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.

The Weirding of the Writing Process: Channeling Society's Metanarratives (Part 2)

I ended my post yesterday by stating that, as creative writers, we don’t come up with our own ideas. I suggested that we channel them. Today I’d like to follow that train of thought to some practical conclusions.

I won’t go over the same territory I went over in my previous post. Those who are interested can refer to part 1, posted yesterday.

There have been a slew of narrative theorists and thinkers who have offered a version of this argument: there is no such thing as a new story. A good example of someone who made a version of this argument would be the Russian folklorist, Vladimir Propp (1895-1970).

Vladimir Propp (1895-1970)

I won’t go into his ideas in too much detail. The best way to give you an idea of what he believes is to briefly characterize his most influential work. Having read lots and lots of Russian folktales, organized them, cataloged them, he reduced them all—in a book titled Morphology of the Folktale (1928)—into 31 narrative functions. Here’s his argument in a nutshell: every folktale he studies, in spite of their apparent variety and color, are, on a primal level, re-tellings of the same story; for Propp, they are all variations of the same narrative structure.

Joseph Campbell (1904-1987)

Another example: anyone who has read Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949) will recognize some similarity with Propp. Campbell, who studied world mythologies, suggested that all the world’s mythological stories can be reduced to one story, a story he calls “the hero cycle.” I won’t go into Campbell’s work here because his work are much more widely known.

Why do I cite these authors in talking about that first stage of writing, invention? “Coming up” with ideas?

If you accept the more general idea that these thinkers point to, that stories are there and not created, I think it really alters the way you proceed as a creative writer.

Invention becomes less the acrobatic and awkward task of surveying the field of stories, the canon—if you will--and innovating with novelty in mind. Innovation, in the conceptual framework I’m outlining here, becomes a problem, a crisis we are unfit to master.

The task is to not innovate. The task is to look beyond the ephemeral stories of our modern moment to see the eternal ones that linger in the shadows, beneath the surface, out there.

Couldn't get it all in today. Stay tuned for part three tomorrow.

Exercise: (Step 1) Think of a story that you love. That moved you. That captures your imagination (for me this would be, say, Star Wars). Summarize it in 50 words. No more. No less. Next, look at your 50 word summary and reduce that to one sentence. Make this sentence no more than 20 words. The trick to this is dropping incidental details like characters and circumstances and foregrounding important narrative functions.

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.

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.

Hamlet, the Supernatural, and Juxtapositons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Excuse the long quotation:

***

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

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

The Greek nodded.

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

Again the quick nod.

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

Fritz Leiber's "Bazaar of the Bizarre"

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

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

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