Archive for September, 2006

Craft: Openings (Part One, Begin as you mean to End)

Kate Elliott September 12th, 2006

I can take any empty space and call it a bare stage. A man walks across this empty space whilst someone else is watching him, and this is all that is needed for an act of theatre to be engaged.
(Peter Brook)

Openings are part of the overall plot arc, the overall narrative. The opening carries within it the ending, it can foreshadow, reflect, parallel, hint at, paint the mood of, contrast with, or lay the groundwork for the ending. Openings should not only engage the reader by hook or by crook; they should be consistent in tone in relationship to the ending.

I’m not a believer in the One True Path. I am not going to tell you that there are hard and fast rules that govern openings.

Here are the three main things I consider when I am searching for the right place to begin.
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Great first lines

Kevin Andrew Murphy September 11th, 2006

There’s been a lot of work over at the “first 13 lines” section over how to hook the reader with the first thirteen lines of a story, and while that’s well and good, I was thinking of the great novels where not only does the writer hook the reader with the first line, but it’s something that lodges in your memory.

 What prompted this thought for discussion wasn’t actually a great novel but some of the random filler text I got in my email spam this morning, where among the other unremarkable lines harvested from some (likely unpublished) novel, there was this:

They saw the waxen mandarin walk shakily three times up and down the road.

This hooked me immediately and I want to read the rest of the story.  Now.  I’m not certain whether it’s a geriatric Chinese noble who’s given his handlers the slip or an actual waxwork figure escaped from Madame Tussaud’s, but in either case, I’m hooked.

Of course, the rest of the story would have to hold up to the promise of this first line (which I may be running off with as found art…it’s just one sentence), but inspecting it, I can see a lot of reason for the intrigue.

Anyone else, or any other thoughts on great first lines?

At the Walls of the Last City

Madeleine Robins September 9th, 2006

One of the world-building games I play with myself (and played with my class of 8th graders when I taught world building) involves asking a deceptively simple question: In an “after the apocalypse” scenario, you come to the walled city where the last vestiges of civilization have gathered. You have to persuade them to let you in. What skills or talents can you offer to convince them to admit you?

The rules are:

1) you need to know something about what the city is like, so that you know what they need (and no tailoring the city to skills you already have).

2) you can only offer skills or talents or knowledge that you actually have (in other words, if you don’t know how to perform a field amputation, you can’t say that you do).

Some valuable questions to ask yourself:

* How long since the Dire Event are you showing up at the wall asking for entry?
* Have most perishable stores–by which I don’t just mean canned peaches and gasoline, but manufactured goods like shoes and socks–been used up?
* Are source materials available? by which I mean, for example, cloth, yarn, leather for shoes, wood for building, etc.
* where is this walled city? What sort of wildlife, both aquatic and land-dwelling, might be available for food or resources?
* what level of technology remains viable? This ties into the first question; if it’s three months since Dire Event, maybe your city has enough solar power to keep refrigeration going–but they sure could use engineers who know how to keep the solar cells working.
* what is the world outside the walls like? is it utterly blasted, or is agriculture possible?

Once I decide what kind of world, and what kind of walled city, I’m positing, I can think about what skills I can offer. My list usually includes the following:

* cooking
* baking
* sewing
* pattern-making
* knitting
* laying a hardwood floor
* making herbal liniments, etc. (see cooking, above)
* weaving
* stringing a four-hettle loom
* basic carpentry
* organization

I could probably come up with more. The question is: what’s your walled city like? and what’s on your list?

“But I don’t like any of the characters.”

Katharine Kerr September 7th, 2006

This is mostly a question for the assembled poplace. 

When you read a book, do you have to like at least one of the characters in order to enjoy the book — or to bother finishing it, for that matter?   I’ve heard a lot of readers, over the years, say that they disliked such-and-such a book because they couldn’t identify with or even like the characters.  (In fact, when it comes to reasons for not reading literary works, dislikeable characters ranks high on the list.)

Opinions?

What’s your fiction worth?

Katharine Kerr September 5th, 2006

After Lois posted her excellent two-parter , “Genre don’t get no/want no respect”, there was a certain amount of nasty reaction out on the ‘Net.  I’m not suprised, being as I have gotten the same thing for years for daring to suggest that published genre work could stand some improving in matters of style and structure.   Such observations trigger what I call the “Slan shack” reaction — a sense of betrayal by people who feel part of a beleaguered, misunderstood community.  This sense of belonging to such a community is so important to many genre writers that they keep it alive by constantly reminding themselves how academics and others hate them so {sob}.  No one wants to believe that now and then, these Dreadful Others are right.

Another powerful motivator for the abuse is, or so I personally suspect, simple laziness.  If some authors can get a little money selling a book without the revision it needs, then they can convince themselves it didn’t really need the revision.  In the past 20 years I have heard an amazing number of excuses for not revising.  I shan’t bore you by repeating all of them here.   One of the most common is “I’m not getting paid enough to do extra work.”  Extra???

A related attitude concerns research.  Recently someone (who shall remain anonymous) posted a comment that has been bugging me for days now.    

“I don’t really care if it’s accurate–it’ll say “fictionâ€? right there on the cover, after all–I just need the overwhelming majority of readers to believe that it’s accurate.”

What the author of this quote, and all the authors I have obliquely referred to above, are really saying is, “Fiction isn’t worth hard work.”   Fiction is crap, basically, because it’s not “true”?  That’s what I hear loud and clear, as Yogi Bear was wont to say.  Even more to the point, it says, “MY fiction isn’t worth hard work.”

There is such a thing as pride in your craft.  A craftsperson works hard to do the best job he or she can because of this pride, a sense of honor, if you will, motivated by love for what he or she does.  Secondarily, an honorable craftsperson believes that those who buy the crafted object deserve the best the craftsperson can give them.   We don’t have to talk about “great art” here.  We can talk about doing a job well because the job itself deserves to be done well.   Selling a sloppy book for a small advance is not a sign of a job done well.  

Selling a finely-crafted book for a small advance is a fact of life these days, on the other hand.   Here’s another fact of life: authors will never get a large advance if they don’t work hard for a low one.  But is it truly a matter of money?  I see it as a matter of self-respect.   If you as a writer don’t respect your own worth, you will find you have lots of company to help you dis it. 

Usually I dislike Ernest Hemingway’s attitudes to Life, Art, Women, you name it.  But I did read one anecdote a while back that resonated.  A reporter was interviewing him about, if I remember rightly, FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS.  The reporter announced that he’d heard that H. had rewritten one section 16 times.   Why? he wondered.  Hemingway gave him a look of pity and said, “To get the words right.”

Not everything needs 16 revisions.  Not every story requires years of top-level research, either.  But every single story and novel does require effort to reach that simple goal: getting the facts straight and the words right. 

Ragnarok, Doom of the Gods (theater review)

Kevin Andrew Murphy September 5th, 2006

I had never before conceived of the Norns as pinheads with topknots.  However, as you can see from the attached picture, the maskmaker and costume director for The Shotgun Players in Berkeley did:

Supposedly a norn

This is for their production of Ragnarok, Doom of the Gods which will definitely be playing next weekend (September 9th & 10th) in Berkeley and possibly the weekend thereafter (according to some portions of the website but not others).

The theater space is the old 1908  outdoor ampitheatre at John Hinkel Park, and yesterday at 4, the weather for the special Labor Day show was pleasant turning to cool over the two hours of the production.

I went with my friend Yvonne, who knew the playwrights, Conrad Bishop and Elizabeth Fuller, and introduced me to them.  Elizabeth was also playing Frigga, Odin’s wife.

The actors ranged from passable to excellent, with the standouts being Ben Dziuba as Loki and Erin Carter as everyone from Helga, the actor’s wife, to Thokk, the woman without tears.  Her delivery of Thokk’s soliloquy gave me a frisson, and that’s what good playwrighting and acting are all about.

But the masks.  Yvonne said the first time she’d seen the production, they made her think of pig snouts.  Myself, I was just wondering why, when Snorri was getting into his father’s medieval Swedish costume trunk, he was somehow pulling things that owed a lot more to Comedia del Arte than to anything Scandinavian.  The time shifts to include current day referrences in the script were mild in comparison to the disjoint of the masks.  Costuming the jotuns as clowns made a certain amount of sense given their trickster nature, but having the Norns be pinheads with topknots was just bizarre, and not in a good way.

There was a small turnout yesterday, but most of them were part of the Berkeley pagan contingent, so most everyone already knew the stories.  Of the gods, Braggi was underused, acting more as spear carrier than poet in most scenes, and Iduna didn’t seem to have a line that wasn’t talking about her apples.  But all in all, it was an enjoyable performance, and good to see something in the fantasy vein on stage as a new play.

Pride of Baghdad

Constance Ash September 3rd, 2006

Brian K. Vaughn is the creator of controversial, intriquing SF graphic novel series, Y: The Last Man, among other works.  In Pride of Baghdad he’s tries to work out his angers and confusions concerning the Iraqi invasion via a graphic novel that sees the war through the eyes of the animals in the Baghdad zoo.

Reviews are available on the net here; and here:

 

 

Again, here is an occasion where the format — the graphic novel — and the form / genre — harmoniously come together to deal with terrible contemporary events, and yet provide, somehow, beauty and insight too.

Love, C.

A possible new feature for the blog

Katharine Kerr September 3rd, 2006

I had an idea for the Craft section, and I want to see if anyone’s interested.  I was thinking of an occasional ”What’s Wrong with this Sentence?” post or page whenever one of us finds a particularly awful real sentence.  Someimes dissecting mistakes is the best way to learn, and rather than mortify anyone here, I could keep an eye out for mstakes by writers who’ll never know we’re dissecting them.   I mean, their work.  

 Here’s an example.  This is from an actual report of a football game in a big-city newspaper, and yes, it’s all a single sentence:

“Lawson intercepted a deflected pass in the second quarter and rumbled 23 yards for a touchdown that was taken away from him when the officials ruled that he came in contact with running back Larry Croom, upon whose hands the ball clanged off of.”

I am not making this up.  The length is obviously a mistake.  Anyone else care to comment?

The Wicker Man Re-make

Constance Ash September 2nd, 2006

Bad.

Very bad, They Say.

http://movies2.nytimes.com/2006/09/02/movies/02wick.html?ref=arts

The first one wasn’t very good either, but lordessa, the location on the Summersisle was/is indescribably beautiful. (The new one is supposedly on an island in Puget Sound, and it’s all women, who are beekeepers.) The originals staging of the ancient sword dances and hobby horses and so on were thoroughly effective. The premise was almost plausible — except for the nude Britt Eklund writhing around the walls to the beat of a tambor to illustrate — what? the unrestrained female lust of a pagan woman? If so, the rigidly Catholic sacrifice never even got a taste ….

The 1973 film’s echos of John Fowles’s The Magus are of a certain literary historical interest, dimly caught from this many decades’ later perspective. So many college types at least, considered The Magus a ‘guide to life, along with The Lord of the Rings, Siddartha, Stranger in a Strange Land and Camus’s The Stranger. Doubtless the re-make never heard of The Magus….

Love, C.

Love Letters

Kate Elliott September 2nd, 2006

Many - most - maybe even all of us here at Deep Genre write character-driven fiction (I qualify that statement only because while I would like to presume to speak for the others, I can’t quite).

For myself, I can say that every one of my novels has its genesis in a vivid, visual, scene of a Character in a Situation. The landscape and the plot grow out of that original image and emotional tone.

Sometimes characters emerge organically out of the evolving narrative, sometimes they walk in from my unconscious and hit me over the head demanding to be included, and sometimes I will “build� a character who is needed due to the exigencies of the plot. In general, though, characters are who they are; in a perfect world, they are discrete individuals whose lives are intertwined with the landscape they “live� in.

Some among us now and then may invest a character with a bit of wish fulfillment. I’m not immune to this urge, and at times I indulge it cautiously and with (I hope) restraint. At the extreme, this is called writing a “Mary Sue� story, a subject that has been discussed earlier on Deep Genre here and here by Sherwood.

But there’s another kind of personalized character development that I want to call “The Love Letter.�
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