P.T. Mayes's Blog
October 18, 2015
Great Expectations.
You've been waiting for this day for over a year -- maybe even longer -- and finally it arrives.
Yippee!
You travel to your favourite bookstore, your heart beating like a drum and... and... there it is! Not just one, but a whole pyramid of the book that you know will make your life complete -- at least for the next few days.
The new Lord Snodberry Mystery: A Murder in Blue.
You've read the last seven Lord Snodberry mysteries and you can feel it in your bowels that this is going to be the best one yet. Nothing can possibly beat this, not even winning the lottery. Nothing!
With sweating hands you buy the book (the bookseller isn't surprised, he's seen that dumb/elated expression a thousand times) and you resist taking a peek inside as you ride the bus/train home. It's so hard, but it's a pleasurable pain. You know that the best is yet to come.
Finally you're home. Cup of tea brewed, chocolate biscuits on a plate, a suitable soundtrack playing on the iPhone. Phone off the hook, the cat put out, the dog locked in the back room, the husband/wife sent packing to his/her parents house for a long weekend. From this moment on it's all about you.
With shaking fingers you turn the first few pages, savouring even the flyleaves and that copyright rubbish they insist on putting there. At last you see it: text! Words! Story!
The adventure begins, and you’re going along for the ride.
Chapter One.
You begin to read with tears in your eyes, which slightly blurs your vision. You have to blink several times to bring the words back into focus. This is a big deal.
"I say, Charlie," said Lord Snodberry as he pulled the shawl around his narrow shoulders, "does this shade of blue match my eyes?"
What? Well, that was certainly a strange start. Your smile falters, but then comes back slowly, bravely. There is probably an entirely logical reason for this strange start. This must have something to do with a very complicated murder case that involves eye shadow. You read on regardless, expecting the mystery to reveal itself at any moment. One hundred pages pass and Lord Snodberry is still ignoring all the murders in the village and trying to find the perfect outfit to show off his figure, but it's only when you get to the part where Lord Snodberry says "He was murdered, you say? How strange. In my former life I would have certainly taken up the case with relish, but right now I'm having my living room decorated in chintz and I really don't have the time". That's it you throw the book down in disgust, resolving never to read another Lord Snodberry mystery for as long as you live, and you never do (even though the next one, Lord Snodberry Returns, is considered a classic).
Expectation is a strong emotion, but having that expectation dashed can result in an ever stronger emotion: hatred.
The problem with "great expectations" is that readers and authors look on sequels in different ways. The readers thinks "Oh goody, another book," while some authors (just ask Arthur Conan Doyle or Ian Fleming) think, "oh, do I have to write another book" (rolls eyes). Now consider that the reader expects that every sequel should be the same but different and yet better than all of the books proceeding it, then you can see that the poor writer can crash very quickly trying to maintain a forever upwardly climbing level of excellence.
This impossible to achieve escalation soon causes the author to start thinking outside the box, looking at the character or format from a different angle, or even being experimental with the format, just to keep the series going and keep it interesting, while the reader simply wants the story to be a rattlingly good yarn similar to all the others in the series (but, you know, better). Of course sometimes the experiment works, just as long as the reader gives it a shot, and then the author is declared a genius and ahead of his/her time.
But sometimes the problem has nothing to do with inspiration, rather the lack of it. The deadline’s looming and the poor writer simply hasn't had a good enough idea in time and has to just start writing and hope it will all come together at the end. Sometimes this can garner unexpectedly good results, and sometimes it can be a disaster.
But there's another kind of expectation: the expectation for a sequel to a book that's so good, so original and so incredible that there's no way the writer can possibly follow it up. The original book was a one-off, and everything the writer produces afterwards will always be a disappointment, no matter what he does.
Here I'm going to take two examples of foiled expectations, but taken from films rather than books, because they’re the ones that occurred to me first. Warning, there are some SPOILERS here.
The Matrix Sequels. Everybody was left breathless at the end of the first movie: humanity hiding behind computer-game style avatars were going to take on the nasty machine avatars in an arena that looked like the normal world. It was going to be a battle royale. What we got instead was a surprisingly meditative look at moral shades of grey, not just for the humans but for the machines as well. Whereas in the first film good/evil was clearly defined, here it wasn’t, and that led to ambiguity. The audience, who just wanted lots of kung-fu, explosions and weird Sci-fi stuff going on, were left disappointed and walked.
The Dark Knight Rises. At the end of The Dark Knight it hints that poor old Batman will be chased through the streets of Gotham by the cops as he tries to fight the rotters, turned into a pariah to protect the false heroism of the horrible disfigured Harvey Dent. None of that happens. What we got instead was Bruce Wayne in retirement, brooding and still mourning the death of his lover. Actually I quite like TDKR but the world feels different compared to the previous films, sort of broken, just as Bruce Wayne is. This film is the logical next step after TDK, but the little details aren't there, which makes me think the writing of the TDKR was rushed, or the film had to go into production before the script was ready (which happens a lot).
Yippee!
You travel to your favourite bookstore, your heart beating like a drum and... and... there it is! Not just one, but a whole pyramid of the book that you know will make your life complete -- at least for the next few days.
The new Lord Snodberry Mystery: A Murder in Blue.
You've read the last seven Lord Snodberry mysteries and you can feel it in your bowels that this is going to be the best one yet. Nothing can possibly beat this, not even winning the lottery. Nothing!
With sweating hands you buy the book (the bookseller isn't surprised, he's seen that dumb/elated expression a thousand times) and you resist taking a peek inside as you ride the bus/train home. It's so hard, but it's a pleasurable pain. You know that the best is yet to come.
Finally you're home. Cup of tea brewed, chocolate biscuits on a plate, a suitable soundtrack playing on the iPhone. Phone off the hook, the cat put out, the dog locked in the back room, the husband/wife sent packing to his/her parents house for a long weekend. From this moment on it's all about you.
With shaking fingers you turn the first few pages, savouring even the flyleaves and that copyright rubbish they insist on putting there. At last you see it: text! Words! Story!
The adventure begins, and you’re going along for the ride.
Chapter One.
You begin to read with tears in your eyes, which slightly blurs your vision. You have to blink several times to bring the words back into focus. This is a big deal.
"I say, Charlie," said Lord Snodberry as he pulled the shawl around his narrow shoulders, "does this shade of blue match my eyes?"
What? Well, that was certainly a strange start. Your smile falters, but then comes back slowly, bravely. There is probably an entirely logical reason for this strange start. This must have something to do with a very complicated murder case that involves eye shadow. You read on regardless, expecting the mystery to reveal itself at any moment. One hundred pages pass and Lord Snodberry is still ignoring all the murders in the village and trying to find the perfect outfit to show off his figure, but it's only when you get to the part where Lord Snodberry says "He was murdered, you say? How strange. In my former life I would have certainly taken up the case with relish, but right now I'm having my living room decorated in chintz and I really don't have the time". That's it you throw the book down in disgust, resolving never to read another Lord Snodberry mystery for as long as you live, and you never do (even though the next one, Lord Snodberry Returns, is considered a classic).
Expectation is a strong emotion, but having that expectation dashed can result in an ever stronger emotion: hatred.
The problem with "great expectations" is that readers and authors look on sequels in different ways. The readers thinks "Oh goody, another book," while some authors (just ask Arthur Conan Doyle or Ian Fleming) think, "oh, do I have to write another book" (rolls eyes). Now consider that the reader expects that every sequel should be the same but different and yet better than all of the books proceeding it, then you can see that the poor writer can crash very quickly trying to maintain a forever upwardly climbing level of excellence.
This impossible to achieve escalation soon causes the author to start thinking outside the box, looking at the character or format from a different angle, or even being experimental with the format, just to keep the series going and keep it interesting, while the reader simply wants the story to be a rattlingly good yarn similar to all the others in the series (but, you know, better). Of course sometimes the experiment works, just as long as the reader gives it a shot, and then the author is declared a genius and ahead of his/her time.
But sometimes the problem has nothing to do with inspiration, rather the lack of it. The deadline’s looming and the poor writer simply hasn't had a good enough idea in time and has to just start writing and hope it will all come together at the end. Sometimes this can garner unexpectedly good results, and sometimes it can be a disaster.
But there's another kind of expectation: the expectation for a sequel to a book that's so good, so original and so incredible that there's no way the writer can possibly follow it up. The original book was a one-off, and everything the writer produces afterwards will always be a disappointment, no matter what he does.
Here I'm going to take two examples of foiled expectations, but taken from films rather than books, because they’re the ones that occurred to me first. Warning, there are some SPOILERS here.
The Matrix Sequels. Everybody was left breathless at the end of the first movie: humanity hiding behind computer-game style avatars were going to take on the nasty machine avatars in an arena that looked like the normal world. It was going to be a battle royale. What we got instead was a surprisingly meditative look at moral shades of grey, not just for the humans but for the machines as well. Whereas in the first film good/evil was clearly defined, here it wasn’t, and that led to ambiguity. The audience, who just wanted lots of kung-fu, explosions and weird Sci-fi stuff going on, were left disappointed and walked.
The Dark Knight Rises. At the end of The Dark Knight it hints that poor old Batman will be chased through the streets of Gotham by the cops as he tries to fight the rotters, turned into a pariah to protect the false heroism of the horrible disfigured Harvey Dent. None of that happens. What we got instead was Bruce Wayne in retirement, brooding and still mourning the death of his lover. Actually I quite like TDKR but the world feels different compared to the previous films, sort of broken, just as Bruce Wayne is. This film is the logical next step after TDK, but the little details aren't there, which makes me think the writing of the TDKR was rushed, or the film had to go into production before the script was ready (which happens a lot).
August 15, 2015
Opening Chapters: Trap, Pamper or Gatekeeper.
First chapters of a novel -- or indeed the first paragraph, first sentence, first word -- are very important; every writer knows it to be true. We sweat and labour over them like you wouldn't believe. Blood has been known to be spilled getting the first chapter just right, and it's not always the author's! Often the last thing to be completed on a novel is the first chapter. Every author wants the reader to finish their book because, hot damn, they spent a year+ of their lives writing the bloody thing -- a year that could have been spent drinking beer, playing with the kids, having kids, listening to music, flicking cards against a wall or getting a degree in economics -- and to have them stumble at the first chapter, well that's just wrong. They want the reader to like the book so they will pick up his or her next book, and the one after that, and the one after that. Also, canny readers who still frequent book shops (heroes, even single one of them) will often pooh-pooh the cover and the back-cover blurb and go straight to the first chapter to see if it's really what they're looking for; and if it isn't, well back onto the shelf the book goes and on they search.
But here's the thing: there are three types of opening chapter.
The first type is what I shall call the Trap Chapter.
The Trap chapter is there to capture the reader's attention, preferably in the first sentence. Usually the Trap chapter will start in the middle of the action, or present the reader with a mystery that won't be resolved until much later in the novel; maybe not until the very end of the novel. Descriptions and dialogue are often terse and to the point, sometimes verging on the daft, or overly-dramatic. Lots of exclamation points! Thrillers, mystery, horror and adventure novels often use a Trap Chapter in the hope of hooking the reader into the narrative. "What happens next?" screams the reader in frustration. “Give it to me now!” Ha ha, you've gotta wait, chummy! The problem is that sometimes the Trap has been tacked on simply for that purpose: to get that credit card out of your wallet, and it's not until you reach the end of the book that you realise that the Trap was either addressing a relatively minor aspect of the book, or it simply had nothing to do with the story at all, or failed to resolve the mystery in a satisfying way. You've been duped, buddy!
Books with Trap opening chapters are NEVER found on coffee tables, and infrequently in bookcases, as if one is ashamed to be seen with them, but frequently in bedrooms, on aeroplanes, trains and beaches. Such books are usually given away with undue haste and later found in jumble sales and charity stores. They are often well-thumbed, with broken spines and more than a few coffee stains. Their authors usually live in yachts floating somewhere off the coast of the Caribbean, or chalets in Switzerland.
Next up, the Pamper Opening Chapter.
Unlike the Trap Chapter, the Pamper Opening Chapter is there to beguile the reader with its sheer beauty: the beauty of the prose, the beauty of the characters; the lyrical, almost poetic dialogue, although the novel might not actually be about beautiful things but about war and nastiness, because war and nastiness can be beautiful too, you know, if you look at them in a certain way. Pamper chapters are usually well written, maybe over-written, and the description of a sunset over a lake can take up as much as two pages, bombarding the reader with such sights and smells that they can actually imagine themselves being there. The power of nostalgia and wanting is important here.
Such books are often found on coffee tables just after their glowing release, and then quickly bundled away when their star has faded, or, in the bookshop’s recommended section if they have endured. Their authors live in North London.
And then, finally, there's the Gatekeeper Opening Chapter.
The Gatekeeper opening chapter is the opposite of the Trap. It's like a test the reader has to endure, an obstacle course of words that needs to be cleared before the rest of the book opens up. In essence, the gatekeeper opening chapter says: if you can get through this, then you're ready to proceed. Often the opening sentence will be about something really clever that will make the reader's mind boggle and think "wow, this writer is one damn clever cat, I better read more, it might rub off on me", but for the life of him he won't be able to actually fathom what the chapter was about, and take that to be a sign of his own stupidity, because it had to mean something really deep, man. In fact the whole chapter will make little or no sense, but give a veneer of logic and intelligence that the reader of these novels will be irresistibly drawn to. Quite possibly the narration will be occurring in the head of a person in a mental asylum, or a wounded soldier on a battle field, ruminating on the craziness and futility of life, or even from the perspective of an inanimate object, like a pencil sharpener. Things will pop in and out of reality and the dead will talk riddles and dogs will talk philosophy. Dialogue will be obtuse and sentences will be constructed in such a way that nobody will ever be able to tell if they're actually well written or not. By the end of reading the first chapter – or indeed the opening paragraph – one will probably have a throbbing headache; but that will be perceived to be a good thing in that the brain has just received a judicious stretching.
Such books are always found on coffee table, often with a bookmark placed about quarter of the way in, but the pages are pristine, as if no human thumb has ever thumbed them. They have usually won many major literary prizes and their authors live a perilous existence in Parisian garrets, chain-smoking Gauloises and drinking espressos outside Shakespeare & Company on the Rue de la Bûcherie while they fix the hole in their shoe with a stale croissant.
Of course this is all very tongue-in-cheek nonsense, or is there some truth to it? Hmmm. You decide.
But here's the thing: there are three types of opening chapter.
The first type is what I shall call the Trap Chapter.
The Trap chapter is there to capture the reader's attention, preferably in the first sentence. Usually the Trap chapter will start in the middle of the action, or present the reader with a mystery that won't be resolved until much later in the novel; maybe not until the very end of the novel. Descriptions and dialogue are often terse and to the point, sometimes verging on the daft, or overly-dramatic. Lots of exclamation points! Thrillers, mystery, horror and adventure novels often use a Trap Chapter in the hope of hooking the reader into the narrative. "What happens next?" screams the reader in frustration. “Give it to me now!” Ha ha, you've gotta wait, chummy! The problem is that sometimes the Trap has been tacked on simply for that purpose: to get that credit card out of your wallet, and it's not until you reach the end of the book that you realise that the Trap was either addressing a relatively minor aspect of the book, or it simply had nothing to do with the story at all, or failed to resolve the mystery in a satisfying way. You've been duped, buddy!
Books with Trap opening chapters are NEVER found on coffee tables, and infrequently in bookcases, as if one is ashamed to be seen with them, but frequently in bedrooms, on aeroplanes, trains and beaches. Such books are usually given away with undue haste and later found in jumble sales and charity stores. They are often well-thumbed, with broken spines and more than a few coffee stains. Their authors usually live in yachts floating somewhere off the coast of the Caribbean, or chalets in Switzerland.
Next up, the Pamper Opening Chapter.
Unlike the Trap Chapter, the Pamper Opening Chapter is there to beguile the reader with its sheer beauty: the beauty of the prose, the beauty of the characters; the lyrical, almost poetic dialogue, although the novel might not actually be about beautiful things but about war and nastiness, because war and nastiness can be beautiful too, you know, if you look at them in a certain way. Pamper chapters are usually well written, maybe over-written, and the description of a sunset over a lake can take up as much as two pages, bombarding the reader with such sights and smells that they can actually imagine themselves being there. The power of nostalgia and wanting is important here.
Such books are often found on coffee tables just after their glowing release, and then quickly bundled away when their star has faded, or, in the bookshop’s recommended section if they have endured. Their authors live in North London.
And then, finally, there's the Gatekeeper Opening Chapter.
The Gatekeeper opening chapter is the opposite of the Trap. It's like a test the reader has to endure, an obstacle course of words that needs to be cleared before the rest of the book opens up. In essence, the gatekeeper opening chapter says: if you can get through this, then you're ready to proceed. Often the opening sentence will be about something really clever that will make the reader's mind boggle and think "wow, this writer is one damn clever cat, I better read more, it might rub off on me", but for the life of him he won't be able to actually fathom what the chapter was about, and take that to be a sign of his own stupidity, because it had to mean something really deep, man. In fact the whole chapter will make little or no sense, but give a veneer of logic and intelligence that the reader of these novels will be irresistibly drawn to. Quite possibly the narration will be occurring in the head of a person in a mental asylum, or a wounded soldier on a battle field, ruminating on the craziness and futility of life, or even from the perspective of an inanimate object, like a pencil sharpener. Things will pop in and out of reality and the dead will talk riddles and dogs will talk philosophy. Dialogue will be obtuse and sentences will be constructed in such a way that nobody will ever be able to tell if they're actually well written or not. By the end of reading the first chapter – or indeed the opening paragraph – one will probably have a throbbing headache; but that will be perceived to be a good thing in that the brain has just received a judicious stretching.
Such books are always found on coffee table, often with a bookmark placed about quarter of the way in, but the pages are pristine, as if no human thumb has ever thumbed them. They have usually won many major literary prizes and their authors live a perilous existence in Parisian garrets, chain-smoking Gauloises and drinking espressos outside Shakespeare & Company on the Rue de la Bûcherie while they fix the hole in their shoe with a stale croissant.
Of course this is all very tongue-in-cheek nonsense, or is there some truth to it? Hmmm. You decide.
July 3, 2015
On Dragons.
Its official, dragons are getting bigger. Look at medieval woodcuts of the fabled beastie and you'll notice they were about the size of a spaniel, but now they've grown to the size of a house, or even a jumbo jet, and with every passing year they get bigger. At this rate they'll be the size of the moon by the time Apple have invented the iFingernail, and there's no sign of them stopping there.
Dragons are also (and we're talking here about the European dragon rather than the Asian one) scaly and often come, Dungeons & Dragons style, colour coded. Red ones breathe fire, blue ones electricity, green ones poison or just a lot of snot. There's silver ones (really important) and gold ones (even more important) and platinum ones (a dragon king), but the poor bronze ones get the cold shoulder and the less said about the tin one the better. They have long tails and snouts, long leathery wings and sly yellow reptile eyes that can see in the dark.
Dragons are really really brainy, but they're also really really greedy, which means they can easily be tricked, just so long as you're good at playing tricks and doing riddles and such. If you're bad at tricks and lousy at riddles...well, let's just say if you can't do the Times' cryptic crossword in under fifteen minutes then you're as good as lunch. Brainy dragons can often speak numerous human tongues and Mensa-level dragons are usually telepathic, which makes it easier for them to speak because dragons find forming human words difficult and often sound like they're speaking while chewing on a mouthful of bowling balls.
Dragons (at least post-cocker-spaniel age dragons) eat herds of cows or sheep, and sometimes even chickens or flocks of ducks straight out of the sky, but what they really like is a nice juicy maiden. Oh, they go crazy for that finger-licking maiden taste; but every meal has its expiry date, and when the maiden is no longer a maiden the dragon quickly loses interest in eating her, which is good news for the ex-maiden. The trouble is finding a maiden in the first place, so the wise dragon will usually resort to harassing the nearest town or village until they do the job for him and give up one of their own. Said poor damsel is then usually tied to a stake or rock outside of the town, where the dragon then usually takes the time to "air-out" the damsel somewhat (all the blubbing and crying makes them quite bitter), by which time a gallant knight has ridden past, killed the dragon and rescued the damsel from both her bonds and her maidenhood.
Some have theorised that dragons aren't actually after the damsel at all, but after the knight, using the hapless maiden as nothing more than bait to lure the knight to him, desiring the tasty novelty of tinned meat. After all tinned meat keeps for a long time. Some have also postulated that maybe the dragons aren't male at all, but mostly female, which means they are more attracted to male virgins than female. This cannot be proven as nobody has yet managed to look under a dragon's tail and live to tell the tale.
Not all dragons are evil, some have given up eating maidens (or tinned meat) and gone veggie. A few of the really dumb ones allow stupid humans to ride on their backs they like they were some sort of winged taxi, but in truth any dragon with a shred of pride wouldn't allow a semi-evolved ape to ride on their back, let alone tell them where to go, even if they paid them all the compliments in the world, and gave them all the treasure too.
But where do dragons come from? From whence did they spring? Did ancient man come across the bones of dinosaurs and summoned up dragons by wondering what sort of beasts they belonged to, or did some mariner tell tall stories about the strange beasts he saw in far off lands? Of course in olden days dragons were often called wyrms, so maybe they're the projection of the reptilian parts of the human brain, or could it be that a grass snake gave someone a fright, and as every fisherman knows, no story would be complete without at least a little exaggeration.
Or are dragons something completely different? Maybe they were never real to begin with, but are simply metaphors for all that is powerful and uncaring in the world: huge, incredible strong, inhuman, reptilian, consuming all and breathing fire that destroys everything it touches. They lay the ground waste, reduce whole towns to ash, eat the young and the innocent without remorse and enslave all that they can bend to their considerable will. Does these not sound like the attributes of certain persons who desire power, and will do anything (and sacrifice anyone) to gain it and then keep it? We shouldn't be surprised that dragons are often associated with kings and rulers and the very powerful, even to vampires, who are themselves metaphors for the rich and powerful. As the anxieties and pressures of the modern age grow, so does the popularity -- and size -- of dragons. They're almost neck-for-neck. In all good stories the hero slays the dragon, or tames him and flies off into the sunset on his back, and maybe this is the wishful thinking of the common folk: that every dragon can be tamed, or if not tamed, slain. But as we all know, dragons can slumber for thousands of years, and they will always awaken when we least expect it. And they are always hungry.
Dragons are also (and we're talking here about the European dragon rather than the Asian one) scaly and often come, Dungeons & Dragons style, colour coded. Red ones breathe fire, blue ones electricity, green ones poison or just a lot of snot. There's silver ones (really important) and gold ones (even more important) and platinum ones (a dragon king), but the poor bronze ones get the cold shoulder and the less said about the tin one the better. They have long tails and snouts, long leathery wings and sly yellow reptile eyes that can see in the dark.
Dragons are really really brainy, but they're also really really greedy, which means they can easily be tricked, just so long as you're good at playing tricks and doing riddles and such. If you're bad at tricks and lousy at riddles...well, let's just say if you can't do the Times' cryptic crossword in under fifteen minutes then you're as good as lunch. Brainy dragons can often speak numerous human tongues and Mensa-level dragons are usually telepathic, which makes it easier for them to speak because dragons find forming human words difficult and often sound like they're speaking while chewing on a mouthful of bowling balls.
Dragons (at least post-cocker-spaniel age dragons) eat herds of cows or sheep, and sometimes even chickens or flocks of ducks straight out of the sky, but what they really like is a nice juicy maiden. Oh, they go crazy for that finger-licking maiden taste; but every meal has its expiry date, and when the maiden is no longer a maiden the dragon quickly loses interest in eating her, which is good news for the ex-maiden. The trouble is finding a maiden in the first place, so the wise dragon will usually resort to harassing the nearest town or village until they do the job for him and give up one of their own. Said poor damsel is then usually tied to a stake or rock outside of the town, where the dragon then usually takes the time to "air-out" the damsel somewhat (all the blubbing and crying makes them quite bitter), by which time a gallant knight has ridden past, killed the dragon and rescued the damsel from both her bonds and her maidenhood.
Some have theorised that dragons aren't actually after the damsel at all, but after the knight, using the hapless maiden as nothing more than bait to lure the knight to him, desiring the tasty novelty of tinned meat. After all tinned meat keeps for a long time. Some have also postulated that maybe the dragons aren't male at all, but mostly female, which means they are more attracted to male virgins than female. This cannot be proven as nobody has yet managed to look under a dragon's tail and live to tell the tale.
Not all dragons are evil, some have given up eating maidens (or tinned meat) and gone veggie. A few of the really dumb ones allow stupid humans to ride on their backs they like they were some sort of winged taxi, but in truth any dragon with a shred of pride wouldn't allow a semi-evolved ape to ride on their back, let alone tell them where to go, even if they paid them all the compliments in the world, and gave them all the treasure too.
But where do dragons come from? From whence did they spring? Did ancient man come across the bones of dinosaurs and summoned up dragons by wondering what sort of beasts they belonged to, or did some mariner tell tall stories about the strange beasts he saw in far off lands? Of course in olden days dragons were often called wyrms, so maybe they're the projection of the reptilian parts of the human brain, or could it be that a grass snake gave someone a fright, and as every fisherman knows, no story would be complete without at least a little exaggeration.
Or are dragons something completely different? Maybe they were never real to begin with, but are simply metaphors for all that is powerful and uncaring in the world: huge, incredible strong, inhuman, reptilian, consuming all and breathing fire that destroys everything it touches. They lay the ground waste, reduce whole towns to ash, eat the young and the innocent without remorse and enslave all that they can bend to their considerable will. Does these not sound like the attributes of certain persons who desire power, and will do anything (and sacrifice anyone) to gain it and then keep it? We shouldn't be surprised that dragons are often associated with kings and rulers and the very powerful, even to vampires, who are themselves metaphors for the rich and powerful. As the anxieties and pressures of the modern age grow, so does the popularity -- and size -- of dragons. They're almost neck-for-neck. In all good stories the hero slays the dragon, or tames him and flies off into the sunset on his back, and maybe this is the wishful thinking of the common folk: that every dragon can be tamed, or if not tamed, slain. But as we all know, dragons can slumber for thousands of years, and they will always awaken when we least expect it. And they are always hungry.
June 5, 2015
Warrior Class Promo
Hi,
My epic fantasy novel Warrior Class is FREE to download for Kindle from 06/04 - 06/07.
Go here to download it: viewBook.at/B00725DA76
Enjoy!
My epic fantasy novel Warrior Class is FREE to download for Kindle from 06/04 - 06/07.
Go here to download it: viewBook.at/B00725DA76
Enjoy!
April 6, 2015
Some Thoughts om Star Wars, Star Trek and Thunderbirds
Star Wars.
A recent perusal of the shelves of a Forbidden Planet in London made me come to the conclusion that if Disney isn't careful, they're going to kill the Star Wars franchise deader anything George Lucas could have done (and he had a pretty good go at it), simply by over-exposure. How many more comic books is Marvel going to launch? Is there going to be a Han Solo #1? C3PO #1? How about Salacious Crumb#1, or even The Adventures of Jar Jar Binks #1? And then there's the novels, the computer games, merchandising and whatnot, not to mention the actual films, of course, of which they are planning to squeeze one out every year. Yes, I'm as interested to see what Part VII is going to be like as much as everyone else (I wouldn't say excited yet), but all fans have a breaking point, and if they feel they're being treated like idiots they'll turn their backs on Star Wars and go elsewhere. Maybe I'm wrong and it will turn out that the fans have an insatiable demand for all things Star Wars, but all it takes is a few stinkers and the whole Star Destroyer will go down.
I hope this doesn't happen because I love myself a bit of Star Wars, with some notable exceptions (I'm looking at you Return of the Jedi), and I hope I get to see a few more good Star Wars movies before my midichlorion count reaches zero.
Another worry for me regarding the new Star Wars film is that this time George Lucas is competently missing from the process. Whatever people say about the Prequel Trilogy, without George there would have been no Star Wars, and for me the world is his. For all its many flaws the Prequel Trilogy actually contains a very powerful message and does things that no other Hollywood studio would dare do, either then or now. Now that George Lucas has been put out to pasture, can Star Wars retain that story telling daring, its identity, or will it become just more homogenised Hollywood pap? We won't know the answer to that one until December.
Star Trek.
Unlike Star Wars, but like Thunderbirds, Star Trek has been with me since year dot. I thought the recent reboot movie was entertaining but nothing more than that, while 2013's "Into Darkness" was a rather dull affair. The main problem with these films is that Captain Kirk is portrayed like a cartoon version of himself (watch the TV series, he doesn't act like that at all) and the repositioning of Spock as the central character. The whole point of Kirk (and the main strength of the TV show) is that his personality has been split into two physical individuals, who stand to either side of him like those angels and devils you see in old cartoons, sitting on Daffy Duck's shoulder, offering him guidance. On one side you have "Bones" McCoy: human, caring, flawed, impulsive and rebellious. On the other you have Spock: cold, calculating, brilliant, loyal and as straight as an arrow -- also a bit of a sex maniac when the mood takes him. They are Captain Kirk's character externalised, allowing us to witness his thought process, the battle between his humanity and the expediency that command sometimes requires. Move Spock into the middle and suddenly the equation doesn't balance. Recently it has been revealed that Simon Pegg is involved in writing the new Star Trek movie, and I can only hope they return Kirk to his rightful place, as captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise.
Thunderbirds.
Like Marmite I think you have to have grown up with Thunderbirds to really appreciate it. I used to sit with my sister in the living room, eating our Sunday lunches while watching the adventures of the Tracy brothers, and it's as part of my childhood as Star Trek and Doctor Who. A few days ago (Saturday 4th March) the first episode of a new series was broadcast on TV. For me nothing can beat the old marionettes, they're part of the show's charm, and not even Team America (itself brilliant) has dented that -- but what was always more important was the amazing vehicles the brothers used. There was nothing like them at the time, either on TV or in the cinema, and I really think Gerry Anderson could have become the UK's version of Walt Disney. The vehicles were really the stars of the shows and the makers knew it. Anime owes a lot to him, as do I, although I would say Captain Scarlet was a bigger influence on me than Thunderbirds. Watch the first episode of Captain Scarlet on YouTube, and be amazed at how they managed to pack so much invention and incident into twenty minutes of TV.
My impression of the new TV series was mixed, but I have concede that while original show was aimed at a family audience (and the one thing you could always say about a Gerry Anderson production was that it never talked down to you), this one is aimed squarely at kids, which is a pity (for me, not the kids). I didn't like the character designs much, although they may grow on me, and some of the voice acting was weak -- there's also an annoying "Iron Man" style robot to provide the comedy moments. The story was rushed and I have no idea why the Hood (the show's main villain) was wheeled out so soon, to stand there and go "I'll get you, International Rescue! BWA-HA-HA!" Of course what really mattered was the action, and this is where the show came to life. I shall stick with the new Thunderbirds for the time being.
A recent perusal of the shelves of a Forbidden Planet in London made me come to the conclusion that if Disney isn't careful, they're going to kill the Star Wars franchise deader anything George Lucas could have done (and he had a pretty good go at it), simply by over-exposure. How many more comic books is Marvel going to launch? Is there going to be a Han Solo #1? C3PO #1? How about Salacious Crumb#1, or even The Adventures of Jar Jar Binks #1? And then there's the novels, the computer games, merchandising and whatnot, not to mention the actual films, of course, of which they are planning to squeeze one out every year. Yes, I'm as interested to see what Part VII is going to be like as much as everyone else (I wouldn't say excited yet), but all fans have a breaking point, and if they feel they're being treated like idiots they'll turn their backs on Star Wars and go elsewhere. Maybe I'm wrong and it will turn out that the fans have an insatiable demand for all things Star Wars, but all it takes is a few stinkers and the whole Star Destroyer will go down.
I hope this doesn't happen because I love myself a bit of Star Wars, with some notable exceptions (I'm looking at you Return of the Jedi), and I hope I get to see a few more good Star Wars movies before my midichlorion count reaches zero.
Another worry for me regarding the new Star Wars film is that this time George Lucas is competently missing from the process. Whatever people say about the Prequel Trilogy, without George there would have been no Star Wars, and for me the world is his. For all its many flaws the Prequel Trilogy actually contains a very powerful message and does things that no other Hollywood studio would dare do, either then or now. Now that George Lucas has been put out to pasture, can Star Wars retain that story telling daring, its identity, or will it become just more homogenised Hollywood pap? We won't know the answer to that one until December.
Star Trek.
Unlike Star Wars, but like Thunderbirds, Star Trek has been with me since year dot. I thought the recent reboot movie was entertaining but nothing more than that, while 2013's "Into Darkness" was a rather dull affair. The main problem with these films is that Captain Kirk is portrayed like a cartoon version of himself (watch the TV series, he doesn't act like that at all) and the repositioning of Spock as the central character. The whole point of Kirk (and the main strength of the TV show) is that his personality has been split into two physical individuals, who stand to either side of him like those angels and devils you see in old cartoons, sitting on Daffy Duck's shoulder, offering him guidance. On one side you have "Bones" McCoy: human, caring, flawed, impulsive and rebellious. On the other you have Spock: cold, calculating, brilliant, loyal and as straight as an arrow -- also a bit of a sex maniac when the mood takes him. They are Captain Kirk's character externalised, allowing us to witness his thought process, the battle between his humanity and the expediency that command sometimes requires. Move Spock into the middle and suddenly the equation doesn't balance. Recently it has been revealed that Simon Pegg is involved in writing the new Star Trek movie, and I can only hope they return Kirk to his rightful place, as captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise.
Thunderbirds.
Like Marmite I think you have to have grown up with Thunderbirds to really appreciate it. I used to sit with my sister in the living room, eating our Sunday lunches while watching the adventures of the Tracy brothers, and it's as part of my childhood as Star Trek and Doctor Who. A few days ago (Saturday 4th March) the first episode of a new series was broadcast on TV. For me nothing can beat the old marionettes, they're part of the show's charm, and not even Team America (itself brilliant) has dented that -- but what was always more important was the amazing vehicles the brothers used. There was nothing like them at the time, either on TV or in the cinema, and I really think Gerry Anderson could have become the UK's version of Walt Disney. The vehicles were really the stars of the shows and the makers knew it. Anime owes a lot to him, as do I, although I would say Captain Scarlet was a bigger influence on me than Thunderbirds. Watch the first episode of Captain Scarlet on YouTube, and be amazed at how they managed to pack so much invention and incident into twenty minutes of TV.
My impression of the new TV series was mixed, but I have concede that while original show was aimed at a family audience (and the one thing you could always say about a Gerry Anderson production was that it never talked down to you), this one is aimed squarely at kids, which is a pity (for me, not the kids). I didn't like the character designs much, although they may grow on me, and some of the voice acting was weak -- there's also an annoying "Iron Man" style robot to provide the comedy moments. The story was rushed and I have no idea why the Hood (the show's main villain) was wheeled out so soon, to stand there and go "I'll get you, International Rescue! BWA-HA-HA!" Of course what really mattered was the action, and this is where the show came to life. I shall stick with the new Thunderbirds for the time being.
November 20, 2014
Story vs Reality
While watching Christopher Nolan's new film "Interstellar" (which I loved) I began to ponder that age-old conflict between story and reality. The thing is, you see, is that Interstellar has been attacked for fluffing science, and therefore, reality; but if you look at all of Christopher Nolan's films, even though they have the veneer of being "real", they're all actually about as real as The Lord of the Rings.
You see, story and reality are the very worst of enemies, but both are essential to our enjoyment of a book or film. Reality lays the groundwork; it makes us feel comfortable with the stage upon which story is set, but then story comes along and butts heads with it, and in a competition between story and reality, story always wins (although the astute reader or audience might call it "cheating" instead). Yes, writers and filmmakers are cheats. We're forced to be, although (most of us) strive to keep our stories as real as possible.
Here are just a few of the more obvious instances where story and reality are strongly at odds.
Doors.
Especially locked doors. As a writer I hate locked doors. At one point in almost every thriller/action/horror story someone is going to have to break into an office/house/enemy lair/crypt, and that means a locked door stands between them and what they want, and the chances are your hero doesn't have the key. This means the writer has to go through the tedium of having to leave a window open or allow the character to shoot the lock off (apparently more difficult in real life than it appears on the screen), or pick it with pickled herring. Of course they could always break the door down, but again, it's a task that would defeat most normal people, and it would make a lot of noise, and the same goes for smashing a window. If only sonic screwdrivers were as common as mobile phones then everybody could access to every door with no problem at all. In reality most people would come up against a locked door, try the handle, give it a push or two, and then give up and go home.
Information.
How does he know that? How did she work that out? How can anyone ever know what another person is thinking? The getting of information in books and films is usually crude and simple, and often requires a big cheat. The hero turns to the right page in the book to find exactly the piece of information he requires -- The heroine manages to guess the villain's password to the doomsday software every rotter has installed on him Apple Macs in three tries (it was the maiden name of his dear old mum), or finds it scribbled down on the edge of the blotter -- The villain gives himself away by using his catchphrase at the end of the story that he used at the start when he was wearing a mask and had the hero at his mercy. In reality nobody knows anything and research is a laborious and time consuming activity, but in fiction it's as easy as dropping your hat.
Time.
The greatest enemy to any story is that of...time. If the writer is writing historical fiction it usually happens that the two events you want to connect your story together actually happened hundreds of years apart, so a little bit of compression is required. In space stories travelling faster than light is needed (and ansible for communications) so that the story can be fitted into the lifespan of a gerbil, not the hundreds and thousands of years it would take in reality. If there was no light speed in Star Wars, there would have had to have at least three different sets of characters to finish the story, each one the successor of the other, and by the time they got to Yavin the Empire would have crumbled to dust and Darth Vader would have become a brain floating in a tank of goop, or something or other.
On a slightly smaller scale time poses a tricky problem for that good old story trope: being saved in the nick of time. In reality nick-of-time rescues rarely happen, although they are not impossible. Usually the cavalry turns up a good week after the massacre; not just at the moment when it seems that everything is going bad for our heroes and all hope is lost. Another good example of this is the hero who realises that he's left his best friend to guard his girlfriend when it was his best friend who was the serial killer all along. The problem is the hero is in John o'Groats while his girlfriend and best friend are in Lands End. Of course he has no mobile phone signal (and its out of charge anyway, and got eaten by a marauding goat) so he has to dash from John o'Groats to Lands End in his clapped-out mini in the half hour that the serial killer realises that his identity has been revealed and has to break down the bathroom door to get to the terrified girlfriend (there it is again: doors) and somehow manages to do it by the time the serial killer has successfully picked the lock with a pickled mackerel. Time = bother.
Technology.
In stories technology always works perfectly, while in reality it never ever works when you really need it to work. The only exception is vehicle engines, which never work when you want them to but will always burst into life at the last second.
So there you have it, the old battle between story and reality. It would be lovely if all writers could abide %100 by the laws reality, but then what long, laborious and frankly dull stories they would be. The whole point of all good stories is that they bend reality in acceptable ways, and we, the educated audience, know that the rules of reality have been broken, but we go along with it anyway, because a story is a story, and there's nothing better than a good yarn told economically and with all the boring reality bits taken out.
You see, story and reality are the very worst of enemies, but both are essential to our enjoyment of a book or film. Reality lays the groundwork; it makes us feel comfortable with the stage upon which story is set, but then story comes along and butts heads with it, and in a competition between story and reality, story always wins (although the astute reader or audience might call it "cheating" instead). Yes, writers and filmmakers are cheats. We're forced to be, although (most of us) strive to keep our stories as real as possible.
Here are just a few of the more obvious instances where story and reality are strongly at odds.
Doors.
Especially locked doors. As a writer I hate locked doors. At one point in almost every thriller/action/horror story someone is going to have to break into an office/house/enemy lair/crypt, and that means a locked door stands between them and what they want, and the chances are your hero doesn't have the key. This means the writer has to go through the tedium of having to leave a window open or allow the character to shoot the lock off (apparently more difficult in real life than it appears on the screen), or pick it with pickled herring. Of course they could always break the door down, but again, it's a task that would defeat most normal people, and it would make a lot of noise, and the same goes for smashing a window. If only sonic screwdrivers were as common as mobile phones then everybody could access to every door with no problem at all. In reality most people would come up against a locked door, try the handle, give it a push or two, and then give up and go home.
Information.
How does he know that? How did she work that out? How can anyone ever know what another person is thinking? The getting of information in books and films is usually crude and simple, and often requires a big cheat. The hero turns to the right page in the book to find exactly the piece of information he requires -- The heroine manages to guess the villain's password to the doomsday software every rotter has installed on him Apple Macs in three tries (it was the maiden name of his dear old mum), or finds it scribbled down on the edge of the blotter -- The villain gives himself away by using his catchphrase at the end of the story that he used at the start when he was wearing a mask and had the hero at his mercy. In reality nobody knows anything and research is a laborious and time consuming activity, but in fiction it's as easy as dropping your hat.
Time.
The greatest enemy to any story is that of...time. If the writer is writing historical fiction it usually happens that the two events you want to connect your story together actually happened hundreds of years apart, so a little bit of compression is required. In space stories travelling faster than light is needed (and ansible for communications) so that the story can be fitted into the lifespan of a gerbil, not the hundreds and thousands of years it would take in reality. If there was no light speed in Star Wars, there would have had to have at least three different sets of characters to finish the story, each one the successor of the other, and by the time they got to Yavin the Empire would have crumbled to dust and Darth Vader would have become a brain floating in a tank of goop, or something or other.
On a slightly smaller scale time poses a tricky problem for that good old story trope: being saved in the nick of time. In reality nick-of-time rescues rarely happen, although they are not impossible. Usually the cavalry turns up a good week after the massacre; not just at the moment when it seems that everything is going bad for our heroes and all hope is lost. Another good example of this is the hero who realises that he's left his best friend to guard his girlfriend when it was his best friend who was the serial killer all along. The problem is the hero is in John o'Groats while his girlfriend and best friend are in Lands End. Of course he has no mobile phone signal (and its out of charge anyway, and got eaten by a marauding goat) so he has to dash from John o'Groats to Lands End in his clapped-out mini in the half hour that the serial killer realises that his identity has been revealed and has to break down the bathroom door to get to the terrified girlfriend (there it is again: doors) and somehow manages to do it by the time the serial killer has successfully picked the lock with a pickled mackerel. Time = bother.
Technology.
In stories technology always works perfectly, while in reality it never ever works when you really need it to work. The only exception is vehicle engines, which never work when you want them to but will always burst into life at the last second.
So there you have it, the old battle between story and reality. It would be lovely if all writers could abide %100 by the laws reality, but then what long, laborious and frankly dull stories they would be. The whole point of all good stories is that they bend reality in acceptable ways, and we, the educated audience, know that the rules of reality have been broken, but we go along with it anyway, because a story is a story, and there's nothing better than a good yarn told economically and with all the boring reality bits taken out.
September 22, 2014
Red Written PROMO Giveaway
My novel Red Written will be FREE to download for Kindle from Tuesday 9/23 to Thursday 9/25 to celebrate its new cover.
Red Written is a dystopian/horror novel in which every sin is revealed, literally. It is suggested for mature readers.
If you would like to download it please go to my Amazon page.
viewBook.at/B00DLIGRV4
Thank you.
Red Written is a dystopian/horror novel in which every sin is revealed, literally. It is suggested for mature readers.
If you would like to download it please go to my Amazon page.
viewBook.at/B00DLIGRV4
Thank you.
August 3, 2014
How to Create a Hero.
First of all, apologies for having been quiet for so long. I hadn't realised my last entry was dated last Christmas. How time flies when you're working hard writing a new thriller novel while re-editing a current manuscript. Maybe I should grow an extra head and two more hands; although then there's a good chance I'd just use them to browse that great depository of lost time called the web, while playing a computer game, or even reading a book, or snacking, or napping, or...
Anyway, back to the blog.
Creating heroes...
Hmm, yes, quite how does one go about creating a hero? I've been giving this some thought over the last few months and have come to the conclusion that it's more difficult than it looks. Here are some of my observations:
The Name.
Every hero should have a name that is one part bland and one part silly. Examples of this are Indiana Jones, Modesty Blaze and Inspector Endeavour Morse. (Endeavour? No wonder he didn't tell anyone. What sort of nickname cane you give to someone named Endeavour? Endy? Not very good for a detective. And of course every time he asked Lewis to get him a pint of beer, the answer would come back "Of course, but you could always 'Endeavour' to get your own, ha ha!") If that's not going to do the job then you can always give him/her a mysterious, and equally daft, middle name, like James Tiberius Kirk. There's always got to be a silly name in there somewhere. Of course the one big exemption to this is James Bond, whose name was chosen specifically because it was bland; but then a hero's name should actually stop being a name at all after a time and should become, eventually, a byword.
The Appearance.
Tall is always the order of the day, although not a giant. Tubby does not become a hero, nor too thin, but trim and muscular. Unusually heroes should not be too pretty and can sometimes even be a little ugly, repulsive even, although in a way that makes females go weak at the knees at their gruff masculinity. They do not shave often (don't have the time) and hair is usually artfully dishevelled but never messy. A few cuts and bruises and the odd scar only adds to the allure. Heroines, on the other hand, should always be drop-dead gorgeous and carry a conveniently compact vanity case with them wherever they go, which includes a full working hairdryer, styling tongs and a dehydrated Hollywood make-up artist -- just add water. Heroines may only have attractively placed cuts and bruises, like 18th Century mouches.
Sweat.
Yes, a strange thing to consider, but very important. Heroes do not sweat like normal human beings, their sweat smells of the stuff that attracts the opposite sex, even after they've spent months trekking through the Amazon, sleeping in Mongolian yurts, wrestling with alligators and making friends with the local gorilla king. Nobody says to a hero: "You stink, go and take a bath," instead it's, "Get into my bed." Heroines always smell of rose water (or Channel No.5 if they're rich), even after they have been trekking through the Amazon, sleeping in Mongolian yurts....
Hero or Anti-Hero?
The main difference between a hero and an anti-hero is that the hero will do anything required of him without making a big fuss about it. Actually he's usually quite keen to get stuck in. On the other hand the anti-hero will rolls his eyes, sigh heavily and say "Do I really have to save her/him/them" before going ahead and doing it anyway. Also the anti-hero may initially seem more concerned about fame and fortune, riches and power, but bumping into a big-eyed waif in distress usually causes him to adjust his position. Usually the anti-hero has a great deal of trouble getting up in the morning while the hero is quite perky.
Family and friends.
Heroes should not have families. They rarely have a boyfriend/girlfriend who lasts longer than a single book/film (goodness knows what happens to them between books) and if there's the sound of wedding bells in the air, the poor sap who agreed to marry them will usually be dead by the end of the book. It is very unusual for a hero to have a friend as more often than not they wind up dead; the only exception to this is the friend who also acts as a chronicler. They are usually allowed to survive, but only on the proviso that there is no romance. If there's even the slightest hint of romance they immediately become "plot-bait", subject of being kidnapped, tortured, threatened and generally treated like garbage by the villain. The hero's long-suffering mater and pater (What good parents would want their son or daughter dallying with the gorilla king?) should always be left at home, lest the hero be forced to hobble at their pace and have to suffer their constant jibes that he/she should have become an accountant like Cousin Ralph.
Accoutrements and Quirks.
What things a hero carries around with him/her, their quirks and habits are what defines them, to an extent. James Bond carries a Beretta (at least initially) and enjoys his vodka martini "shaken not stirred", while Indiana Jones has his whip and fedora. Judge Dredd has his Lawmaster (and very big boots) and Lara Croft has a... er... back pack. Some may carry only a certain make of gun, or a knife, or a whip, or indeed have no weapon at all and use their fists, or better still, their minds (assuming they're intelligent, otherwise it'd be something of a waste of time). Quirks also add spice to the character: a fear of snakes, spiders, water, heights, fire, sausages... the list goes on.
Super Powers.
Some heroes have super powers. It's sad but it's true. This one will require a blog of its own, I think.
So there you have it, your (almost) finished hero. But if you ask me heroes are more defined by their adventures and how they react to dangerous situations and tough choices than by what their name is, what they look like, what they wear, how they smell, what they're scared of and what they use. Heroes are about what is in their souls.
Anyway, back to the blog.
Creating heroes...
Hmm, yes, quite how does one go about creating a hero? I've been giving this some thought over the last few months and have come to the conclusion that it's more difficult than it looks. Here are some of my observations:
The Name.
Every hero should have a name that is one part bland and one part silly. Examples of this are Indiana Jones, Modesty Blaze and Inspector Endeavour Morse. (Endeavour? No wonder he didn't tell anyone. What sort of nickname cane you give to someone named Endeavour? Endy? Not very good for a detective. And of course every time he asked Lewis to get him a pint of beer, the answer would come back "Of course, but you could always 'Endeavour' to get your own, ha ha!") If that's not going to do the job then you can always give him/her a mysterious, and equally daft, middle name, like James Tiberius Kirk. There's always got to be a silly name in there somewhere. Of course the one big exemption to this is James Bond, whose name was chosen specifically because it was bland; but then a hero's name should actually stop being a name at all after a time and should become, eventually, a byword.
The Appearance.
Tall is always the order of the day, although not a giant. Tubby does not become a hero, nor too thin, but trim and muscular. Unusually heroes should not be too pretty and can sometimes even be a little ugly, repulsive even, although in a way that makes females go weak at the knees at their gruff masculinity. They do not shave often (don't have the time) and hair is usually artfully dishevelled but never messy. A few cuts and bruises and the odd scar only adds to the allure. Heroines, on the other hand, should always be drop-dead gorgeous and carry a conveniently compact vanity case with them wherever they go, which includes a full working hairdryer, styling tongs and a dehydrated Hollywood make-up artist -- just add water. Heroines may only have attractively placed cuts and bruises, like 18th Century mouches.
Sweat.
Yes, a strange thing to consider, but very important. Heroes do not sweat like normal human beings, their sweat smells of the stuff that attracts the opposite sex, even after they've spent months trekking through the Amazon, sleeping in Mongolian yurts, wrestling with alligators and making friends with the local gorilla king. Nobody says to a hero: "You stink, go and take a bath," instead it's, "Get into my bed." Heroines always smell of rose water (or Channel No.5 if they're rich), even after they have been trekking through the Amazon, sleeping in Mongolian yurts....
Hero or Anti-Hero?
The main difference between a hero and an anti-hero is that the hero will do anything required of him without making a big fuss about it. Actually he's usually quite keen to get stuck in. On the other hand the anti-hero will rolls his eyes, sigh heavily and say "Do I really have to save her/him/them" before going ahead and doing it anyway. Also the anti-hero may initially seem more concerned about fame and fortune, riches and power, but bumping into a big-eyed waif in distress usually causes him to adjust his position. Usually the anti-hero has a great deal of trouble getting up in the morning while the hero is quite perky.
Family and friends.
Heroes should not have families. They rarely have a boyfriend/girlfriend who lasts longer than a single book/film (goodness knows what happens to them between books) and if there's the sound of wedding bells in the air, the poor sap who agreed to marry them will usually be dead by the end of the book. It is very unusual for a hero to have a friend as more often than not they wind up dead; the only exception to this is the friend who also acts as a chronicler. They are usually allowed to survive, but only on the proviso that there is no romance. If there's even the slightest hint of romance they immediately become "plot-bait", subject of being kidnapped, tortured, threatened and generally treated like garbage by the villain. The hero's long-suffering mater and pater (What good parents would want their son or daughter dallying with the gorilla king?) should always be left at home, lest the hero be forced to hobble at their pace and have to suffer their constant jibes that he/she should have become an accountant like Cousin Ralph.
Accoutrements and Quirks.
What things a hero carries around with him/her, their quirks and habits are what defines them, to an extent. James Bond carries a Beretta (at least initially) and enjoys his vodka martini "shaken not stirred", while Indiana Jones has his whip and fedora. Judge Dredd has his Lawmaster (and very big boots) and Lara Croft has a... er... back pack. Some may carry only a certain make of gun, or a knife, or a whip, or indeed have no weapon at all and use their fists, or better still, their minds (assuming they're intelligent, otherwise it'd be something of a waste of time). Quirks also add spice to the character: a fear of snakes, spiders, water, heights, fire, sausages... the list goes on.
Super Powers.
Some heroes have super powers. It's sad but it's true. This one will require a blog of its own, I think.
So there you have it, your (almost) finished hero. But if you ask me heroes are more defined by their adventures and how they react to dangerous situations and tough choices than by what their name is, what they look like, what they wear, how they smell, what they're scared of and what they use. Heroes are about what is in their souls.
September 16, 2013
Book PROMO FREE giveaway
Hi, I'm doing a book giveaway over the next few days. Please download any or all of them.
The following books are FREE from Tuesday 9/17 - Thursday 9/19
Warrior Class (Fantasy)
viewBook.at/B00725DA76
R-Day (Thriller)
viewBook.at/B009ZL4952
Ten Thousand Heroes (Childrens)
viewBook.at/B008RP5PUK
My new dark urban fantasy/dystopian novel Red Written is only free to download on Thursday 9/19 (sorry).
viewBook.at/B00DLIGRV4
You can check out my novels at my website: http://www.ptmayes.com/books.html
Hope you enjoy, and spread the word!
The following books are FREE from Tuesday 9/17 - Thursday 9/19
Warrior Class (Fantasy)
viewBook.at/B00725DA76
R-Day (Thriller)
viewBook.at/B009ZL4952
Ten Thousand Heroes (Childrens)
viewBook.at/B008RP5PUK
My new dark urban fantasy/dystopian novel Red Written is only free to download on Thursday 9/19 (sorry).
viewBook.at/B00DLIGRV4
You can check out my novels at my website: http://www.ptmayes.com/books.html
Hope you enjoy, and spread the word!
August 26, 2013
Fantasy and Familiarity.
The first thing every writer of fantasy has to consider before he or she puts pen to paper (or fingertips to keyboard) is how much fantasy there is going to be in the story.
Let me explain. Most fantasy novels take place in a world similar yet different to our own, but if it truly was a different world, then it would be very different to our own. And by that I mean very and different and everything. There would be no sparrows, no foxes or horses; clouds might be green in colour and shaped like pyramids, the sea purple, and the design of every town, castle, sword and... well, everything... would be vastly different to what we know, so much so that new words would have to be invented for everything. A new dictionary would have to be built for this strange new world.
And that’s only the things.
What about distances? Do people in this fantasy land think in terms of miles or kilometres, or would they base it on a completely different unit, like the length of a snark’s beak, or on how far it takes the call of a jubjub bird to travel in a minute? You could invent just about anything, but when you mention them in the story they would mean nothing to the reader, even if you explained it in detail. They would remain alien until the very end.
What about days of the week? There can be no Thursday without Thor, nor any July without Julius Caesar. Does the week even have seven days, or twelve months in the year? Maybe a year is fifty-six months long, but each day only seven hours. And what happens if the fantasy world has no moon (complete darkness at night) or twelve moons... or two suns... or ten? Again everything changes and becomes alien to the poor reader, although these are matters the inventive writer of fantasy can use to his advantage.
And then there are the inhabitants. No world is much good without having some people in it to fall in love or have disagreements. If the world is different to ours then surely the people are certainly going to be different. Low gravity: elves; high gravity: dwarves; too much sulphur: balrogs. Maybe they don’t have arms, they could have tentacles instead; and why bother with boring human legs at all when they can have the body of a horse, or at least a horse-shaped creature. Used sparingly these things can again be used to the creative writer’s advantage; but go too far and the reader won’t know what to think when he reads “and Syngul the gollub scratched his shug with a nibbling and sucked his dinner through his proboscis, thinking, now that’s a tasty pile of vaguely horse-shaped beast poo.” We need our characters to be mostly human, and to think in mostly human terms for us to relate to them, otherwise we won't care about them, and then the story's as good as lost.
The thing is that there must be familiarity of a sort in fantasy or it becomes science fiction (a genre which has to deal with these problems in its own way), so that the reader can orientate themselves and feel comfortable with the story, its strange setting and the fantastical beings that inhabit it. Thus most fantasy novel worlds are mirrors of our own worlds, viewed through a haze of a green hose, damsels in wimples, heroic knights and dragon fire. Days are approximately twenty-four hours long, a mile is a mile (a kilometre is too modern) and many of those things are named as we name them, as if by the magic of translation. Culture is mostly Western European, although not explicitly locked to a certain time, while stealing ideas shamelessly from many ages. This culture has been “filtered” via myth and legend and historical adventure novels to a sort of short-hand culture that everyone can feel comfortable with. Within those boundaries the fantasy author can pull the details a little here, stretch them a little there; experiment a little.
So, how much fantasy is in the fantasy novel you’re reading or writing? In a way it’s a subject that shouldn’t be looked at too closely because fantasy is a fragile thing. Prod it too hard and it falls apart. Science fiction builds its house on solid scientific fact (or at least it should) but fantasy builds its house on the quicksand of weirdness, and all it takes is one miss-step, one erroneous detail, and the fantasy sinks into the quicksand, weighed down by the sheer abnormality of the world. The writer of fantasy must tread lightly, deciding how far she can push the fantasy without turning it into something that it is not, and that is a tough balancing act to follow.
Let me explain. Most fantasy novels take place in a world similar yet different to our own, but if it truly was a different world, then it would be very different to our own. And by that I mean very and different and everything. There would be no sparrows, no foxes or horses; clouds might be green in colour and shaped like pyramids, the sea purple, and the design of every town, castle, sword and... well, everything... would be vastly different to what we know, so much so that new words would have to be invented for everything. A new dictionary would have to be built for this strange new world.
And that’s only the things.
What about distances? Do people in this fantasy land think in terms of miles or kilometres, or would they base it on a completely different unit, like the length of a snark’s beak, or on how far it takes the call of a jubjub bird to travel in a minute? You could invent just about anything, but when you mention them in the story they would mean nothing to the reader, even if you explained it in detail. They would remain alien until the very end.
What about days of the week? There can be no Thursday without Thor, nor any July without Julius Caesar. Does the week even have seven days, or twelve months in the year? Maybe a year is fifty-six months long, but each day only seven hours. And what happens if the fantasy world has no moon (complete darkness at night) or twelve moons... or two suns... or ten? Again everything changes and becomes alien to the poor reader, although these are matters the inventive writer of fantasy can use to his advantage.
And then there are the inhabitants. No world is much good without having some people in it to fall in love or have disagreements. If the world is different to ours then surely the people are certainly going to be different. Low gravity: elves; high gravity: dwarves; too much sulphur: balrogs. Maybe they don’t have arms, they could have tentacles instead; and why bother with boring human legs at all when they can have the body of a horse, or at least a horse-shaped creature. Used sparingly these things can again be used to the creative writer’s advantage; but go too far and the reader won’t know what to think when he reads “and Syngul the gollub scratched his shug with a nibbling and sucked his dinner through his proboscis, thinking, now that’s a tasty pile of vaguely horse-shaped beast poo.” We need our characters to be mostly human, and to think in mostly human terms for us to relate to them, otherwise we won't care about them, and then the story's as good as lost.
The thing is that there must be familiarity of a sort in fantasy or it becomes science fiction (a genre which has to deal with these problems in its own way), so that the reader can orientate themselves and feel comfortable with the story, its strange setting and the fantastical beings that inhabit it. Thus most fantasy novel worlds are mirrors of our own worlds, viewed through a haze of a green hose, damsels in wimples, heroic knights and dragon fire. Days are approximately twenty-four hours long, a mile is a mile (a kilometre is too modern) and many of those things are named as we name them, as if by the magic of translation. Culture is mostly Western European, although not explicitly locked to a certain time, while stealing ideas shamelessly from many ages. This culture has been “filtered” via myth and legend and historical adventure novels to a sort of short-hand culture that everyone can feel comfortable with. Within those boundaries the fantasy author can pull the details a little here, stretch them a little there; experiment a little.
So, how much fantasy is in the fantasy novel you’re reading or writing? In a way it’s a subject that shouldn’t be looked at too closely because fantasy is a fragile thing. Prod it too hard and it falls apart. Science fiction builds its house on solid scientific fact (or at least it should) but fantasy builds its house on the quicksand of weirdness, and all it takes is one miss-step, one erroneous detail, and the fantasy sinks into the quicksand, weighed down by the sheer abnormality of the world. The writer of fantasy must tread lightly, deciding how far she can push the fantasy without turning it into something that it is not, and that is a tough balancing act to follow.
