Fantasy v. Empathy

I was recently wondering about what it is exactly that I enjoy in a story. When I read an adventure about a hero who saves the world, what is the nature of the thrill that I feel? When I read a love story that moves me, what is the nature of the romantic excitement that keeps me turning pages?

The obvious answer is that I’m taken up in the fantasy. I read Lord of the Rings and I am Aragorn. I read Pride and Prejudice and Mr. Darcy is wooing me. Obvious as that answer is, it doesn’t feel right to me. I, Erica, do not want to be Aragorn–I want my own adventure in which I save the world. And I’m not in love with Mr. Darcy myself–my husband’s personality is quite different from that character’s, and, to my mind, much preferable.

Instead, I think it’s empathy that I feel when I read. I am thrilled by the idea of finding one’s larger purpose (saving the world). I remember what it feels like to discover that a particular person is the person I want to marry, and so I am excited for Elizabeth when she makes this discovery about Darcy.

As a writer, I think I am even less likely to be taken up by the fantasy of putting myself in the story. It’s true that my characters come out of me, and so share aspects of my personality. But when I think about the characters in Vintage, for example, it’s clear to me that the concert Josh sets up is his dream, not mine. I feel for him, and I feel his victory keenly, but I made him and I know he’s not me.

A True Thoughtcrime Experiment

Therese Arkenberg’s “Goldenseed” is the story in the Thoughtcrime Experiments anthology that best fits the project’s name. Xan, a recognizable, though altered, Johnny Appleseed, wanders the countryside engaged in a political experiment:

“Mostly because they’re beautiful. But also for the gold.”

“No, I don’t want to become rich in the least. But I want more gold in the world.”

“You want to become rich?”

“Not at all.” Xan shook his head grimly. “No, I don’t want to become rich in the least. But I want more gold in the world. Look.” He gestured at the trees. “I’ve planted orchards like this all across the West. They’re all open, unguarded. I don’t care if people take golden fruit by the bucketful. In fact, I want them to take it.”

“So everyone can have gold?”

His head bobbed. “Yes. Free for all.”

“But…” I frowned. “Say someone was poor, with no money, and picked one of these—” I hefted the Orel—“and took it to the store in town. But why should the shopkeeper give him anything, when he can walk out here and pick a fruit himself?”

“There’s no reason he should,” Xan said. “No reason at all. By putting out gold like this, I’m making it utterly worthless. Oh, it’ll still be pretty, good for jewelry, but no path to wealth. That’s what I’m hoping for—though I pity the poor man in your example.”

I looked down at my Orel and felt a sudden urge to throw it away. It wasn’t that I hated Xan’s idea, not exactly, it was just so strange. “But without using gold, how will people buy anything?”

The story is about the reactions others have to Xan’s radical ideas about money–their lack of understanding, their fear, and their greed. It’s a poignant look at how an idea and a person can have attractive vision, and yet ultimately repel and alienate others because that vision asks people to risk too much of the status quo.

The Mother Lode

If you’re intrigued by small presses as much as I am, you should check out this database, which contains one of the nicest collections of small presses I’ve seen in a long time. Clicking around is a little clunky, but there’s great information here. I come to it more as a reader than as a writer–I like to see what’s out there. I still maintain that, if you find a small press you really like, you can probably just read straight through their catalog and trust that you’ll enjoy almost everything. (Via Practicing Writer).

How to Complete a Draft

When I first learned to complete drafts, my method was to keep my pen moving. I would literally set a timer, and the rule was that I had to write continuously until it went off, even if what I wrote was stupid. When I got stuck, I would describe the chair the character was sitting in or other random details of the setting until I got going again with the story. By doing that faithfully every day for even as little at 10 minutes, a draft eventually gets completed. I did my first novel draft that way, and it was an incredible experience.

This was a good method, but my experience at this point is that all tricks “expire” eventually, and I have to hunt for new tricks all the time.

Another trick I’ve tried is to slow way, way down. When I get going, I can easily write 2,400 words of (admittedly bad) fiction draft in an hour. I sometimes make the mistake of expecting that level of output. When I’m stuck, I cut my expected output in half and try hitting that goal. If I’m still stuck, I repeat the process until the goal is absurdly attainable. I’ve had times where my goal was literally to get out 100 words in an hour. And I’m not talking about 100 words that I plan to keep. Just 100 words to keep the momentum at least at a trickle. Then I play math games. One hundred words is about 17 words every ten minutes. I focus on that. Anyone can write 17 words in ten minutes, I tell myself. That’s just a sentence. There’s always a way to keep moving if you want to keep moving.

Lately, my method is that I ask myself what in the story I feel able to write. Maybe it’s one sentence at the beginning. Maybe it’s one sentence at the end. Maybe it’s a snatch of dialogue I heard in my head when I first came up with the idea. I was scared to try writing out of order at first because I worried that my drafts would come out too chaotic. Eventually, I figured out that first drafts are always chaotic, and the goal is just to get something on the paper.

Writing is about creating something from nothing, and I think the first trick is to lay down raw material.

Once I’m done writing the parts I’m clear on, I sketch in connective tissue to the extent possible, then let the draft rest as long as I can until I’m ready to edit.

For nonfiction, my writing process tends to be more compressed because I’m dealing with harder deadlines. The current fiction process I described above is actually something I learned from doing nonfiction. When I’m stuck on an article now, I start at the end. Or I start by writing some of the more formulaic sections. For example, for website news articles, it’s common to include quotes from outside sources commenting on the main topic. I find that’s an easy place to start, since it’s a pretty self-contained section. Once I have that laid down, I’m usually a couple hundred words into the article, and the blank page is looking a lot less blank. Maybe I follow that by describing the technology I’m covering. I often do the lede last, since I tend to struggle over it, and it’ll often stop me dead if I try to start there.

I think I’ve said similar things before. My key point is that writing works best when I stay loose. I always have to invent new tricks. It’s an arms race. I have to keep my writing tricks a step ahead of the forces of procrastination and self-doubt that threaten them.

I’d love to hear other people’s tricks, too, if anyone cares to share.

Book-Buying Updates

A lot of people have been buying books from Salt Publishing, and it’s developing into a moving story. I tried to order Tania Hershman’s The White Road from my local bookstore, but they couldn’t get it through their distributors. I’ve asked my old home bookstore, at St. John’s College, for advice. The manager there is a genius, and I wanted to make sure he was aware of Salt, too.

Failing that, I’ll buy direct from Salt (I was trying to avoid shipping from the UK). It’s also available on Amazon, I’ve just been trying to carry out a resolution to buy from indie stores or directly from small publishers whenever possible.

In other news of great small presses, I’ve just received my order of a large portion of the Small Beer Press catalog. I’m still fondling the books. The sale there is still on, so check it out if you haven’t already. My thoughts on Small Beer Press are here.

Kill the Darlings

Over the weekend, I ran a one-shot Dungeons & Dragons game for my sister’s birthday, and I screwed it up. One-shots are games designed to be played in a single session, so they need to be self-contained stories that also allow the characters to take part in a good range of actions. I try to set them up so they include some fighting along with some meaty opportunities for roleplaying.

One-shots, in my circles, have always been famous for not going off as planned. In fact, I’ve been running a campaign for about a year that was intended to be a one-shot–I guess that’s a good failure.

In this case, I designed the story in three acts (you know, if you play D&D, that my mistake started here–no way were we getting through all that). My basic rule for one-shots is that I design them to take about three hours less than the time I have scheduled. I figure that it’s better to get through the whole story and end a little early (which has never happened) than to spend forever setting up and not really get into the story (which happens all the time).

I knew, when I looked over the game I had planned, that I was in trouble and was not going to get through the whole game. I knew that Act Two was unnecessary and that I should cut it. I was also in love with Act Two. There was this really cool plot twist that I just had to try.

That was my downfall. We got through that cool plot twist, but that was it. I kept people longer than I should have, and didn’t get to my cool finale at all. We spent most of our time going through unnecessary fights, avoiding the real story so that I could get my kicks with a neat trick. In the end, I was disappointed at how much of my story was left out. The players were disappointed because they didn’t get the payoff at the end.

As we left the game, I said to my husband, “I’m a writer. I should know better than to do that.”

It’s true. As a writer, I’ve learned, over and over again, the hard truth that I have to do what’s best for the story above all else. If neat details are in the way of that, they have to go. If I’ve made a joke at the story’s expense, it has to go. Samuel Johnson famously said, “Read over your compositions, and wherever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out.”

Sure, I know this, and helpful editors have convinced me to do it in my writing many times. But experiencing what my ego did to my D&D game made the lesson sink in more than it has before. If neat tricks stop you from telling the story you want to tell, they’re clearly not worth it.

This isn’t the first time my experience as a dungeon master has taught me something about writing, and I hope it’s not last. I’d rather learn these things among friends than embarrass myself under my byline (sorry, friends).

MonkeyBrain Books

I was looking around at small presses recently and discovered MonkeyBrain Books, which offers, among other things, nonfiction of interest to geeks. There look to be a lot of hidden gems here, including an extensive analysis of the superhero genre, a study of epic fantasy by Michael Moorcock, and comments on SF, fantasy, and horror by Jeff VanderMeer.

Support Salt Publishing

Dan Wickett at the Emerging Writers Network writes that Salt Publishing, which publishes about four short-story collections a year, is in dire financial straits. He’s calling on people–via a post by Tania Hershman–to support the press by buying a book from them. As Dan points out, it’s important for those of us who love the short form to support the presses that work to make it available.

I decided to pick up Hershman’s book, The White Road, since the description grabbed me:

What links a café in Antarctica, a factory for producing electronic tracking tags and a casino where gamblers can wager their shoes? They’re among the multiple venues where award-winning writer Tania Hershman sets her unique tales in this spellbinding debut collection.

Fleeing from tragedy, a bereaved mother opens a cafe on the road to the South Pole. A town which has always suffered extreme cold enjoys sudden warmth. A stranger starts plaiting a young woman’s hair. A rabbi comes face to face with an angel in a car park. An elderly woman explains to her young carer what pregnancy used to mean before science took over. A middle-aged housewife overcomes a fear of technology to save her best friend. A desperate childless woman resorts to extreme measures to adopt. A young man’s potential is instantly snuffed out by Nature’s whims. A lonely widow bakes cakes in the shape of test tubes and DNA.

A number of these stories are inspired by articles from science magazines, taking fact as their starting points and wondering what might happen if . . .? In these surreal, lyrical stories, many of which are only a few pages long, Tania Hershman allows her imagination free reign, as her characters navigate through love, death, friendship, spirituality, mental illness and the havoc wreaked by the weather.

I love science fiction, but I also love fiction that makes room for science. I’m looking forward to receiving my book.

Check out Salt Publishing’s Story Bank deal, too. After I get my book, I’m going to consider it.

A Writing Podcast

I’ve got another podcast to recommend. It’s called Writing Excuses, and it’s made by Brandon Sanderson, Howard Taylor, and Dan Wells. The guys are both funny and helpful. Each episode is about 15 minutes and ends with a writing prompt (though often a silly one).

I found it after being impressed by the amazing work ethic of Brandon Sanderson. Reading about the man’s writing schedule makes me tired, and I thought I was a dawn-to-dusk writer. Sanderson also aims for an admirable level of transparency–he discusses writing honestly and openly in his blog and on the podcast, and he’s posted extensive first draft material on his website as well, as part of an effort to show the editing process. I shudder at the thought of doing the same (Remember my post on “lower expectations“? Yeah. I use that technique to finish first drafts.)

Writing Excuses covers subjects ranging from branding to writing good endings. Lately, the guys have been doing a series on the most important things they’ve learned in the last year.

Up to the Level

(THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS)

Sherry D. Ramsey’s “The Ambassador’s Staff” appears in the Thoughtcrime Experiments anthology. If you’re worried about spoilers, go read the story and then come back.

COMMENCE SPOILERS…

Ramsey’s story is a mystery constructed around the death of a Martian ambassador. The key to solving the mystery turns out to be a drug called Level, which, in most cases, makes people feel strong and competent while they actually lie on the floor drooling. While most addicts are made useless by Level, a small subset become highly efficient, though they still become dependent on the drug and suffer withdrawal if they don’t get it. It turns out that the ambassador was in this second class, known as Mind-Levelers, and that he got himself killed trying to get a fix.

The story’s biggest strength, I think, is its atmosphere. The setting is well-realized–Cape City is a town built around a spaceport, seeming to consist of poor people who’ve got nowhere else to go and a few extremely reach. There are nice touches, such as the detail that hotels are constructed to extend deeply underground, with artificial sunrooms made to give the proper aura of luxury. The narrator, who’s a private detective, wishes she’d gone to space when she had the chance. The author never reveals why she couldn’t or why she wanted to, but that regret hangs over the story and was, I thought, the main source of its poignancy.

The mystery itself was pretty well-constructed. There were a lot of stock detective-story characters (the cop friend, the uptight assistant to the murdered man who’s obviously guilty as hell, the well-meaning single mother), but they were well-drawn. In the course of the story, the narrator gets injected with Level and turns out to be a Mind-Leveler herself (MAJOR SPOILERS–I’M GIVING YOU THE MOMENT OF EPIPHANY HERE:

Arturo Singh’s phone call about the body in a dumpster fit into the story perfectly. It was as plain as a tri-V scene in my mind: the dealer—maybe more than one of them—making the wrong move, Olara grabbing the staff and using it as a weapon…just too late, since the Ambassador had been killed. If Olara had killed the dealer, even in self-defense, he’d keep it quiet—he had the Ambassador’s reputation and his own to consider. Olara could have gotten the Ambassador’s body back to the hotel, but the broken staff had been overlooked in the street. It all made sense.

But was that me, or the Level? And why was I breathing so hard? Was I tiring, slipping? Buildings sped past me,the rings blending as I flew through them. Maybe adrenaline would keep the drug at bay long enough.

I wished I knew more about Level. I’d have to ask Sally if this kind of delayed reaction was normal. And ask her more about going off-world. Why had I made such a big deal about that? It would be as simple as stepping on a shuttle.

It was the drug, trying to distract me with another imaginary life. I had to fight it long enough to get to Seeth and his mother. Somehow I found the strength to run even faster. Folks on the street seemed blurry, slowed. I wondered if my perception was deteriorating.

By the time the Warrens’ converted home came into view, my lungs were burning like I’d tried to breathe vacuum. In the back of my mind I knew I should not have been able to run this far, this fast, this steadily, and fear clawed at my mind again—none of this is real. I shoved the thought aside. Either this was reality and I had to keep going, or it wasn’t and I was still in my office imagining it all. The only logical thing to do was play out the scenario as well as I could. At the very least, I’d hallucinate a happy ending.

I liked the writing in this section, and the author ends the story nicely by pointing back to the buried thought about space travel (SPOILERS AGAIN):

So I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact that I’m a mind-Leveler. Don’t misunderstand me—I never want to touch the stuff again. But I’m haunted by the memory of what it was like to feel that confident. To have an entire messy, complicated problem laid out and see where every part fit, how it all came together. To act on instinct guided by reason and do everything right.

It’s a tempting prospect for a private detective. I just keep telling myself that if I can do it Leveled, I should be able to do it straight. I figured some things out without the drug, after all. That has to count for something.

Seeth and Sally Warren each got a small reward for their part in the case, and I’ve ditched my avatar and hired Sally to be my secretary. She’s a lot better company and the clients like her more. I know more than one who thinks her raspy voice is sexy. And she knows how to deal with the occasional Level-head who wanders in to the office.

And sometimes at night I stare up at the stars and try to recapture that brief moment when going off-world seemed as simple as stepping onto a shuttle. That one…well, that one is the most elusive.

I thought this was a great note to end on, and it tied the story in well with the hints about who the character is. I heard once that a story should be about the most important moment in a character’s life, and this ending establishes that, out of all the cases the main character has taken, this is the most significant one.

But the neatness of it all also leads into my criticism. I was distracted by how common Mind-Levelers seem to be in the story, though I didn’t think they’re supposed to be in the world. Not only is the narrator a Mind-Leveler, the Ambassador is a Mind-Leveler, and the client turns out to be the son of one. The coincidence seems too big to be plausible to my mind, and I think this weakened the plot considerably (there was too much of a deus ex machina feeling in the climax). While I could have handled the existence of two coincidentally-linked Mind-Levelers, three was too much.

On a related note, it was hard to buy that the main character didn’t know what was going on when she was on Level. On one hand, I can see that, considering that Mind-Levelers are uncommon in the world, she wouldn’t expect to be one herself. From the reader’s perspective, however, when it seems like you trip on Mind-Levelers every time you go to the grocery store, it was hard to see why she was being so slow. I think that cognitive dissonance underscores the point–there should be some explanation for why so many rare people are linked. I also think it might have been possible for the author to cut the third Mind-Leveler (the remaining two being the ambassador and the main character).