Me in Japan My story of a writer begins with the rejection and insecurity of a young boy who was searching for his place in the world. I was a tall, scrawny kid with glasses who was always on the honor role. One of the first things you learn is that the world is a cruel place, but no matter what troubles befell you in life, you could always find a little respite in the pages of a book.

The first books I can remember reading were books like Boxcar Children, My Teacher is an Alien, or Bunnicula. They were fun books, written for children and they were great to get me into reading. They didn’t fully capture my attention yet. They were nice distractions, but were too simple and eventually I began to crave more.

The first book I read that completely blew me away was Redwall. It took place in another world, filled with anthropomorphic animals who had to act together to save their home from outside invaders. This book, while still written for a younger audience, taught me how worlds can truly change the world and your vision of reality. These books had combat, struggles, and death. They also had bravery, honor, and true courage. Even now, I look upon the cover of this book and remember fondly the world that I would frequent so often as a child and miss my time there.

RedwallUSCover Other books came along that amazed me in other ways. Dragonlance taught me the power that magic can bring to even a frail wizard, and believe me, as a lanky teenager, such power was very alluring. I began to learn how each author could create a new existence, create so many emotions, with nothing more than a pen and paper. Dragonriders of Pern. Lord of the Rings. The Wheel of Time. They all drew me in. They let me experience power and loss, the struggle for glory and the failures that connect us. I wanted to join them in their world, and leave mine behind, and so I did the next best thing.

I began to write my own worlds, create my own rules and find my own glory. I experimented with different realities, new physical rules and boundaries. I no longer have these early manuscripts, but I’m sure they were amazing. I dedicated my life to reading and building my own world. I wrote a whole story in second-person narrative just because I was told that it doesn’t work. You, the protagonist, was pulled into another dimension to fight for your world. In the end, you failed and all was lost. But at least you got to fight, and you went down giving it your all.

I don’t remember what my grades were on those papers, but I know I didn’t get much support in those years. As I’m sure is evident, much of my world resolved around existing and creating worlds that didn’t exist. Parents and teachers seem to fear these other worlds and believe they are depths that should be avoided. I began to gravitate toward other hobbies, such as computer and science. I would receive more approval from my teachers for a little program I wrote in a few hours than I would from a story that took me weeks to write.

Approval is a strong motivator, and I still wonder where I would be if I had received more of it for my writing. I still enjoy computers and science, and I make a great living at it, but I never lost my love for fantasy. The two loves would merge every now and then as I wrote games and interactive stories on the computer, but in the end I let that side of me sleep. I would play games, read books, and live in others world, but only let mine exist in memory.

Eventually, after finishing school and leaving the military, I was able to look back on my life and try to determine who I was and who I wanted to be. You would think that such a reflection should happen when you’re younger, but society doesn’t really allow for that. I’m lucky that the job I chose still happens to be one I enjoy, but those fantasy worlds that I created in my head still lurked in the background and I missed exploring them. The people on those worlds demanded resolution, and I needed to give it to them.

I took up worlds that I had created as a child and rebuilt them. I began to create new worlds, entirely new planes of existence. I jump back and forth between novels, but it works for me. Now I write for myself, and I write the world that needs to be written at that time. One of these days, soon I hope, I’ll get to the point where I’ll be happy enough to submit one of my novels to the world. I understand that they may never be perfect, but I love these characters that exist in my worlds. I care for them, rejoice in their triumphs, and cry with their sorrow. They are a part of me, and their world is real to me. Their story needs to be told, and I’m the one to tell it.

My hope is that someday some kid will read it, and it will show them just how magical the world can really be. Perhaps it will the catalyst to create their own worlds, their own stories that need to be told. And perhaps, even if they don’t get the support they needed at the beginning, they’ll soon realize that they don’t need to please anyone else. The stories exist, and they just need to tell the tale.

Of Stick Figures and Spiral Notebooks

May 5, 2013

fictorians

A guest post by Greg Little.

When I sat down recently and started thinking about which science fiction and fantasy inspired me to seriously pursue a career in writing genre fiction, I thought the answer was a simple one. But as I actually began putting it down on paper, “the tale grew in the telling” as they say. Nuances I’d nearly forgotten woke as I fired up their neurons. So forgive me in advance if this turns into a bit of a ramble.

Like many if not most of us, I read a lot of fantasy and science fiction as a kid. My mom read Lord of the Rings to me after I’d watched the wonderful Rankin-Bass adaptation of The Hobbit and asked about that last line: “Then you’ll see that the story of the ring is not over, but is only beginning.” (Thanks, Mom!) This was followed by The Chronicles of Prydain by Lloyd Alexander, most (but admittedly not all) of The Chronicles of Narnia, and others.

We flash forward many years to winter break of my first year of college, the moment where I finally caved and jumped on The Wheel of Time bandwagon at the behest of two friends. After devouring everything up through The Path of Daggers (the last book that was out at the time), I switched gears and began with A Song of Ice and Fire by George R.R. Martin (Game of Thrones to you HBO neophytes). More recently the fantasy uber-series I’ve found most challenging has been The Second Apocalypse, by R. Scott Bakker. Those three series’ collective use of intricate worldbuilding, foreshadowing, dark themes, and multiple viewpoints certainly influenced my writing style.

But the thing that actually got me started writing in the first place took place in between childhood and college. On the verge of entering my teen years, I began reading the Star Wars “expanded universe” novels. I eventually went on to read a great many of those (stopping only when I realized they were never going to end), but the ones that had the most impact were the Thrawn Trilogy by Timothy Zahn and the Jedi Academy Trilogy by Kevin J. Anderson.

At that time, my mom had probably noted that for several years I’d eased off reading in favor of video games (video games being a particular weakness and a habit I haven’t managed to kick even today) and so knowing I was a huge Star Wars fan she shrewdly picked me up the first of Zahn’s trilogy. Well, technically she picked up the third book at first, but we quickly sorted it out after a bit of confusion.

I was blown away and instantly hooked (thanks again, Mom!), quickly devouring both trilogies and looking for more. Not only did it get me back into heavy reading, but I quickly realized that I liked the best of the novels even better than I liked the movies, because the books delved so much deeper into story and characterization. My friends and I quickly began incorporating details from the expanded universe into a Star Wars role-playing game of our own design. We took turns as dungeon master, and that was where I got my first taste of how much fun it was to create narrative mysteries for other players to try and solve.

Shortly into high school, my friend Bryan and I began taking turns drawing crude stick figure comics. Each of us came up with one “character” and the comics basically involved increasingly outlandish ways for the characters to kill each other, our own personal Itchy and Scratchy from The Simpsons. But eventually we grew bored with the pen-and-paper carnage, so our characters teamed up and began having narrative adventures (always wielding lightsabers, of course). Then in our sophomore year of high school, we started passing a three-subject spiral notebook around between classes, trying our hand at our own fiction, which quickly morphed into Star Wars fan fiction (set a thousand years in the future from the original trilogy, natch).

It was… not great fiction. Now liberated from the limitations of our crude stick-figure art, the one-upsmanship that had permeated our comics ran rampant. Mostly we would use our turn to either invent a mystery to confuse the other author (perhaps not the best collaborative technique) or each try to paint the other into a narrative corner from which escape would be impossible (an even worse collaborative technique). It marked the beginning of writing purely for my own enjoyment.

We never did finish that first story. Bryan moved away halfway through high school and we saw each other infrequently after that. I toyed around with finishing it anyway (and two others, because all books simply belonged in trilogy form to my inexperienced eyes) but eventually just dropped it. But I still have both that notebook and the comics. In fact, writing this piece spurred me to pull them out of storage and look them over. The prose is even worse than I remember, but I’m trying to take that as a sign of how far I’ve come since then. And as bad as it is, it still puts a smile on my face. I feel like that’s the most you can ask for from your writing.

Why I Write

May 4, 2013

fictorians

Guest Posts The Writing Life 1 Comment

A guest post by Sam Knight.

My grandfather and my mother are avid readers, so I came by that honestly. Writing, however, is a different story.

I have a tendency to get sick. I mean really sick. If everyone else in the house has a sniffle, I have a cold. If they have colds, I have the flu. If everyone has the flu, I’m at the doctor’s. The problem with getting that sick, that often, is you get bored really stinking fast.

Being a child in the 70s, I didn’t have video games until Pong came out, and I could play that for only so long. Television was only worth watching for about two hours a day, and then only on some days (except Saturday morning cartoons!). Books, though… they worked 24/7.

One particular illness sticks out in my memory. I was in fifth grade and down sick with what I was told was the “Russian Flu.” I was miserable sick-except when I was reading. When I was reading, I was in another world. I could literally forget about my own problems! I would be so engrossed, the rest of the world ceased to exist. That was a godsend.

That was also my first real introduction to the idea of a series, where the story continued on into the next book. The world didn’t come to an end when I closed the book, there was another one waiting!

I read Patricia A. McKillip’s Riddle Master Trilogy, Piers Anthony’s Xanth Trilogy (back when there were only three), a trilogy collection of Edgar Rice Burrough’s John Carter books, and three or four of Alan Dean Foster’s Pip and Flinx series. When I ran out of new books, I re-read The Hobbit.

It was quite an eclectic mix, and I read them all in a little over a week. And then I went looking for more. Everything I could get my hands on. Up until that time, I had been a “reader.” I had read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings in fourth grade. But now, after doing so much reading, so intensively, I had become addicted. I had become a biblioholic. I had to have more!

I raided my mother’s bookshelves and then headed for my grandfather’s. I came away with armloads of Andre Norton, Robert Heinlein, Kenneth Robeson, Frank Herbert, and more.

Some sucked me in, others not so much. I was searching for authors with a specific talent-the ability to make me forget I was reading a book. I was actually trying to recreate what I had experienced while I was ill.

Yeah, I read the things the other kids were reading. The Mouse and the Motorcycle, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and the like. They were good, but… they didn’t transport me into another world the way I wanted.

I wasn’t in the game to read about little problems with kid brothers, or mysteries about missing toys. I wanted the Hero’s Journey. I wanted books that let me see Star Wars in my head. (We couldn’t just buy it and watch it anytime we wanted back then. Not to mention that, if I remember right, Star Wars was around $100 when it came out on VHS five or six years after theatrical release, and a brand new book was only $3.50.) I wanted books that let me live a different life.

And I found them. I found a lot of them. I started with authors I already knew could make a movie behind my eyes, and I got everything I could by them. I read Piers Anthony’s older sci-fi stories, and then I followed all of his new series as they came out. I followed Alan Dean Foster’s Pip and Flinx adventures all the way until 2009 when he finally wrapped it up. I’m still waiting for David Gerrold to finish The War Against the Chtorr series. (I’m not holding my breath, though…) Along the way, I found Robert Asprin’s Myth series, Lawrence Watt-Evan’s Ethshar books, Terry Pratchett’s Discworld, among others.

I worked sixty hours a week while attending college full-time, and I still made time to read. I would exchange books with co-workers. I gave away my copy of Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy just to convince someone to read it, and then I went and bought myself another. I did that three times.

After I graduated, I carried my book du jour to work with me and read it during my lunch hour. At first my new co-workers laughed at me, but by the time I left there were close to a dozen people doing the same thing.

Why? Because books are magic. A well-crafted book made by a talented author will cast a spell over a reader and transport them to a new place, a different time, another life.

That’s what I was looking for when I was sick. A different life. And those wonderful authors gave it to me, even if it was just for stolen moments at a time. They gave it to me. And as I lay in that bed so many years ago, a thought drifted through my mind, a thought that stayed with me the rest of my life: I wanted to return the favor. I wanted to write something that could bring as much joy to those authors as they were giving me.

Ideas began bouncing around in my head after that. When I worked physical labor, I would entertain myself by thinking up stories. When I drove long distance, I would stay awake by imagining new places, new worlds, and new people. Eventually, I found that nearly anything would give me a story idea.

And soon, very soon, I will finally move beyond my apprenticeship and craft a story that repays my heroes. I will inspire the next generation, and honor the previous. I will write because I read, and it was wonderful.

* * *

Sam Knight refuses to be pinned down into a genre. If the idea grabs him, he writes it. Once upon a time, he was known to quote books the way some people quote movies, but now he claims having a family has made him forgetful, as a survival adaptation. He can be found at www.samknight.com and contacted at sam@samknight.com.

Toy Story: Little Ponies and the Birth of a Writer

May 3, 2013

mary

Mary Pletsch The Writing Life No Comments

In the early eighties when I was six, I was obsessed with My Little Pony. The colourful plastic horses had just appeared on toy store shelves and I had made it my life’s mission to collect them all.

One day I found a big cardboard box and incorporated it into my pony games. Sunbeam, the unicorn, thought that as the only unicorn in Ponyland (translation: the only unicorn I owned so far), she should be the queen of the ponies. When the other ponies disagreed, Sunbeam hatched a plot. She asked Snuzzle if she would like to be a rock star, and set up a concert (with the cardboard box as the stage). All the ponies came out to see the show.

Surprise! The show was a trap. The cardboard box flipped ninety degrees and trapped the other ponies inside. Sunbeam proclaimed herself queen, with Snuzzle as her assistant.

Snuzzle was sad. She had wanted to be famous, not to hurt anyone. Sunbeam got angry and threw her into the pit (box) as well.

So Sunbeam was queen. But she was queen all alone, with no friends. Worse, with all the other ponies in captivity, their special powers (indicated by their symbols) stopped working. Soon, Sunbeam’s sun power had turned Ponyland into a desert.

Desperate, Sunbeam freed the other ponies, and stepped down from her position as queen. The other ponies’ powers caused the flowers and clover to grow again, the stars to shine again, the rain to fall again. And, in time, the ponies would learn to forgive Sunbeam for her mistake.

(Not bad for a six year old, hm?)

The next day in school, my class was given an assignment to write and illustrate our own books for a project called Young Authors. I knew right away what I wanted to do. I was so happy with the plot I had made up for my pony game that I decided to write down the story. Entitled “Sunbeam’s Sad Show,” it was chosen as one of the best three in the class, and I was able to attend a special writing conference with children from other schools.

It took me ten years to discover that what I had created was something called “fan fiction” and that I was far from the only one using characters from toys, cartoons and books to make my own stories. It took me another ten years to learn that those people who were lucky enough to be paid to create the official tales of licensed characters were called “tie in authors.” But it took very little time at all for me to recognize that telling stories in writing was not that different from acting out stories with my plastic figures.

Writing, at its best, is still play to me. I create a world and populate it with characters. I set up scenarios and let them play out, watching to see what my characters will do, how they will interact with one another, how they will face the challenges ahead of them, whether or not they will succeed, and what will happen to them then. My goal is to create a tale as compelling to my readers as the world of the little ponies was to me, long ago.*

(*Full disclosure time: Anyone with a collection of 300+ little ponies is still pretty darn compelled by that world.)