shown clearly on the sharp features of her face in spite of her efforts to hide it. "I leave you with my granddaughter. I am as a father to her, for she has no parents else. She will properly tend to your wound. I've told her to see that you're made as comfortable as we can make you." He rubbed his brow and stroked his beard. "And so I leave you, ranger, rogue--whatever you are. I'm weary. This night has been exerting. I must sleep. Tomorrow, after you've rested and ate, we will go and fetch your comrades." The Rogue touched his head and bowed.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 10)

I've reached serial 10 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants! That's a lot of boring transcribing! I didn't realize how many words I was getting on each page.

Here are some numbers:

Word's transcribed thus far: 3984 words.
Manuscript pages transcribed: 3.5
Average words per manuscript page: 1143 words.
Updated anticipated length of the entire novel: 34290 words

As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

With a nod three of the men accompanying the graybeard came forward and began probing the Rogue's wound. After a simple poultice was prepared, they set off together in the direction from which the crowd had originally came.

As they moved, the more curious and youthful of them stole glances of the Rogue, smiled, and began whispering among themselves. This the Rogue ignored, though it irritated him. His dark past had made him come to hate being an amusement, a curiosity. Were these but patronizing smiles for a ranger who had been bested by a wildland that they flourished in? He did not know.

Later, rolling his eyes skillfully, the Rogue caught some of them behaving in a way that stirred his suspicions: some of them glanced nervously at the night sky. The Rogue was adept at reading subtle body language, and  yet, he could not understand their anxiety.

The Graybeard

Aside from an occasional mysterious grin and their propensity to look with anxiety as the night sky, the folk walked along with the Rogue, chatting in their chittering language in an honest sort of way in spite of the night's darkness that surrounded them.

The graybeard leader was followed by torch-bearers and the man who was wearing the wolf-cloak. It concerned the Rogue that wolf-cloak had a dark expression lingering on his face. He still did not know what the man had attempted to tell him.

The Rogue eventually arrived to the village of these people. Their houses were built on a flat patch of grass, shorn close by the appetite of grazing sheep. The houses were made of bent reed smeared with clay and mud and looked quite cozy. The roofs of the houses--which we made out of thick, bundles of grass--looked liked the mops of hair of some boys the Rogue had known. Each house had a small, arched portal that was covered by a piece of crudely woven cloth. And above each door, it seemed, was a small, goatish skull. Perhaps a god they worshipped?, the Rogue wondered.

The village was laid in a three-ringed circle, the center of which was a bare earthen plaza. It was about a hundred feet from the rider's edges; the black water of that river flowed softly here. Accompanied by that gang, the Rogue came into the central plaza.

In spite of it being in the middle of the night, everything here was brightly lit by torch poles and bowls of oil similar to the one that the Rogue had seen when first he countered the two guards. And like that one, these gave off the same, greasy smoke as before, which seemed to linger in the air here, making a kind of smoky "roof" that almost shielded the millions of burning stars overhead.

And the plaza was not empty: women and children were here, huddling together, talking, playing, gossiping and joking. And there was a firepit in the very center of things, ringed by stacked bricks. Sitting around the firepit there were more women--beautiful women, young and old--who seemed to be weaving baskets out of pale grass. To the Rogue--who had been traveling with sinewy and bearded merchants for weeks now--these were indeed beautiful women, a wonderful surprise to stumble upon in the night. The hair on their heads, like their men, was shaved close, and their eyes were also darkly painted, although their eyes were black. To the Rogue their bodies, in spite of being wrapped in indelicate furs, were ripe and lovely. They seemed ghostly to the Rogue, seemed to wear the night with grace.

Upon the arrival of their leader, their men, and, of course, the Rogue, some of the women were startled, squeaked, and ran for their houses, leaving their work. Others stood tall, pushed their children behind them, and gazed at the Rogue with clenched jaws and trembling eyes.

These courageous ones appeared the more beautiful to the Rogue, who, using a guile he had honed over many years, stole quick glances of their forms to his pleasure: their skin, glazed with oil, glistened beautifully in the flickering light of the firepit and the torches.

A Secret and Complete Guide to Writing a Fantasy Adventure Short Story that Evokes Wonder

I have some extra time this morning. And so I thought I’d write something with a little heft to it. Having recently done some film reviews, I thought I would do something practical, a real “nuts and bolts” account of how to write a fantasy adventure story, a really fun genre.

 I can’t promise the process I outline here will result in good stories. I can promise, however, that, if followed, the process detailed in this guide will result in stories. And that’s a start. And I can also promise that, if you give it a good try, you’ll have fun.

For story writing, the more concrete the goal, the better. I've found it most useful to think of writing goals in terms of word count. And so, that's how I've structured the goal of this guide: to spin a yarn in no less than 2500 words and no more than 5000. Let's make it even more concrete. We’re going to set our goal someone in the middle: 3500 words. That’s a good, modest, short story size, and I think it conforms to a lot of emerging fantasy fiction markets.

So that’s our goal: tell a story in 3500 words. That’s a lot of room for telling a story.

The Ease of Storytelling

To prove the point, I’ll tell one right now. There was a warrior. He went to a strange land. There, he countered a slime monster with thirty heads. He chopped them all off. Returning home, he was made king. End of story.

Here. I’ll make it even simpler. There was a warrior who went and killed a monster and became king.

Even simpler. A warrior killed a monster and became king.

These aren’t necessarily enthralling stories. They evoke little emotional response. There’s no intense mystery, horror, romance, adventure. At the very least these stores are interesting. And yet, I can say this for them: they’re complete stories. The have a beginning. A middle. An end.

This is a guide for writing complete stories. Not half-finished, under-developed character sketches. Not fragments of a few scenes that don’t hang together.

Complete. Stories.

Composing complete stories is not difficult at all, as my previous examples illustrate.

Indeed, “spinning a yarn” is a natural skill all of us possess. We tell stories all the time.

You’re late to pick your wife up from the library; you explain with a story. Your students want to know why you don’t have their papers graded yet; you explain with a story. Your 3-year-old niece keeps jumping on her bed and you want to make a point about how it's dangerous to do so—you might be inclined to tell her a story about a time when you jumped on the bed, and fell, and cracked open your skull.

Remember: composing a complete story is easy. Anyone can do it.

The 5 Sub-Processes of the Writing Process

This post presents that writing process as composed of five important sub-processes, each of which I'll discuss in some detail below.

• Invention: coming up with ideas.
• Outlining: organizing your ideas. Preparing to tell your story.
• Drafting: the actual writing process of your story.
• Revising: large-scale changes you put your story through
• Editing and Manuscript Prep: “fixing” small-scale issues like grammar, punctuation, spelling, etc..

A point about the writing process: do not mix these sub-processes up. Engage in them separately. Why? Let me tell you why.

Composition theorists have studied the writing process for years and years, and, if there's any recurrent theme in the copious amounts of writing advice that has been accumulated over the many years, it’s this: don’t mix up the distinct sub-processes.

Why?

Well, the idea is that when you’re “coming up with ideas” you’re using a completely different part of your mind than the part you use when you’re organizing things, e.g. thinking about specific scenes, dialogs, conflicts.

When you’re actually composing language—typing on your computer—this is a completely separate part of your mind than that part used when you’re revising for clarity. So don’t worry about clarity as you compose. And—gods!—don’t worry about grammar at all.

Of course, with word-processing programs, it’s very easy to come up with ideas, organize them, write them out, use spell-checker, backspace and fix grammar, and format your text all at the same time. Technology allows us to do this. It also trips us up.

Mixing up the distinct sub-processes results in a mind that is overtaxed. And overtaxed minds can’t spin yarns, let alone good ones.

This is a useful metaphor: writing narrative fiction is like baking a cake. You should do each step separately. You don’t mix batter, cook, frost, and decorate at the same time. This would result in an abomination of a cake (or no cake at all). The key is to do each process deliberately. With care.

Invention

The first subprocess—the first step, if you will—is what I call "invention.”

Invention is all the work you do to “come up” with ideas. What are the goals of this process? To have an adequately fleshed out story that you can tell in 3500 words.

You can’t relate “a novel length story” in a short story form. It will seem vapid and empty. Nor can you relate a flash fiction scenario in 3500 words. It will probably come out at “puffed up.”

The trick is to come up with a story that requires 3500 words to be told. Bad news is, this is really difficult. The good news is, you have this secret guide.

I call this quality—the skillful conformity of a story idea to the medium that relates it (in our case, the 3500 word story)—tightness. A “tight” story is a story that wastes no words and lacks no words. The alternative to “tightness” is “shagginess”—using too many words—and “dessicated”—using too little.

Creating “tight” and not shaggy monsters or dessicated husks is something I’m still struggling with. For me, it’s the most important quality for fiction (which is why a lot of contemporary fantasy frustrates me—a lot of its shaggy, not tight at all).

For our purposes, the best way to come up with ideas that result in tight stories is to read short fiction.

That's obvious advice: you should read the kind of work you’re interested in modeling your work on; however, for those of you who are just eager to write and are frustrated with the recurring advice—read, read, read before you write!—there’s another way to conceive of how much of a story can fit, in, say, 3500 words.

A 3500 word narrative related in the medium of prose text can approximate the same amount of narrative complexity as, say, a single Twilight Zone episode. Or, say, a single issue of a comic book. Or, hmm…a single episode of a half hour sitcom.

Keep in mind, though, comic books and sitcoms are serialized, meaning, the writers don’t have to waste time characterizing their protagonists and telling you their entire life stories every episode. They usually rely upon a prior knowledge the viewer brings to their text.

This is why The Twilight Zone is the best of these three examples. It’s not serialized; meaning, it’s not an overarching story. Each episode has different characters encountering strange things in a different way.

If you want to read an example of a short fiction before trying to come up with an idea for one, I recommend Robert E. Howard’s, “The Valley of the Worm.” It’s a great example of a fully, self-contained story full of adventure and wonder.

Coming Up with Ideas

So, we talked about how easy storytelling is and we talked about how you should keep in mind, when coming up with your idea, your medium: a 3500 word short story. Now. How do you come up with ideas?

You’ll be happy to hear this: you don’t really have to. At this point you can let your creative muscles relax. Go get a cup of coffee. Stretch. You’re writing fantasy adventure. The vast majority of this step is already done for you.

What I mean is that the great storehouse of adventure scenarios has already been stocked for you. You can go and pluck any one of those scenarios from the shelf. Some examples:

• Gilgamesh: the story of a adventurer on a quest, through a labyrinth, to find a magical artifact.
• Moses and the Exodus: the story of a prophet and his conflict with a tyrant.
• Odysseus: the story of a man trying to get home.
• Beowulf: the story of a warrior who saves a group of folks beset by a monster.
• Dante: the story of a man who travels to a distant world, a strange place.
• Hamlet: the story of a man who plots revenge.
• Robinson Crusoe: the story of a man who has to conquer nature.
• Bilbo Baggins: the story of a man who is comfortable, lives a cozy life, and, against his desires, is swept up in an amazing adventure.

A side-note: I realize that all of the protagonists I list here are men. There’s something inherently male about the “adventure” narrative structure. I’m not sure what this means, culturally, historically, biologically, etc.. I’m sure it means something. Just thought I’d point that out.

Any of these stories will do as a foundation upon which to base your story. I’m not advocating plagiarism at all. Plagiarism is stealing. I am, however, advocating that you dialog artistically with the stories that have come before. How do you “dialog artistically”? Let me just try to relate how it happens in my mind. Excuse the non-normative grammar as I try to open my skull and let you look inside:

“I’m going to write a Gilgamesh-type story about a king… no. Wait! A goblin king! Who—who goes on a quest! Through a labyrinth! Like that Jim Henson movie. Damn. Well. It’s an abandoned city that’s “labryinth-like.”What abandoned cities show up in literature? H.P. Lovecraft tells stories about abandoned cities. R'lyeh. Cthulhu’s city! Yeah! An abandoned city that—has a Cthulhu like monster in it. No. Too obvious. What’s the opposite of Cthulhu? Something beautiful. An angel. A beautiful arch-angel. O.k.. Goblin king. Goes to a weird, destroyed city haunted by a beautiful, evil angel. He goes in search of a… hmm… a magical flute? No. A horn. A brilliant silver horn.”

And so on.

Notice I’ve cited all sorts of texts and authors here: Gilgamesh, Jim Henson’s The Labyrinth, H.P. Lovecraft, religious iconography, etc..

The fact of the matter is my story about a goblin king who goes to an abandoned city to fight a beautiful angel to get a silver horn isn’t that original at all. Even with my mish-mash of various elements, it’s not very new. I’ve just weirded things up.

Here’s something important: the point is not to have a new plot. That’s not where your originality shines through. Furthermore, the goal is not to be “original” on the level of plot in fantasy adventure. The locus of originality, the source of fantasy adventure's artistic power, is not the originality of its plots. It’s in the emotional effects it evokes in its audience: the feelings of mystery, horror, sublimity, wonder, etc.. I have some thoughts on how to make your writing have the most potential to evoke intense experiences.

For now, at this stage—invention—remember this: in spite of all the dragons, goblins, wizards, undead monsters, fairies, cyclops, unicorns—in a word, novums—the originality of fantasy literature does not come from its plot. It comes from its capacity to stir feelings of wonder.

So save your creative energies for later, when we move onto outlining.

I’ve showed you how easy composing stories is. I’ve given you an idea of what can be related in a short story. And I’ve tried to convey an intuitive strategy for coming up with a story idea. Now. Before we move onto outlining and some more thoughts on composing “tight” stories, do this: come up with an idea. You’ll need it. Write it down. It should be no more than 50 words or, say three sentences. Do it. And then go on to read about outlining.

Outlining

The first thing I want to say about outlining is a scandal: they are an illusion. You can create an extensively detailed outline organizing every scene, every expository passage, every dialog exchange-- you even get all mathematical and assign word limits to each of these elements. The fact of the matter is, you will not follow it. When you move onto drafting, you will deviate from it.

Does this mean you should just strike out and start drafting without an outline? Let me take a deep breath: NO! Bad writer!

In spite of our faithlessness to outlines, they are absolutely essential for the composition of any sort of narrative fiction. Why? Remember my reference to “tight,” “shaggy,” and “dessicated” stories? Put simply and in metaphorical form: if “Shaggy” and “Dessicated” were vampires, their garlic would be outlines. Another metaphor: outlines are your anti-biotic against writing “shaggy” and “dessicated” stories.

Put simply: outlines not only keep your writing focused, its turns your writing into a story, a coherent story, with a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Some folks don’t like using outlines because—to use an RPG term—they feel “railroaded” by them (i.e. they feel like outlines force them into following rigid paths). They desire the free reign of the sandbox. The wide open of the flowing meadow. The vast emptiness of a cosmic vacuum.

The last example was meant to make a point. Unless you’re one of those very gifted and lucky people who can come up with, compose, organize, and beautifully relate a story—four processes—all at the same time (side-note: I don’t these mythical super-writers  exist), your stories will feel like a “vast emptiness” to readers, a “cosmic vacuum”.

In terms of fantasy adventure, writing without an outline produces strange (not in a good way) stories that are meandering and aimless. The genre we’re working in offers far too many opportunities for pitfalls. Why not throw in another fight with vampire-demons-slime-monsters? Why not add an extra riddling serpent? :Sigh: Because—

Hold on.

This will be become clear if I try to make a case for why we should outline.

In fantasy adventure, you should outline because it allows you to identify the moments in your narrative that are important; the key moments that have the potential for evoking for most sought after effect: wonder.

The Aesthetic of Wonder

Here’s a hunch: the primary aesthetic effect of fantasy adventure is what I call wonder. What is wonder? Well, philosophers since Plato have been arguing about that for thousands of years. Let me give you the fast sketch of it.

Wonder is the emotion one experiences when the world seems to conform to your vision of it. Wonder is the emotion one experiences when it seems as if our expectations are about to be realized.

If you want more on wonder consider reading Philip Fisher’s great book, *Wonder, the Rainbow, and the Aesthetics of Rare Experiences* (Harvard UP, 1998).

But, to unpack this description of wonder, let me just give some examples of it:

Example 1: An other-worldly adventurer has been traveling through multiple planes of existence to find a shining city of light. Using a map, he has come to the final obstacle: a hill. A horizon. He walks up the hill. He approaches the horizon. Red light is pouring over the horizon. He looks over! His eyes grow wide! Wonder.

Example 2: An old witch has been making a potion. It requires a rare ingredient. The beak of a squid-god and a vial of its ink. After many adventures, she gets all the ingredients together. She brews up the potion. It’s green and bubbling. It releases noxious fumes, red smoke, that swirls into various shapes: horses, demons, piping satyrs. She holds it up. She drinks it down! She gasps. She grabs her throat. What’s happening to her? Wonder.

And there’s more.

Wonder isn’t just this experience of expectation. It is also followed by a realization of that expectation. And, usually, that realized expectation is another emotion, an intensified one. Let me demonstrate with my examples:

Example 1: He looks over! His eyes grow wide! There is the city! It’s so beautiful! A million spiraling turrets of ivory! Flowing banners of silver! Ecstasy.

Example 2. She drinks it down! She gasps. She grabs her throat. What’s happening to her? She begins retching! Bloody, vein-covered sacks! They’re moving! Out of the sacks rip little demon-creatures that resemble the witch! They smile and scream, “Sister! Life! We live again!” and they cackle horrendously. The witch, meanwhile—with a long, red tongue—begins licking them clean of their birthing juices. Horror.

So, wonder is an emotion of anticipation that is usually realized. And it’s the key aesthetic effect of fantasy adventure.

Outlining (Cont.)

But back to outlining.

Aside from the obvious benefits of outlining—it keeps your story focused, it stops you from adding scenes and episodes that are irrelevant—it offers an essential boon specifically for writers of fantasy adventure, writers who are committed to having their stories evoke wonder.

What does outlining have to do with composing a narrative that evokes wonder? Outlining allows you to adopt that “macro-narrative” perspective you require in order to identify the moments of wonder in your story; having identified them, you can then structure your narrative to foreground those moments.

Let me offer an idea of a story idea and a brief outline. It’ll be better to have an example to work with. I like that witch story. I’ll stick with it.

Story idea: There is an evil witch whose two witch sisters were burned by priests of a city god. The witch has found a way to resurrect her sisters. She has to make a potion from rare ingredients. When she drinks it she literally vomits her sisters up.

Beginning of Example

Thoughts about the outline: How should this story start? I got it! The witch is talking with someone who is going to give her information regarding the ingredients.


Characters:


• The witch.
• Her sisters.
• The priests who killed her sisters.
• Squid-god.
• People who worship the squid-god.
• Person she’s talking to—A hermit sorcerer possessed by a demon who owes her a boon for her help in the past. 


Scene Outline


Scene 1: The witch talks with the demon-possessed sorcerer. She will not tell the sorcerer what potion she wants to make. The sorcerer tells her where to find the ingredient she needs. The ink of a squid god.
Scene 2: Expository passage detailing her travels to the island where the squid god is worshiped by a strange people.
Scene 3: Minor encounters with the people as she makes her way to the temple.
Scene 4: Her encounter with the squid-god. A fight.
Scene 5: The brewing of her potion and the vomiting up of her sisters.

End of Example.

This outline entails a list of characters and a scene-by-scene outline. One could also include descriptions for each of the characters. Some folks might like including a list of the settings (e.g. Sorcerer’s tower, witches hut, temple of the squid-god, etc.)

Briefly, let me point out some potential moments of wonder, where the reader’s expectations can be intensified: the witch’s travels leading up the island of the squid god, her fight through the city to the squid-god’s temple (the temple turns out to be a monstrous, huge conch-shell!), her encounter with the squid-god (it results in a fight), and, of course, her brewing of the potion.

Brief interlude: I need to say something about fights. Fantasy adventure is filled with fight scenes. But you need to understand how reader’s relate to fight scenes emotionally in order to craft effective ones. First, the lead up to the fight can be just as interesting as the fight. Questions, such as, “Will they fight? Is he really going to go for his dagger?” stir a sense of wonder in the reader; this sense of wonder, leading up to a fight scene, primes the reader to experience another emotion: excitement. When the protagonist finally goes for his dagger and slashes at the demon-priest’s face, you’ve left wonder behind and moved on to excitement. Here’s the thing about excitement: it fizzles out quickly. In narrative prose—written stories—I found that when writers try to sustain excitement in this way, it inevitably fails. And, even more simply, it’s something this medium—the written word—is just not good at. Want a good, exciting sword-fighting scene? Watch *The Princess Bride.* I’m sure there will be detractors here. What about Robert E. Howard? What about Harold Lamb? Indeed. What about them? Looking at their fight scenes I am always surprised by how brief they actually are. There’s a lot of lead up in Howard’s stories to actual fights, but the fights tend to end very quickly with a beautiful image of gore: “The Cimmerian split the skull of the Pict in twain. A burst of hot, red blood shot out.” Fight over. I could go on about how to construct good fight scenes. It’s really important for this genre. But now, alas, is not the time. Perhaps a post on this topic is in the future. Back to outlining.

Another way people refer to outlining is they use the term “pre-writing”. I tend to use them inner-changeably. Outlining, pre-writing, whatever you call it, it’s is great for coming up with details.

And yet—and yet! it carries with it two risks:

(1) If you spend too much time pre-writing, then you’ll never get to drafting.

(2) There is a tendency for the length of a story to grow the more pre-writing / outlining you do. If you’re aiming for a 3500 word story, you want to keep your pre-writing / outlining of a quantiy appropriate for that length. How much pre-writing should you do? Once again, this is somewhat difficult to gauge. I tend to allow myself approximately 25% of the word-count of my story for my prewriting. Thus, prewriting for a 3500 word story should not exceed 875 words or thereabouts. Anything more, and your story might baloon into a novella or a shaggy short-story. Anything less and your story might become a dessicated husk. But, as you write stories, mess around with it. I’ve known writers who attest to writing 40 pages for every 1 page of completed prose. I, personally, think that’s ridiculous (and probably a whopper).

One other thing before I wrap up this outlining section. Keep in mind the difference between these three writing modes: exposition, description, and dialog.

Exposition is when you summarize something. Time can be collapsed in exposition. For example, “A thousand years past and the Empire of Nes flourished, grew decadent, crumbled, and was lost to dust.”

Exposition is also when you’re just relating information. For example, “The Slime-monsters of Kadee procreate through using long tentacle-like spikes that spray spores.”

Dialog is self-evident. Example: “Watch out for them spores!”

Description is when you relate physical space and time as it happens. Time can be condensed in description. For example, “He walked into the room. He threw down his sword. It clattered on the ground. It seemed as though the entire mead-hall grew still as the dust cloud erupted. And hung in the rafters. A thousand tiny particles. Like the numbered stars.”

Some people like separating physical description from the narrating of action. Consider, “He walked into the tomb,” versus, “the tomb was filled with long-bearded zombies with yellow eyes.”

It’s good to note in your outlines of which mode you’re using and when. This allows you to calibrate your pace.

An important note about narrative technique, description, and expostion: the technique of a lot of novice writers (like myself and friends of mine) derives from the narrative technique characteristic of the commercial genre writers publishing today. Novel writers like George R.R. Martin, Patrick Rothfuss, Steven Erikson take their time and more often than not almost narrate in the “descriptive” mode, scene-by-scene. They rarely use “exposition” (Patrick Rothfuss does someties). I love their work and don’t begrudge them their 800 page novels. But, in short fiction, this “non-expository” narrative technique is a quick way to boring your reader. If you don’t use exposition in short narrative fiction, your pace will feel tortuously slow to a reader.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Enough of outlining! Of mere prewriting! Onward! Excelsior! On to drafting!

Drafting

You’ll be surprised to find out I have little to say about drafting, the actual click-clickety-clicking of keys. Just draft. Sit down, in front of the computer, and start writing out your scenes and expository passages and dialog. That’s what you should do. I have more to say about what you shouldn’t do.

1) Worry about grammar, punctuation, word choice, spelling, awkward dialog, manuscript details. Make sure your writing is coherent enough to read after drafting; but aside from just drafting, do little else. Don’t use spell-check; that’s editing. Don’t worry about double-spacing; that manuscript preperation. Don’t stress over dialog— “Should I use contractions? Is that word too modern? Would he say it like that? ::nail biting:: —just write it out; anything else is revision.

2) Don’t draft too long. Set yourself a limit of, say, 15 minutes per session. Aim for, say, two sessions a day. Or one. You’re not on a schedule. Make sure you’re making progress. But don’t rush it. If you sit down and tell yourself “I have to write for 1 hour. I have to write 2000 words,” you might do it. But it will be terrible. Let me say it again: don’t draft too long.

But…

3) Don’t stop if you’re on a roll. If you sit down, start drafting, reach the 15 minute point, and, lo! you’re creative furnace is still red hot! If you’re still cooking with gas, go for it. The moment you feel fatigue, however, quit.

4) Don’t refrain from drafting if you don’t want to. Always do at least 15 minutes a day. Why? Because missing one day becomes missing three days becomes missing a month, a year, you’re dead. Life is short. You only have so much time to give form to your fever dreams.

This is a big one!

5) Don’t—I repeat—DON’T start over. "Starting over" is just another another phrase for "giving up" on your story. If you start writing it, finish it. It might come out a horror of a story (not in a good way) that no one would ever elect to read (I bet you could still get your wife to read it), and yet—and yet! you still would have finished a story. It’s been my experience that writing bad stories is just as useful as writing good stories. If you have a bad story, you can analyze it, understand where is went wrong.

And that’s it for drafting. Draft. And avoid the pitfalls I just enumerated. Do those things and reap the payoff: from your mind will issue a new world.

And now for revision.

Revision

I’m not one of those folks who think revision is 90% of writing. I think that’s nonsense. If you’ve outlined and if you’ve stayed committed to that outline while you draft, then by the time you reach this phase, you should have a good story to work with.
Don't get me wrong: revision is very important. I've just become desensitized to the spetacularizing that claims revision is as important as drafting.

Let me engage in some guesswork: if, say 20% of your labor is spent on outlining, 40% on drafting, I’d say 30% would be spent on revision. In other words, I spend more time revising than I do outlining (actually coming up with the story), but I’d say I spend less time on revision than I spent on drafting.

I should be clear: lots of folks mix up revision with editing. For me, revision and editing are two separate subprocesses of the creative writing process. Let me explain.

When you revise you focus on large-scale, issues like narrative pacing, characterization, lyrical expression, making dialog more natural.

When you edit you focus on small-scale issues like spelling, grammar, punctuation, format.

Don’t get these two subprocesses mixed up. Why? Bald statement of fact: revision is important and editing is not important. This is not to diminish the work the “editors” do for writers, which is usually to help them with what I’m calling “revision.” In the professional writing world, what I’m calling “editing,” they call “copy-editing,” and they usually pay other people to do it.

Gods, I hate copy-editing. The various typos and errors that pervade my blog (and probably this post) attest to the esteem I hold copy-editing / line-editing / editing (whatever you call it).

But don’t get me wrong: you have to do it. It's a matter of self-respect. You should do it. I should be embarrassed to have typos on my blog. I am embarrassed!

And yet, in spite of that disclaimer, compared to what I’m calling revision, copy-editing is negligible in terms of importance.

Now that we’ve gotten what revision *isn’t* cleared up, let me say a few things about what I think it is. I’ll do that by talking about the goals of the revision.

Your goal as you revise should be to locate those moments of wonder and make sure they are functioning as intensely as possible. You increase their intensity by shaving off excess language here, a scene there; some revisions might include adding a whole new character or taking one out.

Another goal of revision is to truly assess your goals with the story and ask yourself, is this story as “tight” as it can be? Does every word serve a purpose? Is there anything in this story that is not essential? If so, cut it out.

One final thing about revision: I find it’s a pleasure to revise in collaboration with others. Writing is using a solitary activity. It can get lonely. Revision is a great stage in this process to share your work-in-progress with others craftsman to get their input. There are some ground-rules though:

• Pick a collaborator who you trust and respect, who is a close reader and a good writer. If you know someone like this, grab them. They are valuable. Consider marrying them.
• Don’t share your works-in-progress with folks who aren’t writers. Non-writers only get to read your work after it’s been revised and polished and ready for presentation.
• Don’t let your collaborator turn your story into their story. If a collaboration isn’t working, end it.
• Don’t start a collaboration just to get someone to read your work. If you start a collaboration, be ready and willing to take advice. If all you want is a reader, read it yourself.
• And--sorry for the constant reiteration--don’t revise until you’ve finished your first draft.

Conclusion and Theoretical Time-Table

And that’s about it. I covered a lot in this post. I left a lot out. To wrap a bow on things let me engage in some guesswork again. Here’s a theoretical time table. I’m sure if you put it into action the pace will be different for each person, depending on their personal circumstances, working style, etc..

• Day 1: Come up with your idea. You might not even write anything down at this point. Just grab a cup of coffee, sit at a cafe, and ponder for about twenty minutes.
• Day 2: Pre-writing / Outlining. Do this by hand on a piece of paper; or type it up. I’m usually able to get my pre-writing done in one day. Some folks might drag it out to 2. That’s fine. 800 words in one sitting is difficult if you’re drafting. If you’re just scribbling notes, you should be fine to produce that in a single session.
• Days 3-4-5-6: Drafting. Draft for 15 minutes a day. In theory, this is only an hour of writing. You’ll probably end up writing upwards of 2 hours. If you prewrite and outline well, you’ll be hard-pressed not to go over your 15 minute designation.
• Day 7-8-9: Revise. Possibly revise with another person. Make it fun. Meet at a coffee shop and have a scone.
• Day 10: Edit. Proof. Copy-edit. Whatever you want to call it. Clean it up.

The last piece of advice is a reiteration: don’t mix up the sub-processes. Don’t mix them up. Don’t do it. No.

Thanks for reading! And please, if you have any questions, concerns, advice, let me know! And good writing!

By the way, I asked my wife copy-edit this for me. She said no.

Now I'm going to go write that story about the witch who vomits up her sisters.

***


Update (2/25): I wrote that story about the witch. I thought I'd share it with you, as an example of the kind of story this process can produce. It's titled, "The Ink of the Slime Lord." I even made a cover for it!