Artist, Jonathan Roberts

Guest Post by Jonathan Roberts

Let’s get one thing out of the way right now.

A map shouldn’t be pretty.

I know what you’re thinking – those posters of Middle Earth are gorgeous. Of course a map should be beautiful! But for worldbuilding purposes a pretty map is a Very Bad Thing. Beautiful things are precious, and we tend to want to leave precious things pristine and untouched. When we’re building worlds we need to break things, and often. So, out with any thoughts that we’re making a pretty map. We’ll be making a functional map. In fact we’ll be making many maps, one after the other. In exactly the same way that your notes are not the final manuscript, a map isn’t the final world. It’s a visual notepad, and you should be crossing things out, erasing sections and rebuilding from scratch as you go along.

So we won’t be needing photoshop today, we need a pad of scratch paper and a pencil. Ready? Right, let’s build a world.

First of all, think about the world you need to build. In many cases this is a defined area that’s much smaller than the planet you’re on. Very few stories truly span a globe, so let’s begin by cutting down to the area that the story explores. This keeps the work focused on a reasonable area, and means there will always be distant and mysterious lands to explore down the line.

In your tale there will be nations, city states or power centers of some form. Start by making a note of their relationships to one another. Are they at war? Are they aloof? Do they feud over resources or are they closely allied? Think over the things that make them stand out. Are they famous for their expansive grain fields? Their iron? Their navy? I’m sure you can see the theme here. Nations are defined by the geography they inhabit as much as we define the geography by the nation. A nation with a large navy needs sea access, but it should also have natural defenses like a mountain range that allows the nation to neglect other military forces in favor of its navy. Two countries at war need to be close, and need to have a means of attacking one another.

Focus on major terrain at this point–how much coastline and mountain range. Make notes about other terrain that comes to mind–the tulip fields of Alak’tor, the salt mines of Keshel. Those will come in useful later.

It’s now time to start our map. Grab a pencil and faintly draw in circles where your nations are. Nations that are allies or at war should be close. Those that rarely interact should be farther away, or have an insurmountable natural barrier between them. Drawing circles on a map may sound easy, but this stage can take a few tries to get the relationships right.

Stage 1: Circles. Yes, these are 6 interconnected nations!

But circles aren’t really a map. Let’s draw some coastlines. Think about which of your nations need large coastlines and which should be landlocked. Then let your pen wander. Really – avoid straight lines. Coastlines are jagged and broken things. If your line doesn’t look like it was plotted by a drunken ant, you’re doing it wrong.

Step 2: The coastlines. Keep them broken and randomized.

Now let’s lay in some mountains. Mountains tend to form ridges. Avoid the temptation to fill in whole blocks of land with mountains. Instead, lay them out in wavy lines. They often follow the edge of a coastline (think the Andes). From a story point of view, they form obstacles for your heroes and they create natural boundaries between nations, or between nations and the great unknown. Mountains also create boundaries between climates. So if you need a desert in one area and a jungle in the other, you’d better place a mountain range between them to stop the rain from the jungle getting to the desert.

Step 3: Mountains – they shouldn’t be pretty, inverted triangles do the job just fine.

Next up, we have rivers. Rain falls on mountains and runs downhill to the sea. It always flows to the lowest point – and there’s always one lowest point. This means that rivers don’t branch as they flow to the sea, they only join. So – no rivers going from coast to coast. At some point that requires water to flow uphill. No lakes that have two separate rivers leading to the sea – remember, only one lowest point leading out. Think of a river like a tree. There’s one trunk where it enters the sea, but a panoply of branches reaching towards the mountains.

Rivers are also strategically important. There’s hardly a river mouth in the world without a town on it and most great cities lie on a river. If you know where your cities are going to be, make sure there’s a decent sized river flowing through them. Equally, rivers make great defenses. It’s hard to build a wall all the way along your nation’s border, but it’s almost as hard to get an army over a well-defended river as it is to have them scale a wall.

Step 4: As rivers run to the coast they only join, they never branch.

Add some hills to the edge of your mountain ranges. Lay in some forest and see how it looks. Remember, don’t be precious. If you don’t like it, start on a new sheet of paper. Sketch another coastline. Turn it upside down.

When you’re happy with the terrain, go over the pencil lines with pen, and erase the pencil–including your nation boundaries. Scan and photocopy the map. Go away and have some food.

When you come back, try the following experiment. Ignore your previous nations. Look at the virgin world with a new eye. If you were founding a country in the world, where would you start? What would be the key strategic choke points? Look at the world as if you were playing Civ. Where are the resources you need to defend, what lands would you try to annex? Use some colored pencils to sketch in different nations and boundaries. Edit the rivers if you need to, move things around. You’ve got lots of copies of the map–experiment.

Once you have a layout you like, we’ll add cities.

Step 5: Hills and Forests, add them wherever you see fit. These are easily moved.

Cities are where they are for a reason. They don’t just appear up in the middle of nowhere. Population centers need food, water, trade and security. Rivers can provide all of  these, which is why towns and cities tend to spring up at river mouths. Locate your capitals in places that are easily defended and that have good transport connections to the rest of the nation. Place smaller cities in key locations, whether that’s in the heart of a mining community on the edge of a mountain range, at a key strategic river crossing, or a market town in the middle of leagues of prime cattle-ranching land. At this point, also mark in major fortifications.

Step 6: Place cities, towns and fortifications.

With these indicated it’s a simple matter to place the roads. These will connect the major cities, the main food producing regions, and any other major trade routes.

You now have a perfectly functional map! But remember, nothing is set in stone. Each time you run through this process your map will be better. Each time you sketch the map you’ll have new ideas. As you continue to write about your world you’ll come up with new thoughts on what terrain you should have, how two countries relate across their border, where a great wilderness needs to be. Redraw the map – it’s there for you. Both your map drawing and your text will be better for the relationship between map and story.

And when your manuscript is ready to go from draft to final, your map will be ready to go from sketch to illustration. But that’s a post for another day.

Step 7: Colored and finished!

If you want to learn about the art of mapmaking, then check out the Cartographers’ Guild, or my own tutorials.

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Three years ago my life changed.

Before dismissing that statement as being melodramatic, just hear me out.

It was 2010 and I was thinking that I might actually be interested in maybe someday pursuing a writing career. I was receiving Dave Farland’s Daily Kicks, and he mentioned he was putting together this seminar-thing (okay, he was far more eloquent than that) with a bunch of other top-notched and top-selling fantasy writers about everything you needed to know about the publishing industry, but no one was willing to tell you. The other instructors–Kevin J. Anderson, Eric Flint, Rebecca Moesta and James Owen–all have equally impressive resumes. The seminar-thingy was the Superstars Writing Seminar. I figured what the heck, I’d been going to “skills” seminars for about five years now, maybe it was time to get an insider’s look at the industry I wanted to be part of.

Best (professional) decision of my life.

Why?

The information and insight into the publishing market, including the self-publishing v. traditional publishing debate, was invaluable. Knowing the risks inherent for a publisher in taking on a new writer, I understood (and could work to circumvent) the barriers to publishing.

The time with the instructors was unprecedented. Remember that I said I’d been attending seminars for five years. Even with instructor-intense workshops, there wasn’t a whole lot of out-of-class time with the instructors. Superstars blew that distance out of the water. We went to lunch with the instructors. We went out drinking with Kevin Anderson. If you wanted a few minutes of their time, all of them where happy to oblige.

The instructor time ties in with a very important point.  They are some of the nicest and most open people you could ever want to meet. They genuinely want to help other writers succeed. They are invested in helping them do so. They have a wealth of information on many disparate topics and are more than happy to share that knowledge, whether it’s publishing, queries, hiking, micro-brew beers, mafia, European history or whatever.  For the price of asking, they gave us hours of their time to help us Superstars attendees move forward in our careers. And the guest speakers are just as open and wonderful as the regular instructors.

Then, of course, there’s the connections you form with the other attendees. The Superstars attendees are as amazing as the instructors. A group of the 2010 Superstars alums formed the writing group that grew into Fictorians. The picture to the right is of some of us at World Fantasy 2012. In addition to Fictorians, Superstars alums have an active Facebook group. We encourage and commiserate with each other. We are our own best cheerleaders. That network of people going through exactly what you are going through is invaluable. It’s also how I found my publisher.

Most of all, what Superstars did for me was give me the confidence to say, “I am going to be a professional writer.” It’s not a crazy dream. It’s a goal. Superstars gave me an understanding of the business side of the industry that I couldn’t get anywhere else.

Seriously folks, if you are interested in a writing career or maybe you’re already pursuing one, you are doing yourself a disservice by not attending Superstars. I highly recommend you attend Superstars Writing Seminar, which will be held May 14-16, 2014 in Colorado Springs, Colorado this year. Prices go up on  May 1, 2013, so sign up now.

I hope to see you there.

If you’re still on the fence, check out another great posts on this site about the Superstars Experience:

Q&A with the Superstars: Part I

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In Part 1, I talked about why we write and why receiving a critique can be so difficult and in Part 2 we discussed what a critique is.

I’ve seen critiques gone bad – so bad that when the author tried to incorporate everyone’s suggestions, he ruined his own story and in another instance, the writer gave up writing for a while. Sometimes it’s hard to find the right group of people or even one person, who understands that observations and comments that help strengthen your work do not need to include wholesale shredding,

So, how to avoid a critique disaster?

What you can do to prepare yourself:

1) The most important thing for you, the author, to remember is that the critique helps you to switch hats – from the creative to the editorial. Remember that creative ALWAYS needs editorial and creative is usually scared to death of editorial. That is why some authors put their stories away for a while before embarking on the editorial journey – to give their creative sides time away from the work so that they can approach the revision and editing process more objectively.

2) Submit your best work and understand what type of critique you are looking for: a reader’s critique, a line by line critique or both? A reader’s critique is one in which the reader tells you what is working and what isn’t, where she was engaged and what threw her out of the story. The points listed at the end of this article can help guide the reader on what to look for.  A line by line critique happens when all the other elements of the story are working well and the manuscript is is reviewed for consistency in language, metaphors, grammar, excess wording, etc. Generally, good critiquers will not give you a line by line critique unless they know this is more than a first draft. They can tell that by how strongly your story holds together in terms of plot, consistency, style, character and setting. Only then will they focus on line-by-line edits to polish the story.

2) Understand that some people can’t help but shred, rewrite and go beyond what is asked for. Take what you need and leave the rest but for goodness sake, don’t take it personally! Have confidence in your work and move on. Know that you can’t and don’t have to use everyone’s suggestions.

3) Know you may disagree with someone’s comments but do not take issue or become defensive. Instead become curious as to why they made those comments. Was there a misunderstanding or misinterpretation of some sort? If so, the reason for the comments may need to be addressed. Sometimes a person’s comments may simply be wrong. They may offer bad or unwelcome suggestions or see problems where they don’t exist or miss existing problems. Ultimately, you must choose the feedback that works for you.

4) Understand who is critiquing. Not everyone may be familiar with the nuances of the genre you are writing in or the age level you are targeting and that may pose problems. Short story writers and novelists may have different views on pacing, description, speed of character or plot development. You need to understand the person who is responding to your work to give their comments appropriate context.

5) Above all, be respectful and gracious. This person took time from their other activities to help you.

What you can do to prepare others:

1) Tell them what stage this is in. First draft? Final draft needing polishing before submission? This should include information about the intended market such as Writers of the Future submission, YA novel, adult historical fantasy, etc.

2) Be clear about what you are looking for – first draft I always ask for a reader’s critique. What is working? What keeps you in the story? What isn’t working? What throws you out? Do the character’s actions ring true?

3) It’s good to tell others where you have concerns. For example, 1) I’ve rewritten the beginning several times and am not happy with it. What’s working or not working? Is this the right place to start the story? 2) Does the science make sense? Is the world I’ve created consistent and credible?

Here are some points used by writers and in critique groups that I belong to. Use them to help focus the questions you want answered, or if you’re looking at someone’s work, use them as guidelines of things to look for. Some will use this as a template, while others may only touch upon pertinent points.

General impressions: An overview of what worked and what didn’t; critiquer’s theory of theme, premise & plot summary; first impressions on title, emotional response, stumbles, questions and expectations; if the story is satisfying; and  how well does the title work?

Plot:
It the problem clearly stated?
Is there a full story arc?
Does the opening/hook work?
Is there rising action & a climax?
Is the resolution complete?
Did something change?
Are there plot holes?
Does each scene work?
Is there appropriate revelation throughout the story?

Consistency:
Are there places where suspension of disbelief fails?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Does the narrative flow with proper pacing, rhythm?
Is there sufficient conflict (of all types)?

Style:
Is the style of writing appropriate?
Is an appropriate narrative tone used?
Is dialogue stilted or otherwise out-of-place?
Is there a proper balance of narrative and dialogue?
Is there appropriate narrative tension?
Is Point of View consistent? The best choice or mix?
Is tense consistent?

Character:
Sufficiently developed & distinct?
Do they speak with distinct voices?
Do they change?
Do they have believable motivations & behaviors?
Are there too many characters?
Do they have appropriate names?
Do they have strengths & weaknesses?
Are the interesting?
Is at least one character sympathetic?

Setting:
Is it complete or full of holes?
If a character, is it fully developed?

Technique summary:
Are there technical problems? (its vs it’s?)

Remember that the purpose of the critique is to help us polish the gem of our story until it sparkles in its brilliance. So, keep your eye on the prize, have confidence in what you’re doing, revise, polish and above all, submit your work!

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Feeling Tense:  2 of a 2-part series

Part 2:  Third person

Third person omniscient

“Cora felt uneasy as she stepped into the cave’s gaping maw.  Tina, on the other hand, was thrilled at the opportunity to explore.”

The narrator is God, looking down on Her characters.  Since the narrator is omniscient, the writer has the freedom to reveal what any character is feeling, thinking, or doing, at any time.  If characters are keeping secrets from one another, the omniscient narrator knows, and can share those secrets with the readers.  If a storyline is complex, an omniscient narrator can make sure the readers find out what they need to know to follow the story.

This technique has its drawbacks.  Third person makes it easy for the writer to preach:  to tell the readers how they should feel about the characters, or whether a character’s decision was “right” or “good,” instead of letting the readers draw their own conclusions about the characters’ thoughts and actions.  It is also somewhat impersonal in that the characters are held at a certain remove from the reader (we’re watching them, rather than seeing through their eyes);  a novelist wants to avoid the dry tone of a history book.

One of my English professors once suggested to me that the narrator was also a “character” of sorts.  The narrator affects the reader’s interpretation of the story’s events by the use of judgmental language–descriptions can include value judgments about characters or actions–and by describing certain events in detail while glossing over others.  The omniscient narrator may not be a neutral one.  When writing this tense, be aware that how you describe things, and what you choose to dwell on or leave out, may skew the way your readers look at your characters and plot.

Tight third person

“Cora looked around the inside of the cave, shivering in the disgusting dampness, wishing she was anywhere but here.  She shot a glance at Tina, hoping to ask if they could leave, but Tina was too busy gawking at the cave’s ceiling.”

If first person is a view from behind the narrator’s eyes, and standard third person is the God’s-eye view, tight third person can be described as a view over the narrator’s shoulder.  In the above example, although it is third person, since it is seen from Cora’s viewpoint, she does not know that Tina likes the cave.  All she knows is that Tina seems to want to look around, while all she cares about is getting out as soon as she can.  Similarly, while the omniscient point of view allows the narrator to outright tell the reader that Tina’s excited to do some exploring, the tight third person viewpoint requires the narrator to drop hints which will allow the readers to guess at Tina’s mindset, whether or not Cora ever figures it out.

From Tina’s point of view, this same scene might look like this:

“Tina looked around the inside of the cave, fascinated by the beautiful limestone stalactites tumbling from the ceiling.  Unfortunately, Cora didn’t seem as entranced.  Tina couldn’t imagine why not, but she wasn’t going to let her friend’s reluctance get in her way.”

Is the cave disgusting, or beautiful?  In this case, it very much depends on which character is doing the looking.

In real life, different people might have different interpretations of the same event.  Tight third person also allows for the narrator to get right inside the thoughts and feelings of his characters, but also provides the possibility of showing multiple points of view.  This viewpoint is tricky, since the “narrator as character” is muted, and it is imperative that the writer describe events in a manner consistent with the beliefs of the character, as opposed to colouring them with her own experiences.  It can be uncomfortable to see through the eyes of a villainous character—a bigot, a thug or a self-serving sleazeball—and present their point of view as rational, even natural.  However, it allows for a fascinating insight into the way different characters think.

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There was a time when romance was mostly identified as housewife porn and bodice-rippers.  Those days are long gone, let me tell ya. Romance has evolved and is more popular than ever.

Nowadays, there are many sub-genre’s within romance. To name just a few:

• contemporary
• multicultural
• suspense
• action
• religious – which could include Christian, Amish… maybe Druid (I saw a guest post that had a Druid book albeit not romance, but what the heck.)
• the paranormal / fantasy range – which could include vampires, witchcraft, shape-shifters, time travel, mythology, futuristic  and sci-fi
• historical – which could be western, regency, medieval and specific to regions like Scotland, England, Ireland… even Rome and Greece are starting to make appearances
• young adult
• the clean / not-sexed up variety – not to say these aren’t fraught with chemistry and  tension, but any sex would happen behind closed doors and the reader is not privy to it
• erotic – which could include BDSM, all manner of gender pairings and threesomes plus (although, please do not confuse this with erotica… it’s a pet peeve and others can disagree with me, but IMHO Erotic Romance is about the romance and happens to have explicit sex scenes while Erotica is primarily about the sex. One is not better or worse, they just have a different focus.)

So, with all the sub-genre options out there, how does one know it’s a romance rather than a (Pick your genre) with romantic elements?  Well, it’s not just sex. There are rules to follow and elements that can’t be ignored.

First, as L.L. Muir mentioned in her post on YA Romance, a romance needs to be at least 51% about the relationship and its journey to a Happy-Ever-After (HEA).  The other stuff (like action, history, sex, etc..) is nice but in a romance, you should be able to take those elements out and still have your basic story of persons meet, persons fall for each other, persons have bumps along the way to HEA.

Last month, I talked about the characters and their traits that go into a romance: the hero, the heroine, the sidekick and the antagonist or villain.  We need them, we need to love them, we need to root for them to get together.

We also need conflict. Internal and external.  Our lovers need to have internal issues that keep them from having successful relationships, thus far.  Issues they will resolve or come to grips with in order to be with each other.  Maybe our hero has trust issues, maybe our heroine can’t commit.  They’ll realize through their journey that the other is worth the effort to overcome these personal problems and they’ll be better people for having each other in their life.

The external conflict may be that they have diametrically opposed goals and one of them is going to have to change something in order to overcome this barrier.  Think You’ve Got Mail. Meg Ryan wants her little bookstore to continue, but can’t in light of Tom Hank’s big box book store opening around the corner.  This is a problem.  How will they overcome it?  That’s the journey.  We have no doubt they will (cuz it’s a romance), we just don’t know how.

Which brings us to that HEA.  Yes, we know the persons in question will end up together. We take great satisfaction in that.  We crave that happy ending.  What we also crave is the optimism that comes along with it.  Sure, they struggle.  Sure, they may even hate each other at some point, but love and hate are a very thin line apart. Sure, they have ups and downs and bumps and bruises. But – and it’s an important ‘but’ – we know when we turn that last page, they will be together, love will triumph and Happy-Ever-After is achievable.

I know that optimism, that hope, feeds me. I can relate. I can believe that despite my own dubious history of relationships that love can conquer all. I just haven’t found Mr. Right … yet J

Love is, after all, universal.

What did I neglect to mention?  Or what about romance appeals to you?

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Guest Post by Julie Ann Avila

Julie Ann and her garden gargoyle Argyle

So, you’ve decided to dip you quill into the ink pot and try a fairy tale. Now, where the wicked step-mother to start? Ah, at the beginning…

What are fairy tales? Fairy tales are a genre of literature, steeped in the traditions of oral story telling. They are fictional stories with elements of folklore, magic, and fanciful plot courses. Similar fairy tales are found across many cultures, but they tend to take on the unique seasoning of the particular culture in which they are written. Originally, fairy tales were targeted for adults, then children, and now enjoy an audience of both. Fairy tales tend to be more elaborate than fable and more enchanted than parables. And most importantly of all, fairy tales need not feature a fairy.

Why have fairy tales endured?  The answer depends on who is doing the interpreting. Some believe fairy tales have staying power because the principle characters are strong Jungian archetypes with adventures dipping into our strongest desires, deepest fears, and shared experiences. Feminists look to fairy tales as a way of understanding gender inequalities, and historians see the tales as ways of preserving a cultural heritage, through custom and legend.

What are the elements common to fairy tales? Ten elements occur throughout classic fairytaledom. Let’s take a look at each one:

1)      Special opening and closing words are often found in fairy tales. Beginning with “Once upon a time…” and ending with “…and they lived happily ever after” are common to the genre, but occasionally there are surprise endings.

2)      A Goodie is one of the principle characters.  This character may be kind, innocent, brave, and/or clever. He or she often helps or is helped by others during the story. The character is often poverty stricken, trying to eke out a living or in the roll of a servant.

3)      A Baddie is another principle character.  The character may be the wicked step-mother, an evil queen, a witch, a ravenous animal, or someone consumed by greed or power. This character usually loses in the end.

4)      A Universal Truth runs through the story.  This often relate to common experiences (growing up), shared hopes (to have enough of something vital: food, shelter, love), or universal questions (good versus evil, origin stories).

5)      The plot is focused on a problem that needs to be solved. The problem can be a conflict between characters, values, or a quest.

6)      The resolution of the problem often demonstrates a value or teaches a lesson. The outcome is important to the culture in which the tale was written. Some examples include kindness over cruelty, humility over pride and simplicity over greed.

7)      Magic, enchanted objects (wands, spinning wheels, beans), magical creatures (giants, goblins, trolls) and words (remember Bippity boppity boo?), and talking animals (wolves, pigs, bears) are essential elements to a fairy tale. Magic may be a positive or negative element in the tale.

8)      Royalty is another common element to classical fairy tales.  Castles, Queens, Kings, Princesses, and Princes are plentiful.

9)      Repeated numbers or patterns of events abound. The numbers 3 and 7 are common to many fairy tales; 7 dwarves, 3 pigs, 3 bears, 3 attempts.

10)   Common motifs run through many fairy tales. These include tricksters, journeys, riddles, monsters, guardians, quests, sleep states, helper characters, and a setting usually in the past.

Is your quill hovering over the ink pot? Are you wondering if you should bother? Yes, give it a dip! Writing fairy tales is fun, fun, fun! Because we live in a wondrous age far beyond the dreams of Perrault, Andersen, and those grim Grimm Brothers, we NEED modern fairy tales to reflect our cultural reality.

How do go about writing a modern fairy tale? It easy! Let your imagination off its leash and fiddle with all the classical elements. Try a new magical opening and ending. A favorite opening in my fairy tales has been “Once upon a twist in time…”Flip a goodie into a baddie and vice versa. That sweet little girl wasn’t really so innocent.

Look to lesser featured truths. What is the cost of security? Invent new magical systems, enchanted objects, words, and go beyond the talking animal. Technology would be a fun place to investigate. While royalty may be rare, the royal status of celebrity, athletes, and entrepreneurs is quite the cultural rage. Give another number a try. Personally, I love the number five.

While the past was historic, the present is amazing, and the future? Well, the future is anything you can imagine. So, don’t be afraid to leap into a unique setting. A line from one of mine, “Every time the old grey cat meowed, Matilda T. Bartholomew was transported fifty five seconds into the future. It wasn’t until he purred that she could restore her missing time, and PG Grey tips was a very crabby cat.”

What can you add to the collection of common motifs of the genre? I can hardly wait to find out!

 ***

Julie Ann Avila writes across many genres, but her favorite genre is that of the fairy tale. Her fairy tales have featured time travel, visiting aliens, the Loch Ness Monster, and at least one hundred and five other permutations (even a fairy or two). She lives in Kirkland, Washington with her husband, three children, a very smart dog, a less than interested cat, two chickens, and an upside down goldfish. Life is never dull.

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Guest Post by Billie Millholland

When I told a friend I was doing a blog piece that championed steampunk stories, she sighed deeply. “Are you sure you aren’t a little late?” She thinks the steampunk genre reached its zenith in 2009/10 with a glut of excellent books like Cherie Priest’s Boneshaker and Dreadnought; Gail Carriger’s Souless, Changeless and Blameless, the first three books of the Parasol Protectorate; Jay Lake’s Pinion; and The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack by Mark Hodder to name a few. She’s not the only one who feels that steampunk has become so mainstream it’s doomed to wither on a vine of mediocrity.

I’m not blind to the tsunami of pathetically thin, steampunkish novels bursting bookstore shelves under nearly every category label from bodice-ripper romances to futuristic space adventures. Copycat themes that descend into cliché are inevitable following the advent of any literary innovation, but they are not always an indication of waning popularity.  Steampunk stories are still alive and well in the literary world because they offer more than just an entertaining adventure.

What attracts good story tellers to the steampunk genre is not so much the clank and clatter of gears and springs, as intriguing as that is; the pull is bigger than that. I think it’s partly the recognition of a general global anxiety in the wake of decades of plastic, throw-away everything. An anxiety that’s soothed by metaphors of important inventions constructed out of noble, solid materials and forever repaired by a regular person in a shed behind the house. It’s the hope embodied in the notion of the revival of the backyard mechanic.

If anachronistic steampunk images, wrought of leather, glass and metal, were simply expressions of a nostalgia trend, then steampunk fiction would have a dim future. It would fade into the shelves of historical fiction, still somewhat satisfying, but not really remarkable. Fortunately, the appeal of a good steampunk story goes deeper than the thrill of an airship piloted by a goggle-wearing aviatrix.

The appeal of a good steampunk story emerges in part from an empowering maker spirit; the clever ingenuity of DIY craftsmanship that flaunts the notion that anyone can build a flying machine and echoes the sentiment that gave birth to the open-source movement. It’s found in flipping the finger at the rigid conventions and stagnant protocols of a familiar puritanical past, the choke hold of which is still present today. It’s welcomed by those numbed by the tedium of relentless modern consumerism.  A good steampunk story fuels a longing for an individualistic, break-away adventure. It encourages a smug satisfaction in heroic self-reliance. Steampunk is the cheeky tendon that connects a cynical present to an equally flawed, yet more colourful and idealistic past.

The industrial frenzy of the Victorian era is a natural mind worm that darts from neuron to neuron, bouncing off the hard curves of the skull like jolts from fresh morning coffee.

The emergence of wild and wonderful technology during the era of steam parallels the whirl of constantly changing technology today. Both are exciting, seductive and frightening. There is still room for good stories that rescue us from the latter by taking us to the former – a world we wish had been.

As recently as March 2013 “Cowboys and Engines”, a steampunk movie idea received crowd sourced funding through kickstarter. The maker spirit is at work here on all levels. Steampunk is about finding alternative ways of thriving in a world of megalithic institutions. Steampunk is for anyone with a maker spirit. It invites glorious literary experiments with giddy mash-ups. It encourages collaboration. Steampunk artists, writers, crafters, inventors, role players breathe life into an arts community forsaken by fiscally paranoid governments. Steampunk allows us to explore the past while contemplating the future. We are a tool-making species and steampunk reminds us how far we’ve strayed from our roots.

***

Billie Milholland was first published in non-fiction (Harrowsmith magazine, Western Producer People magazine and weekly newspapers in Alberta and British Columbia); then short fiction (in Canadian magazines & produced on CBC Radio Anthology); then novellas (a Time Travel Romance & one of four novellas in “Women of the Apocalypse” (Aurora Award winner  2010). More recently she has had a Chinese steampunk story in Tyche Books anthology “Ride the Moon” and is looking forward to seeing another short story in the “Urban Green Man” anthology and another novella in “The Puzzle Box”, both coming in August 2013 (both from EDGE Science Fiction and Fantasy Publishing).

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Gust Post by David D. Levine

Fantasy is, of course, an enormous genre. Definitions of fantasy vary, but the key concept that distinguishes fantasy from all other forms of fiction is the presence of at least one element that does not exist in the real world. By this broad definition, all of science fiction is a subset of fantasy, and indeed many stories usually described as horror, thriller, mystery, and even literature can be classified as fantasies of one sort or another, because they contain references to supernatural phenomena, nonexistent technologies, or impossible materials. But if you’re trying to write and sell fiction under the rubric of “fantasy,” the mere presence of a fantastic element is not enough; it needs to be integral to the story.

If you took the fantastic element away from your story, could it still take place in fundamentally the same way? Would the characters be the same people, would they do the same things, would they have the same priorities? If so, then many fantasy readers would say that the story is not really a fantasy. You need to think through the implications of the fantastic element and consider how its presence would affect every person, thing, and event in the story.

Even a well-integrated fantastic element is still not sufficient, though: the story also must have a fantasy “flavor” — by which I mean its vocabulary, diction, tone, pace, and conventions of character and plot.  However, because fantasy is such a large genre, it contains many distinct subgenres, each of which has a flavor of its own. Epic fantasies, for example, are painted on a large canvas; they typically have a large number of point-of-view characters and very high stakes. The setting is often medieval or pseudo-medieval and the prose, both dialogue and description, may be somewhat archaic and flowery.  Urban fantasy, on the other hand, is gritty and personal. The setting and language are typically contemporary and, even if the fate of the world is at stake, the characters’ personal issues take center stage. (These descriptions are crude and exaggerated, of course; a successful epic or urban fantasy is far more sophisticated than this sort of two-sentence sketch can convey.)

The various subgenres of fantasy do share a few characteristics.  All fantasy readers, I would say, expect and desire the extraordinary in their fiction. They want not only the well-drawn characters, coherent plots, strong emotions, vivid descriptions, and insight into the human condition they could get from non-fantastic literature, they also want a “sense of wonder” — an experience of something outside the mundane world. This is often provided by highly evocative descriptions of the story’s fantastic elements, whether they are settings, characters, or ideas. But “evocative” need not mean “overblown” — a few carefully-chosen but commonplace words can provide as much of a sense of magic and mystery as a paragraph of purple prose.

One common tool in the fantasy writer’s toolbox is “imaginary gardens with real toads in them.”  If, early in the story, you describe the character’s world (whether fantastic or mundane) with sufficient carefully-chosen telling details that the reader can easily and thoroughly envision it, you create a sense of trust in the reader that will then pay off when you later introduce a fantastic element. The reader must believe in the laboratory before she will believe in the monster that emerges from it.

Fantasy readers today generally expect fairly tight control of point of view (PoV), with a limited number of PoV characters and crisply demarcated PoV shifts. The more fluid PoV used in many romance stories will be derided by fantasy readers as “head-hopping.”  Also, though some non-fantasy readers sneer at cliché fantasy’s apostrophe-laden names and other invented words, the fact is that fantasy readers expect the story’s voice and vocabulary to convey some of its otherworldly feeling.

Of course, genres can be mixed. Bookstores have shelf after shelf of fantastic mystery, science-fictional horror, and romantic fantasy. But very few stories are equally successful in more than one genre at a time. There’s a difference between a romance story with fantastic elements and a fantasy story with romantic elements; a story that tries to be both at once will probably not completely satisfy habitual readers of either.

So what’s the difference? The key, in my opinion, lies in the story’s climax. What matters most to the characters? What is the most important problem that they have to solve?  What is the event which brings the story to a resolution? The answers to these questions determine the story’s core genre. Even if the characters realize their love for each other at the very same moment they save the world, one of these will matter much more than the other to the characters and the reader, and that fact determines whether the story is a fantasy or a romance.

It may seem that I’m being flip here, but I’m not. A successful climax is the culmination of every other element of the story. Every event, description, and character decision in the story contributes to it directly or indirectly; even a completely separate subplot helps to lead up to the main plot’s climax by reinforcing, echoing, or contrasting with the main plot. If the relative importance of the romantic and fantastic elements of the climax is unclear or muddled, or if that relative importance doesn’t match the relative importance of the romantic and fantastic elements in the rest of the story, the reader will likely be dissatisfied with the story as a whole. (If the story lacks a distinct climax at all, it is probably experimental, literary, or magical realism rather than fantasy. Is magical realism fantasy? Better critics than I are still arguing that one.)

To write and sell a fantasy, you need to be familiar with the fantasy subgenre in which you are working. Read widely and deeply in your field, so that you can be aware of the trends and tropes your editors and readers are already familiar with. You don’t want to repeat an already-too-common formula, but you also don’t want to stray too far from the reader’s expectations without meaning to. Truly unique stories, which defy conventions and expectations, can become breakout smash hits, but they often fail to sell or find an audience. If you’re going to break the mold, you need to understand exactly what you are breaking and why.

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David D. Levine is the author of over fifty published science fiction and fantasy stories. His work has appeared in markets including Asimov’s, Analog, F&SF, and Realms of Fantasy and has won or been nominated for awards including the Hugo, Nebula, Sturgeon, and Campbell. He lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife Kate Yule, with whom he co-edits the fanzine Bento. His award-winning short story collection Space Magic is now available as an ebook from all the major ebook stores, and his web page can be found at http://www.daviddlevine.com.

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Guest Post by Bob Stallworthy

I can hear you all now, “What does a poet know about writing fiction?” At one time I might have agreed with you. However, I’ve begun to wonder whether the lines that divide fiction from poetry are more blurred than I thought they were.

Let’s start with the obvious: poets and fiction writers both use words to get their information, images, impressions, across to the reader. I have often heard fiction writers say, “Yes, a poet has to be so careful with word choice. Poetry is harder to write.”

American poet, essayist, non-fiction writer, Robert Bly, once told an audience of young writers that fiction entered the body through the ear and poetry entered through the heart. Before you stomp off in a huff, let’s think about this for a minute. How often have you read a poem or heard one read, and before you are really conscious of hearing it, you have reacted to it? As if something shadow soft had passed over and then through you. Then you begin to think about the words you heard. And, how often have you read a good piece of fiction and found yourself relishing the words and then the images and emotions they have created? My question then is, aren’t the fiction writers being just as careful about their word choices? If they aren’t they should be. Good fiction, just like good poetry, has a lot to do with using precisely the right word in the right place in the line. And, speaking of the right place in the line and in the right line, when we get this right we get the image we want that makes the reader say, “Wow! I never thought of it like that before.” Isn’t that what we, as writers, want?

Part of what will make the reader’s eyes go wide open and whisper that wished for line is an interesting use of rhythm. Oh sure, it is really important in poetry, you say. And, yes it is. I used to say that free verse poetry had no rhythm and no rhyme. I was only partially correct. It often has no rhyme. It does have rhythm – the rhythm of the language. It is there in fiction too.  As a fiction writer you can use that rhythm to your advantage.

Rhythm may be obvious in a poem and not so obvious when it comes to fiction. How do you hear the rhythm when writing fiction? The same way one does when writing poetry. Read the piece out loud. Get into the habit of doing this. Look for the ebb and flow. If you do, it will help to carry the reader away on your words. By the way, it will help you with your public performances.

Rhythm is just one component that goes into a poem or a piece of fiction. As a fiction writer you already know what the other elements are that must be in your fiction – plot, setting, character, crisis, resolution, etc. But, the question which comes at some point is, whether you write fiction or poetry, “Is this any good?”

First of all, I would like to suggest that the use of the terms good and bad, works or doesn’t work, get dropped from the vocabulary. These are value judgements which sidetrack the discussion into the realm of personal taste. You can spend a lot of time in that realm and get no useful information about the writing.

Years ago, I found a hierarchy created by American writer and critic, James Dickey. The hierarchy is based on his reaction as a reader to a piece of poetry. I suggest that these statements apply equally well to fiction:

Lowest level: This probably isn’t true and even if it is, I couldn’t care less.
Next level up: This is probably true, and therefore I react to it differently than I did the first level.

Third level: This is probably true, but so what –

Best level: Not only is this true, but it is with a truth I would not have reached on my own had I not read this piece of writing.

Some writers dislike the idea of a hierarchy when it comes to assessing writing. Perhaps you would prefer to consider a number of questions which are used to illicit the reaction of the reader. I encountered these questions as a member of a poetry group facilitated by poet, essayist, professor, Richard Harrison. The following questions are adapted from Writing with Power, Techniques for Mastering the Writing Process by Peter Elbow. Within our poetry group, the poet presents his/her poem and then asks the group members some or all of the following depending on what the poet wants to know:

-  what did you notice?
-  what connections did you make?
-  what questions were you left with after you finished reading?
-  were there places where you left? i.e. your mind wandered
-  where did you stop reading?
-  were there places where you agreed, disagreed, argued?

I can’t help wondering if these questions apply equally well to fiction. For example, “Where did you stop reading?” translates into “Where did you close the book and put it back on the shelf or in the box for the book sale?”

Whether you write fiction or poetry, there is always the pesky question of, “How do I know this is done?” I leave you with some thoughts that, again, I have learned in Harrison’s poetry group:

-  a poem is the dramatization of a single voice
-  a short story is the dramatization of a character
-  a novel is the dramatization of a world

If the above is so, then a poem is complete when the voice has said all there is to say that will add to the understanding of the reader/listener.

A short story and a novel are similarly finished when nothing is left that the reader/listener needs to know in order to understand the character or the world.

Can fiction writers and poets learn from one another? I certainly hope so. I have been doing so for most of my writing career. Thank you to Ace Jordyn for inviting me to put some of my thoughts together for this blog. I hope the ideas are of some help.

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Bob Stallworthy has four books of poetry published and one non-fiction e-book, In Silhouette: Profiles of Alberta Writers,  which is hosted on the Frontenac House website. His latest book of poetry, Things that Matter Now, Frontenac House, 2009 is in its second printing.  Bob’s poetry has been short-listed for the W.O.Mitchell City of Calgary Book Prize twice and the Stephan G. Stephansson Award for Poetry once. He is co-recipient of the 2002 Calgary Freedom of Expression Award. He is also a Lifetime member of the Writers’ Guild of Alberta.

Link on Frontenac House website: http://frontenachouse.com/?s=Stallworthy&submit=Search+Site

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Guest Post by Hayden Trenholm

For me, fiction is about a conversation we have with each other and with the world; science fiction is a conversation we have with the future.  No matter how far away in space and time, science fiction is in the realm of the possible – decisions that we take, individually and collectively, will either bring that future about or prevent it from happening.  Fantasy, on the other hand, is in the form of a wish, or even a dream, about worlds that never have and never could exist.  No decision I make can defeat Voldemort or destroy the One Ring.

More than that, science fiction relies on the laws and principles of science both for world building and for problem solving.  That means cause and effect, the conservation of matter and energy, measurability and certainty.  The laws of physics can’t be broken on a whim and mysterious and mystical ‘forces’ can’t be called on to save the day.  Star Trek (“I kenna break the laws o’ physics, Captain”) is science fiction; Star Wars (“May the Force be with you, Luke”) is fantasy.

So to write good SF you need a basic understanding of, and interest in, science.  Make an error in the science and someone – probably an editor but certainly a fan – will point it out to you.  If science bores you and fact-checking is an abomination, maybe writing science fiction is not for you.  If you feel your grade 11 chemistry doesn’t quite ground you enough, try some of the Writing Science Fiction Series books from Writers’ Digest.  Edited by people like Ben Bova (both a scientist and science fiction writer), these will give you lots of basic information on space travel or world-building.  Robert Zubrin has some good books on near-Earth space travel and Michio Kaku’s “Physics of the Impossible” lays out the law of what can and cannot be accomplished – and when.

Having said that, one probably shouldn’t be dogmatic about it.  A lot of the fun in writing science fiction lies in exploring the gaps between what we do and don’t know.  In “The Steele Chronicles,” my trilogy of books from Bundoran Press, I read a lot about ‘junk DNA,’ genetic causality and the theory of mind-machine interfaces to ground my near-future police procedurals.  Discovering that there were several as yet unproven theories about the function of junk or inactive DNA, I was able to pick the one that best suited the story I wanted to tell.

That’s the other thing to remember – science fiction is first and foremost fiction.  While the science background is critical, you still have to tell a good story with strong and interesting characters.  The story also has to be about something.  Defining Diana was, for me, about the nature of human identity: who we are and, more importantly, why are we who we are.  By addressing that theme, I could look at issues of choice and destiny – free will versus programming –in self-definition.

The choice of story is, of course, impacted by the genre.  Mystery novels have to have a mystery (usually a murder) as the core problem to be solved and romance has a broken relationship at its heart.  In science fiction, science and technology are more than simply background, they are central to the main conflict.  The main character may not be a scientist but the problem they face must be grounded in something that is essentially ‘scientific’ in nature.  Isaac Asimov used to say the way to tell if a story is science fiction is to remove the science from the story; if it’s still a story it wasn’t SF to begin with.

Of course, it isn’t all about physics.  As I already mentioned, my novels were mostly immersed in biology and theories of mind.  On the other hand, my short stories have often revolved around political or anthropological questions.  In my five Arakan universe stories, I wondered what power ideas – especially those imported from ‘alien societies’ – might have to change a culture.  In that case the alien society was human and the cultural element was music.  But, of course, what I was really talking about was how multiculturalism might change the way we live and the values we have.

There are, of course, many sub genres of science fiction, each with their own rules and regulations.  So-called ‘mundane’ SF demands stories confine themselves to known facts and well-grounded theories (remember: in science, theories are never proven, merely not disproven yet).  Post-singularity science fiction posits a point at which we can no longer predict the future because advances (usually in the area of artificial intelligence) have outstripped the ability of the human mind to understand them.  Space opera routinely permits faster-than-light travel without worrying too much about the physics that might be involved – though most writers try to give it some kind of scientific gloss involving black holes, anti-matter or wormholes.

Nonetheless, they all have those basic things I listed at the heart of the story – cause and effect, adherence to the basic laws of physics, and a reliance on reason and human action to get things done.  Even in the most pessimistic post-apocalyptic novels, where all our problems (environmental, political, economic) may have arisen from the misuse of technology, science fiction will still rely on science to find a way through, rather than falling back on a mystical return to nature or the power of prayer.

To learn more about my views on writing and other topics, visit my web-site at www.haydentrenholm.com or my blog at http://bundoransf.wordpress.com

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Guest Post by Quincy Allen

Steampunk, at its purest and most basic, is anti-establishment fiction in a Victorian setting that adorns an adventurous stage with impossible gadgetry driven by steam, clockwork, aether and Tesla coils. Imagine 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Frankenstein or The Time Machine, but with more goggles, zeppelins, corsets and guns … oh, and the odd zombie, vampire or mad-scientist thrown in for good measure. But that’s just the textbook answer … or would be if a textbook on steampunk existed, anyway.

Commercially, steampunk is a growing sub-genre under the rather wide umbrella of science fiction and fantasy. It’s intriguing that steampunk as an aesthetic has been branching out into other genres, including romance, horror, paranormal and pure fantasy. Or is it the other way around? Is steampunk an underlying aesthetic or is it window dressing? Those questions are best left to the purists and the marketplace.

Most good steampunk literature has a strong sense of being part of real world history. It’s real history told with a twist … a change in the very fabric our knowledge that turns the impossibilities of steampunk into an alternate reality more compelling and vibrant than the history itself. The question is, how does a writer achieve this?

The answer? Research.

It would be foolish to suggest that every writer of every steampunk story researches actual events and then merely applies and alters them. There are many examples of researched and un-researched steampunk that are good reads and are commercially successful. However, a writer can increase the likelihood of both a good story and its success by delving into real history—even at a cursory level—and then playing with it as a god plays with the fabric of the universe. After all, truth frequently is stranger than fiction.

For me, it is critical to create a moment in time where my fictional history deviates from the real one. Doing so allows me to extrapolate from that moment in time and rationalize the existence of both magic and impossible technologies in a recognizable but alternate nineteenth century. Imagine a world where witches are as common as blacksmiths, the railroad was surpassed by zeppelin transports and fully functional artificial limbs are a reality, albeit an uncommon one. And all derived from a single change, a critical moment gone awry in the history of the Catholic Church.

The irony is that the altered moment I refer to—the assassination of Pope Gregory IX in 1227—is not even mentioned in the manuscript I’m currently editing. What is important is the  awareness of this “revisionist” history. Because of it, I understand the reason why witches were not exterminated. I know why the populace didn’t die off from The Plague and how technology flourished a hundred and fifty years too early. This awareness lends itself well to understanding the social, political, economic and cultural influences that shape characters and culture .

History is awash in a variety of extremely colorful characters that can give—with a little bit of research—a truly genuine and vibrant feel to an invented history. For example, while researching the American West of the 1870s, I discovered real people like Emperor Norton (yes, America had an Emperor in the nineteenth century) and Bloody Bill Anderson, who was a brutal and ruthless advocate of both slavery and the slaughter of anyone who believed otherwise. Both historical figures are in my manuscript, and they add both color and validity to what is a very alternate history.

I’m not suggesting that a writer of steampunk needs to be a historian. Far from it. However, steampunk authors owe it to their readers to be familiar in the aesthetic and at least some of the significant people and events of the time. An adventure story traversing Europe and the East Indies in the early nineteenth century should mention the East India Company or justify why it doesn’t exist. A story set in America in the 1860s should address the Civil War or eliminate the war completely. A steampunk story set in China during the Victorian period should mention British influences there or find a reasonable way of working around them.

In the west, we refer to the nineteenth century as the Victorian Era as a direct result of Queen Victoria and the British Empire’s influences. However, that period of human history was an exciting time all around the world. More and more steampunk is reaching out to the four corners of the Earth and exploring it with truly interesting explorations of world cultures.

Steampunk audiences understand the historical setting in one way or another. When you take pen in hand (or finger to keyboard) you’d best have a few ducks in a row. Not only will you be drawing upon actual history to invigorate your writing, you’ll be giving your readers easy markers and handholds to lock onto as you fiddle with the space-time continuum.

Quincy has been published in multiple anthologies, online and print magazines, as well as in one omnibus. His steampunk version of Rumpelstiltskin is under contract with Fairy Punk Studios, and he’s written for the Internet radio show RadioSteam.  His novel Chemical Burn—a finalist in the Rocky Mountain Writers Association Colorado Gold Writing Contest—was first published in June of 2012, and has been picked up by Fantastic Journeys Publishing.  His new novel Jake Lasater and the Blood Curse of Atheon, will be on sale this summer, and he’s writing an off-world steampunk-esque series.  You can follow his ongoing exploits on FaceBook and at www.quincyallen.com.

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 I read three well written novels novels recently and wasn’t sure what genre they belonged in. They were set in the future – one was set in a dystopian Calgary with some really cool cyborg people, another was set on Mars where people had the option of having their consciousness transferred into android bodies, and the third was set in another solar system with interstellar travel and neat technologies and alien beings. Science fiction seemed logical as they were all in the future, but their telling and basic elements were much more traditional.

If mystery had a future-crime sub-genre, all would fit that category beautifully. Rob Sawyer’s Red Planet Blues has a delightful, laid back gum shoe detective. Defining Diana by Hayden Trenholm (see his blog on writing science fiction later this month) is a solid crime novel that’s gritty, hard and gruesome when it needs to be. K.A. Bedford’s Hydrogen Steel has a retired homicide inspector struggling to save humanity while she struggles to accept her own physical reality. These are three well-executed detective stories  marketed as science fiction.

The fact is, when we write, we use elements from several genres in our stories. Mystery in science fiction. Thriller in fantasy.  Romance in steampunk. The mash ups are as varied as the imagination! And yet, some work better than others. Why? The magic happens when the author understands the elements that make each genre unique. For example, a cozy mystery like Rex Stout’s adventures with Nero Wolfe, could have easily fallen into the annals of ‘literature’ as Stout deftly captures the voice of the time by using strong characters and a well-defined milieu. Yet, his stories are, first and foremost, mysteries and his novels are marketed as such.

In all four examples, it is each author’s ability to understand the genres they are mashing that gives their work depth and memorable voice. Most importantly, their writing is a joy to read as it pleases the intellect on many levels. Making it fun for the reader, transporting him to worlds he never dreamed of – that’s the true test of knowing your genre well and choosing mash-ups wisely. I recently had the privilege to edit Shanghai Steam , an anthology with a unique mash-up of steampunk and wuxia. Reading the submissions and editing the selected stories was fun because authors who understood the subtleties of both genres created distinct worlds, plots and characters. Fun, gripping, mind-blowing – that’s what it’s all about for writers and readers.

Do you choose to write in one specific genre or do you use a mash-up? Every novel has elements of several genres and the question is one of degree and desired market placement. Is it science fiction or mystery? That’s determined when you decide the character of your novel – what its unique voice will be. It’s no different than creating well-rounded, deep characters as was discussed in many of February’s posts. Frank Morin, in his post Complex Characters reminded us of Shrek thinking he is like an onion – layered. In his post Platonic Male-Female Relationships in Fiction (a.k.a. “The Glue”), Evan Braun compared the complexities of romance against friendship as he discussed how each creates a different dynamic in character interaction. What is your story’s dynamic? How will the  genres you choose relate to one another? Is your story more mystery or science fiction? Which genre will have the stronger voice? Like Shrek’s onion, how many layers deep will you go into each genre? What blend provides the best milieu for telling your story? How will your characters and your readers react? What will you choose?

March’s posts will help you better understand how each genre can give your story its unique voice and character. We’ll also have posts comparing genre writing to literature, choosing which genres to mash and how to market them, and there’ll also be a case for not worrying about any of it. There will be posts on specific genres including horror,  steampunk, fantasy, romance, science fiction and many others. What makes each genre unique? What makes it work?

Choose your story’s voice and character and have fun writing as you peel back the layers!

Let’s see now … Miss Marple in dystopian 2081? A western horror? Steampunk space opera? Romantic military SF? Historical fantasy thriller? Urban fantasy folktale? So many to choose from…

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Character versus character is, of course, not the only way to bring conflict into your story.  Other avenues include character versus nature (dangerous terrain, wildlife, storms, floods…) or character versus self, where the character must overcome an aspect of themselves, such as their fears or the beliefs instilled by their upbringing, in order to be successful.  Still, in stories with multiple characters, watching their personalities strike sparks off one another is a realistic and intriguing way of developing conflict.  And conflict is the fuel that drives a plot – without an adversary to overcome, heroes sit around doing nothing.

The most obvious form of character versus character is hero versus villain.  Other blogs this month talk about what makes a good villain, so I will add only this:  a good villain sparks an interesting conflict with the hero.  This statement encompasses both evil masterminds whose machinations drive the plots of whole series, all the way down to the minion who perhaps doesn’t survive his first and only interaction with the hero.  Even that one-encounter minion can be memorable.  Perhaps the hero realizes she can’t defeat this minion with strength, and has to use cunning, or endurance, or ask for help, instead.  Perhaps it’s the first time the hero has ever had to kill in battle, or the first time she’s ever lost someone under her command.  This conflict can involve both the fight itself (physical action, mental strategy, or both) and the aftereffects (emotional fallout; fatigue or lost gear heightening the hero’s conflict with her environment; the time delay heightening tension; etc).

Some of the most interesting conflicts are conflicts between protagonists.  Just because a group of people are on the same quest, or in the same military unit, or working toward the same goal, doesn’t mean they’re going to all like each other.  They may not even get along with one another.  Aspects of their personalities are going to grate on one another.  First impressions may create misunderstandings; past beliefs may shape prejudices or preconceptions.  Different desires may set members of the same group working at odds to one another, or tempt one to betray the group; or threaten to splinter the group.  These dynamics can lead groups to a vast array of outcomes, depending on the pressures placed on the group by the plot, and the choices made by the characters within the group.  All that, and a villain besides!

Previous posts this month have dealt with romance, and one of the most elegant conflict generators – the love triangle – hinges on romantic attraction.  If two characters (I’ll say a girl and a guy) like each other, there’s only so many ways to defer that mutual attraction before it’s acted upon.  But if a girl likes two different guys, the writer has now set up two additional conflicts:  the girl is forced to make a choice between the guys; and the guys are set in an adversarial relationship, competing against one another for the girl’s attention.  Like any formula, this one can be tinkered with:  for example, the girl who likes a guy who’s oblivious to her and doesn’t notice the second guy who dotes on her; or the “triangle” that becomes a square with the addition of a fourth character.

Love triangles don’t suit every story—category romance, for example, favours one hero and one heroine, and a story that illustrates how they overcome the obstacles in their path to a life together.  Perhaps their conflict is generated by secondary characters:  the disapproving family members; the crazy ex or jealous outsider, sowing misunderstandings to sabotage the relationship; the character who represents duty, such as a child, military unit or business obligation.   A writer doesn’t even need romance to torment his hero with secondary characters such as these.

Without conflict, characters have nothing to do.  Without disagreement, readers become bored watching the Happy Hero, and his Happy Friends who always act and think and feel exactly like their leader, wander on their Happy Way.  But once the Happy Hero faces off against the Cunning Villain, with nobody at his side except:  the alien with questionable loyalties; the attractive gunner who can’t get along with the equally attractive navigator; and the cranky sergeant who hates the villain only slightly more than she hates the hero; well, then the hero’s not always so Happy, and then you’ve got a story.  A story that keeps readers hooked, wondering how those conflicts will play out.

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We’ve all heard the criticism:  “Your characters are flat” or “One-dimensional” “Make them deeper, more rounded.”

The problem is, most of the time the people offering that vague advice have no concrete suggestions for fixing the problem.  Many newer authors often fall into the trap of trying to add quirks or other surface affectations to try to make the characters appear ‘interesting’.  Quirks can be cool, but only if they tie into the character’s real psyche.  If not, they’re just weird and don’t help.

In my last post, I explored what it means to have deeper, more complex characters by utilizing Larry Brooks’ three dimensions approach to character development.  Today I want to explore additional examples from books and television to highlight what we mean when we say a character has ‘depth’ or is ‘complex’.

First, we need to know our characters, know them better than we know just about anyone else in our life.  Think about it – most of the people we interact with are enigmas.  We know their surface personalities, and we may know a little about their history, but how many people do we know well enough to imagine them in an extremely difficult situation like the ones we’re going to place our protagonists in, and then feel confident we can predict how they’ll react?  The number is probably smaller than we usually assume.  We can’t have that ambiguity with our main characters.  When we place them in extreme situations, we need to know how they’re going to respond.

Many of the ‘flat’ characters we see are ones where they don’t seem to have a history.  They step onto the page with no back-story, no childhood, no past mistakes or triumphs to be reminded about.  As a result, we only see the surface of a character but get no insights into why or how they reached that stage in life.  These are characters with only that first dimension defined.  Fine for secondary characters, but not for central characters.

For example, in The Dark Knight, the joker is such a fantastic character not only for how crazy he is on the surface, but also for the hints he gives us of his tortured past.  We never actually learn the truth, but just hinting at it is enough to make him far more deeply fascinating and freaky.  Who’s ever going to forget the line, “Want to know how I got these scars?”

As a reader, knowing a character’s back-story helps us develop empathy with them.  This is the why of a character’s actions that gives them meaning.  Without it, we cannot connect with them.

Another fascinating example is the character Cobb, the main protagonist in the movie Inception.  On the surface, Cobb is an efficient dream spy, capable of infiltrating the best-kept mental secrets.  Then we’re faced with his ex-wife who continually threatens to undermine all his work.  That twist becomes infinitely more interesting when we learn she’s actually dead, a projection created by Cobb’s own sub-conscious that refuses to be ruled by him.  Throughout the movie, the layers are peeled back as the stakes rise, until we realize this projection is his inner demon, the part of his psyche he has to face.  We’re left wondering right up to the end:  how did she die?  Was he really responsible?  Why can’t he let go?

Brilliant use of back-story and inner demons.

Another wonderful example, and an excellent venue for studying complex characters is the tv show Once Upon A Time.  Not only is the concept fantastic and the writing brilliant, but the show offers many examples of great character development.

Virtually every character in the show has a complex back-story that interweaves with other characters and generally experiences at least one major flip that catches the audience completely by surprise and challenges expectations.  This is especially true for the evil characters (the wicked queen and Rumplestilskin – the dark one).  We see them struggling against evil impulses and trying to live the best lives they can.  It’s absolutely brilliant because we end up developing empathy with characters we should simply loathe.

There is nothing simple about any of these characters.  Their second dimension is fully fleshed out and complex.  Even better, in critical moments, we see even some of the evil characters try to break out of the mold they’ve placed themselves in, and we root for them.  At other times, we see the heroes struggle with powerful temptations to do terrible things, usually with plenty of justification.  These are the deep moments when characters’ true selves are revealed, the third dimension moments of truth, and it’s wonderful to see a character we think is evil show us a hint of good, even if they back-slide later.  I’ve learned a great deal from this show, and hope to apply it to some of my own writing and character development.

Of course, most of us won’t get to use our back-story as heavily as Once Upon A Time.  They set up the show format around this complex back-story, and the very structure of the show allows them to maximize the power of it.  Still, the point is valid – it’s absolutely vital for the writer to know what happened in their characters’ lives before page 1, and find ways to share that information with their readers.

Another fun example is Shrek.  The funny, irreverent ogre who refuses to live within the narrow boundaries expected of him.  As he explains to his companion, donkey, he has layers, like an onion.  All good characters should have those same layers.

Of course, once we’ve created our onion characters, we then face the daunting challenge of when and how to weave that back-story into the narrative without falling into that dreaded ‘info-dump’.  It’s hard to not share the cool stuff we know about characters, but that information is best served in small portions, sprinkled throughout the story.  It’s the seasoning that separates the simple stories from the great.  But like any seasoning, apply too much, and you wreck the effect.

What other characters stand out as exceptional examples to you?  Why do you find them so powerful?

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We’re talking a lot about character this month, as well we should.  Great characters are critical components for great stories.  We need to understand our characters, their relationships, and then we need to reveal the truth about our characters with a deft hand, weaving in back story and inner demons.

It can prove a daunting process, and sometimes it’s hard to know how to approach working with our characters to maximize their effectiveness.  At times, it’s like looking at a hidden 3d image, like the one at the top of this article.  Can you see the hidden image?  It takes effort and practice to train your eye to see what’s right there.

Same with building great characters.

There are lots of opinions and articles and books on the subject, including this month’s Fictorians posts.  One resource I highly recommend is Orson Scott Card’s book Characters & Viewpoint.

Another, which I found extremely helpful, is Larry Brooks’ Three Dimensions of Character.  This is available as a standalone ebook, but is also incorporated in Larry’s best-selling book Story Engineering.

The brilliance of this approach is that it explains complex character building in a direct, understandable way that makes it accessible to every writer.  Larry provides a toolbox to assist authors in crafting great characters, and knowing what is required to do so.  He teaches, in essence, how to see the hidden image by removing some of the vague, mysterious elements from the process, which I found refreshing and extremely helpful.

I won’t explain the entire system.  This short article won’t do it justice, but I will review the core concepts to illustrate the power of it.

Characters have three distinct dimensions that authors need to understand and define, and which they can then apply for greatest effect.

Dimension 1:  Personality.  What a character looks like, their quirks, how they present themselves to the world.  This is all surface material, without any assigned meaning.  For minor characters, this may be all we ever see, and it’s left to the reader to assign any deeper meaning, if they choose.  For important characters, we cannot stop here without getting the dreaded “your characters are flat” reviews.

Dimension 2:  Back story and inner demons.  This is where things get interesting.  This is the why of a character’s choices.  This is where meaning is assigned, where they face their inner struggles, hide their deepest fears.  It’s the world view that motivates their actions, and it may or may not coincide with the face they choose to show the world.

Dimension 2 is where characters gain depth, it’s where the reader gains a glimpse into the why, and gives us a chance to build empathy with the character, which is absolutely crucial for our story success.

However, we’re not finished with Dimension 2.  Dimensions 1 and 2 are still what the character wants us to see, to understand.

Dimension 3 is where we get to the true heart of a character, their moral substance, or lack thereof.

Dimension 3 is what a character does in critical moments, moments of extreme stakes, moments that count.  This is where everything is stripped away and their true, inner core is revealed.

It may surprise us.  It may surprise them.  This is where a character really becomes a hero, or a villain.  It’s where they shine, or where they run away screaming.  This is where inner demons are excised, when a character arc is complete.  Only then is the hero ready to overcome the external antagonistic forces.

This is powerful stuff!  Too often advice about character lacks this level of clarity.  Larry goes on to expand upon this in his books, and I highly recommend you study his system, because it empowers authors to elevate character development to a much higher level.

To illustrate briefly:  Assume we have a character, a middle-aged school teacher who works with first graders.  Never married, but beloved by her children.  All first dimension stuff.  Then, let’s give the readers a glimpse into her past.  Maybe she went into teaching because a younger sibling died and she always felt guilty for not protecting that child, and has dedicated her life to teaching to help excise that guilt.  Second dimension back-story and inner demon.  She’s an easy character to empathize with.

Then let’s set the school on fire.  Children are in danger.  What will she do?

Well, that’s the question, and the moment that will make the story.  Will she rush into a burning room to save children, perhaps by making the ultimate sacrifice, and therefore justify her life’s work?  Or will she break down and ignore everyone around her, perhaps letting children suffer because she’s unable to break out of the prison of her memories?  Or does she do something totally different?  It’s not until that moment of crisis that her true character is revealed.

In my next post, I’ll explore examples of great complex characters, and lessons we can learn from them.

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