sam

So, Mike Krahulik, also known as Gabe from Penny Arcade, has just posted his New Year’s resolution.

I used to read Penny Arcade religiously.  I’ve got a few books of Gabe and Tycho’s, each one signed.  I’ve enjoyed many of their recommendations and have generally thought they were (ultimately) a positive influence for gamers.  But we’re not going to talk about that today.

Krahulik has also said some exceedingly fucked up stuff.  Stuff that goes beyond merely being insensitive and offensive and digs its heels in deep with the intent to harm whatever it is that he and Holkins have created.  But we’re not going to talk about that today, either.

Really, what I want to talk about is this particular passage from the above link here:

So what am I? As a young person I imagined myself a sort of vengeful spirit. A schoolyard Robin Hood who attacked the strong and popular on behalf of the social outcasts. I’m 36 years old now though and I realize what I am is a bully. I may have been the one who got beat up but I sent plenty of kids home in tears. I also realize that I carried those ridiculous insecurities into adulthood. I still see people who attack me as the enemy and I strike back with the same ferocity as that seventh grader I used to be. I’m ashamed of that and embarrassed. The crazy thing is I don’t even necessarily believe the stuff I say a lot of times. It would probably be more noble if I did. The truth is I just say them to be mean. I say them because I know they will hurt. It’s pretty fucked up.

I’ve mentioned before my own rough childhood.  I dealt with bullies, abuse, name-calling, teasing.  I highly doubt anyone who went on to be successful creatively had an easy childhood.  I suspect anyone who has a talent for creating worlds to escape in first had to have a reason to escape from their own.  And I can completely understand where Krahulik is coming from here.

Because really, the “vengeful spirit” thing is not exclusive to him.  I’ve mentioned before that constant bullying turned me into an asshole.  By the time I was old enough to realize words could hurt and I had a talent with them, I used both those facts to insidious ends.  I would quickly tear other kids down, diminishing their accomplishments, making them feel guilty for things they didn’t do, generally making them feel like garbage.

I know I’m not alone in this.  Some of the most venomous, vicious, virulent people I’ve met were bullied as kids.  Probably a lot of them thought that they were “vengeful spirits,” as well.  And maybe it began that way.  But the truth of the matter is–for me, and them, and I think for Krahulik–that this behavior is motivated by the same thing that motivates most human behavior: fear.

Someone who comes from a difficult position will do anything to avoid going back to that position.  Some of the most ardent fitness gurus out there were overweight children.  Some of the most steadfast atheists came from staunchly religious households.  They were in situations where they were being made miserable and will do damn near anything to avoid being made to feel like that again.

Myself, I was picked on, bullied, ostracized and generally made to feel like an outsider in my own life.  I constantly felt the looming specter of being bumped to the bottom of the social ladder.  I got into a fistfight with my best friend over New Year’s because of it, lashing out because–for an instant–I felt like I was back in school, back to being the guileless, chubby kid with no friends.

For even as we get older and more successful, the ghosts of those days don’t ever really die.  As we become more confident and self-assured, we never really feel like no one can hurt us, we just feel like we can make them pay a steeper and steeper price for doing so.  No one ever really moves past those fears.  They just bury the old ghosts, one at a time, and patiently wait for new ones to arrive.

This particular fear is cannibalizing, though.  You grow up being bullied by people in positions of power.  When you have a position of power yourself, you feel the need to hold onto it to keep yourself from being bullied again.  To apologize, to admit fault, to self-reflect is to show weakness, is to give up some of that power, is to invite the bullying all over again.  The bullied becomes, as Krahulik notes, the bully.

And there is no greater evidence of this cannibalizing influence than the fact that a vast number of people have met Krahulik’s apology by sitting down, drumming their fingers on their knees and gleefully awaiting the moment he fucks up and says something offensive again.

And that’s what we’re here to talk about.

Now, it could be that we all run in different social circles.  Maybe I frequent message boards that are meaner, twitter groups that are harsher.  But I’m pretty sure that, if you’re reading this blog, you’re probably a geek of some sort.  And I’m pretty sure that all the groups I hang out in and all the ones that you hang out in touch each other at some point.  And everywhere I go, I see Krahulik’s apology met with declarations that he’s insincere, that he doesn’t mean it, that he does mean it but he can’t help himself and we should just start counting down the days until he fucks up again.

And he’s going to fuck up again, it’s true.  Like I said, no one really moves past that fear.  They just learn to deal with it in better ways.  But even if he didn’t, how could he not fuck up with a not insignificant portion of the internet rooting for his failure?

Some of these people are just jerks.  But I think a lot of them are feeding into that cannibalizing fear.  I think a lot of people are looking for vindication, to say that Krahulik was always going to be a jerk and that they always were right, to assert power over him and their situations.

I can understand that.

Be mad at Krahulik.  I’m not going to tell you that you shouldn’t be.  He’s said some truly awful shit in his days.  And I’m not going to tell you that you need to buy this idea of cannibalizing fear or that the only way forward is to walk away, because I know what a frustratingly lame answer that is.

I’m just telling you how I think this whole fear thing works.

I’m not going to go into depth on what I think of Krahulik’s resolution.  Nor am I going to tell you what to think about it.  But personally, I think that if I dedicate time to wanting him to fail, then he eventually will, and all the good he and Penny Arcade have done will eventually just collapse under the weight of that fear.  So for now, I think I’m going to believe him and wish him well with this resolution.

Because I got into a fistfight with my best friend on New Year’s Eve because of that fear.  And I don’t wish it for Krahulik or the people who are mad at him.

Now, I know that the end of year is typically where you see a lot of blogs posting a “Best/Worst” lists, summarizing their reads, their events, their very lives in a few paragraphs or awards.  And I had thought about doing that, but I wound up writing only the Worst parts and doing so in immense rants that would have blotted out the sun.

Not because my year was terrible.  In fact, this was probably the most important year of my professional life.  This was the year I started actually treating writing as a profession, an art and a craft in equal measure.  This was the year I finally took initiative and started treating myself like the professional I wanted to be seen as.  This was the year I finally stopped pretending I was a man simply dipping my toes in the genre pool and dove headlong into a vast, geeky deep end.  This was the year I felt extremely happy to be doing what I was doing.

This was the year that The City Stained Red was accepted to be published next year.

And yet, I don’t really feel like reflecting on all that.  To me, that’s the sort of thing to be done when you’re at your journey’s end.  Mine is just beginning.

But at the same time, I don’t want to dwell on negativity that hasn’t really happened to me.  So, instead, I’d like to talk about another New Year’s tradition: drinking.

Before we go any further, I’d like you to consider three Truths that are irrefutable:

1. I am a man who is well-versed in the ways of alcohol and my opinion can be generally trusted.
2. I am not getting any younger and may reach the day where it is unacceptable for me to become so crustacean in my imbibing.
3. The general readership of fantasy is progressively getting younger, with much of the allure of geekdom having reached mainstream audiences and much of the thrill of readership being taken up young people who have parties and such.

It is to them that I leave this, my finest drinking game.  It is called…

THE WORST GAME IN THE WORLD

A Wizard’s Quest

You will need:

• People
• Alcohol
• A wizard’s hat (you don’t need this, but it helps)

This is how it works.

When your party begins, everyone chooses a drink: beer, wine, mixed drinks or non-alcoholic drinks.

You begin accumulating wizardly power by drinking.  Every third beer, second wine or mixed drink, or fifth non-alcoholic drink, you get to cast a spell from the list of spells written below.  Each spell takes the form of a drink that the person(s) you cast the spell upon must consume, with special rules to follow each drink.

Now, some friends do not enjoy or otherwise do not partake in the consumption of alcohol.  There are non-alcoholic solutions also included in the spell.

But it is also true that some friends are assholes whose primary enjoyment of a drinking game is to punish others.  There are non-alcoholic versions that are also straight punishments, in case you don’t want to let your more restrained friends off without a hitch.

Sam Sykes’ Liquid Spellbook

Fireball

Ingredients

1 oz. of Fireball Whiskey (or other cinnamon whiskey)

Use

Choose a person in the room to cast the spell upon.  Fireball explodes upon impact.  Everyone within arm’s reach of that person must take a shot of Fireball.

Non-Alcoholic Version

Tomato juice with a splash of Tabasco.

Asshole Version

Straight Tabasco.

Melf’s Acid Arrow

Ingredients

2 oz. White Rum, 2 oz. Midori, 2 oz. Sour Apple Schnapps, fill in a large glass with ginger ale.

Use

Melf’s Acid Arrow burns slowly over time, so the drink may be consumed at leisure.  At no point may the target put down the drink, or it will instantly deal damage, meaning they must finish the drink immediately.

Non-Alcoholic Version

2 oz. Grape Juice, 2 oz. Apple Juice, Splash of Lime Juice, fill in a large glass with ginger ale.

Asshole Version

They have to chug it immediately.

Magic Missile

Ingredients

1 oz. Champagne, 1 oz. Chambord, Splash of Lime Juice or Grenadine.

Use

Pour five shots of the above drink.  Magic Missile can be distributed as you see fit, giving all five to one target, one to five different targets, three to one target and two to another target and so forth.

Non-Alcoholic Version

1 oz. Cranberry Juice, 1 oz. Soda Water, Splash of Lime Juice.

Asshole Version

2 oz. Lime Juice, splash of Soda Water.

Prismatic Spray

Ingredients

2 oz. Vodka, 1 oz. Rum, 2 oz. Chambord, 2 oz. Midori, 2 oz. Pineapple Juice

Use

Prismatic Spray has an area of affect.  Choose four people in the party.  All four of them must contribute to finishing the drink.

Non-Alcoholic Version

2 oz. Grape Juice, 2 oz. Ginger Ale, 2 oz. Cranberry Juice, 2 oz. Pineapple Juice

Asshole Version

Double each portion.

Finger of Death

Ingredients (yes, this will taste horrible)

2 oz. Jaegermeister, 1/2 oz. Vodka, 1 oz. Mountain Dew.

Use

Choose a person to cast the Finger of Death upon.  That person must imbibe.  However, necromancy is a dark art, not to be taken lightly and never used without a price.  Whosoever casts Finger of Death must also take the drink.

Non-Alcoholic version (this will taste worse)

2 oz. of an Energy Drink, 1 oz. Lime Juice, 1 oz. Mountain Dew

Asshole Version

Finger of Death is not shared by the caster when cast with Asshole’s Law.

So, anyway…

This is the basic rule of Wizard’s Quest.  As you can see, it’s fairly well open for future spells.  I trust everyone to make it their own.

I dearly hope I’m remembered for my fiction.  I dearly hope I’m remembered for my characters, my wit, my observations on humanity’s relationship with the divine.

But if I can’t, I’ll be happy just making some dumb kids wearing wizard hats puke.

Happy New Year’s, everyone!  See you in 2014!

I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned before that I’m a pretty solid fan of Fantasy Faction.  Their articles, reviews and community are a part of fantasy fandom that I find quite endearing and their article on writing combat scenes is something I found rather charming.

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it before, but I’m also pretty fond of /r/fantasy.  However, they have expressed some disgruntlement at the contents of the above article, suggesting that they seem a bit like tips for a video game rather than for actual writing.

As we write and read in fantasy, a genre where the occasional axe-murder is expected rather than fretted over, this topic tends to come up a lot.  How does one write compelling combat?  Should it be short and full of action, or longer and prosaic?  How much research goes into it?  How much is present on the page?

And as a man who has been both lambasted and praised for his (many, many, many) combat scenes, I feel somewhat qualified to shed some light on my particular style of writing combat scenes.

Note the last part of that sentence there.  I find myself immensely irritated at the idea of writing a guide to write “good” combat scenes.  That manner of phrasing suggests, to me, that there is a clear right way and wrong way to write combat scenes.  And as I’ve read wildly different and equally compelling combat scenes from two totally different authors, such an idea would invalidate the joy I’ve had in reading them.

The truth is that no author can tell you how to write “good” combat.  An author can (and should) only ever tell you how they write combat.  To that end, the five items I am about to list are not “rules” that you must absolutely follow.  These are merely options I consider when writing a combat scene.  Please use them or ignore them at your discretion.

But enough talk, have at you.

Character Dictates Perspective, Perspective Dictates Priority

I know it’s considered blasphemy in some circles to say this, but I really don’t like R.A. Salvatore’s combat scenes.  They all feel dreadfully similar to me: lengthy paragraphs with heavy emphasis on technical maneuvering in which most characters seem to have the same priorities (usually parrying and feinting a lot).

This is a trap a lot of beginning authors fall into, being unable to separate what they find fascinating in combat to what their characters would find fascinating.  From the farmboy who picks up a sword and instantly knows how to use it to the young princess who can somehow swing a battle-axe like nobody’s business, a lot of authors seem to unconsciously suspend their character in order to portray a thrilling combat scene.

In fact, combat is there to further the character’s development.  As such, the perspective, tone and description of the combat scene will change wildly based on which character is in it.  A young farmboy picking up his father’s sword to defend his village from raiders will likely be viewing things in flashes: swords coming at him, bodies falling around him, desperately searching for a way out.  Whereas a princess trained in the virtues of courtly dueling will likely see things in terms of maneuvers: identifying thrusts, noticing weak points to capitalize upon, considering footing.

To use my own books as an example, the combat scenes involving Lenk, a short, wiry young man with a longsword and not much else, and Gariath, a dragonman weighing several hundred pounds and equipped with claws and fangs, are wildly different.  Lenk thinks in terms of survival, his thoughts go moment-to-moment as he leaps, ducks, darts, stabs.  Gariath, being a hulking juggernaut without much regard for his own life, thinks in terms of weaknesses, reaching out to find a neck to snap, an arm to rip off and so forth.

This consideration will show the audience the character’s priorities, motivation and ultimately further their character.  As a result, they’ll never come out of a scene unchanged.

Leave the Heavy Lifting to the Reader

One of the more forgivable sins of writing (and I say forgivable because I have been guilty of this numerous times) is the urge to go balls-out with your descriptions, showing every glistening droplet of blood, every part of flesh as the knife is twisted in a belly, every fading speck of light leaving a man’s eyes as he takes his last breath, a gentle trickle of saliva sliding down lips still parted in a prayer to a god that apparently heard him a little too late.

You see what happened there, I trust?

The overly-verbose sentences can sometimes be interesting, even poetic, but they subconsciously cheat the reader out of an experience of getting invested in the story.

Here’s a little-known fact: when you leave out key descriptive elements of a scene of high emotional intensity, the audience will subconsciously put them in.  Horror and romance have both learned this lesson well.  If you describe the descent into a spooky basement down creaking, rotting stairs toward a door that is quaking as something on the other side pounds at it, it doesn’t matter what’s behind it.  If you describe the hero gently removing his lady’s boot (sup Dragonlance) and setting it aside, hands running down a now-bare calf, it doesn’t matter what they do after.  Your audience will instinctively put what they think is scariest and what they think is sexiest in the blanked-out parts.

This is reader investment.  By contributing that part of themselves to the story, the audience is more interested in the outcome.  And the same principle works with violence.  Describing every action, every maneuver, every detail means the audience is not as invested.  They may be gripped, but they are not actually participating and thus will not retain the imagery for as long.

Research Isn’t Everything

I can already hear some of your keyboards furiously clacking out a response to this.  For some reason, people draw a strange connection between research and truth.  Saying you don’t use as much research in your combat scenes means a lot of people suddenly think you write scenes of bikini-clad warriors taking swords to the abdomen every sentence and still going.  Likewise, saying you research religiously means that a lot of people think you are the One True Bearer of Objective Truth and All That You Speak is Gold For the Holy Research Hath Been Committed Unto Memory, Now Go and Error No More, My Chylde.

There are a few uncomfortable truths we could go into about research here (no one researches as much as they say they do, research is continuously contradicted and corrected as it evolves and updates, a lot of people find it incredibly dull), but I want to tell you here and now that, whatever research you’ve done on the exact slope of a 19th century Spaniard Breastplate of King Francois El Diablo, the time to showcase it is not during a combat scene.

Certainly, consider how it’s done.  Consider how it would affect things.  But don’t pause the middle of your riveting, action-packed scene in which the hero finally confronts his nemesis to explain how the wayward thrust of his foe glided off the slightly-pointed chest of the breastplate, the slope allowing the angle to go wide and leave him open for a blow that was blocked owing to the nemesis’ vambrace, which was buckled instead of tied, owing to greater stability and overall practicality.

Fuck your practicality, nerd.  Show me blood.

Pardon.

This isn’t to say that you need to totally ignore the laws of physics or anything else, which is the doomsday scenario people start thinking of when you speak anything less than glowingly of research.  Common sense still applies.  People are going to find it extremely hard to believe if your lightly-armored hero stares down a heavily-armored juggernaut in toe-to-toe combat and emerges unscathed.  Use your head.

Brevity is the Soul of Structure

This is really more a matter of preference, as all structural arguments are.  It’s very easy to pinpoint several combat scenes that have gone against what I’m about to tell you and done it effectively, so consider this next point fairly carefully.

I prefer my combat scenes to visceral.  I like being a character’s head, seeing the blades coming at him and each desperate swing of his sword as he tries to survive.  I like hearing his heart pound in his ears as he leaps over dead bodies, the scent of burning pitch in his nostrils as catapults hurl.  I like the taste of copper in his mouth as a gauntleted fist smashes against his nose, heralded by a swift cracking sound.

I keep my sentences short and descriptive, with one or two pieces of imagery.  I keep the images vivid and I keep them brief.  This wasn’t always the case, mind you.  I used to go on at great length about the scent of blood and what not.  But I’ve learned a few things since then.

Combat scenes are sprints, not endurance races.  You want your audience to feel emotionally invested, waiting with bated breath to see if their hero will be okay.  To that end, your audience can easily get emotionally exhausted if you’re not careful how you pace things.

People occasionally give me grief over the fact that I like to use banter or inner monologue in a combat scene.  This actually serves a purpose in that it gives the audience a moment to take a breath and then face the next paragraph of onslaught.  But it can be no more than a moment (perhaps a sentence or two, at the most).

If Lenk pauses, guard upheld, and sees the feral grin on his opponent’s face and knows that, from what he’s heard of his foe, his only way out is death, that’s exciting.

If Lenk pauses, guard upheld, and reflects upon all he’s learned in life and how his every decision has led to this point where he faces a man, not a monster, and contemplates how it all came to this, how did he lose so much of himself that he was no longer able to discern between the two anymore, that’s boring.

Character Is Everything

Ultimately, your combat scenes will only be as strong as your characters.  Because, ultimately, we’re reading for that.

It’s good if your reader is smitten with your prose when you describe the flash of a sword’s blade.  It’s great if your reader thinks your pacing is structure are strong and punchy.  But it won’t mean dick if they don’t care about who’s holding the sword and who’s throwing the punches.  Everything I’ve told you above is a good way to convey a combat scene without suspending or otherwise dithering about character development, but it’ll be the parts beyond the bit where he picks up the sword–the loves left behind, the reasons to live, the people he had to disappoint to get here–that will make the combat scene, not the other way around.

My friend Carl suggested I demonstrate this by invoking, as all good nerds do, The Wrath of Khan.  The ultimate scene, the space battle, is a very minor part of the movie that is, by today’s standards, technically unimpressive in which the biggest maneuver is one ship flying a little lower than the other.  Yet all that led up to this point is what makes that scene one where the audience is chewing their fingernails in anticipation of what will happen next.  And for that reason, it’s still considered a high watermark of space battles.

Ultimately, it’ll be emotion that defines how effective your fighting scenes are.

And guess what?

Everything I told you above also applies to writing sex.

I hope you found this useful.

Having been a professional author for three or so years now, people occasionally ask me for advice on the profession.  Amongst these are questions I cannot answer to anyone’s satisfaction, such as how one gets published (you write a good book), how one writes a good book (you just do) or how one goes about finding an agent (no clue, mine came to me).

But one question that I am always happy to answer is the question of social media and how to navigate it as an author.

And to that, my answer has always been the same, summarized in one simple rule.

If it’s not fun, don’t do it.

Now, there are reasons to do this beyond just simple hedonism.  Social media being as important as it is, there are plenty of reasons to do it even if you don’t find it fun.  But I have found that the main reason to adhere to that one simple rule is also summarized in one singular statement and that is that emotions have a way of seeping through.

If you are not having fun on social media, then it becomes obvious.  Maybe not at first, but eventually, the cracks will begin to show.  You’ll start getting short and curt with people in your twitter replies.  You’ll start finding yourself loathing the sight of familiar names that pop up in your feed and be unable to keep them out.  You’ll start getting tired of it, then you’ll start getting angry, then you’ll start getting depressed.  Then you’ll eventually snap, melt down in front of everyone on your blog or another blog and, since nothing is ever lost on the internet, your disgrace will be commemorated in a jaunty tune, sung throughout the ages in the great halls of chatrooms and blogospheres.

Most authors, editors, bloggers, readers, writers, monks, pharaohs, suicide girls, barnyard animals and dirigible pilots will all offer you the same advice toward this: “Don’t respond.  Don’t get involved.  Don’t confront.  Don’t reproach.  You’ll never come out looking well.”

And I think, by and large, that this is very good advice.  And yet…there’s something awry with that sentiment that I’d like to talk about today.

The main reason to use social media is to interact with fans.  And that’s a huge draw.  I’ve had dozens, if not hundreds of people say how awesome it is to be able to ask your favorite author something and see them respond to you personally.  And likewise, I’ve had immense fun with it, not just because people occasionally call me their favorite author.  I’ve loved getting fan opinions, getting into debates with readers, talking about stuff that I’m really interested in and having a huge pool of people that I can inquire further into at a moment’s notice.  It’s a great social tool.

And with this, inevitably, comes the stresses of a social situation.  You occasionally find people who will be rude to you, intentionally or otherwise.  You’ll find people who will leap in and, in an attempt to be clever or mean, confirm that your self-deprecating joke about your forgetfulness is not actually a joke and they do, in fact, think you are an imbecile.  You’ll find people who will make some truly bizarre commentary on your appearance like it’s no big deal.

I’ve got a picture of a screaming monkey as my twitter avatar.  I wholly intend to change this to a picture of myself at some point.  And I can already see in my head the people who will say “lol can’t tell the difference” and I can already see myself getting angry and sad.  As a guy who thought he was wildly hideous for most of his life, I’m still not great at taking jokes about my appearance.

And I can already hear people telling me not to respond to that.  But surely, you can see my dilemma here?  Do respond to the positive, don’t respond to the negative, do treat everyone like they matter, don’t treat some people like they do, do assume the best of people, don’t think that they’re going to be nice.  Social situations are already hard to read, even moreso online, and it’s hard to tell someone’s intentions online.  What about the people who seem to be mean, but think they’re being clever or good-naturedly jabbing you?  What about the people who namedrop you in twitter in their criticisms of you and get mad when you don’t respond?  Who do you pay attention to and who do you don’t?

I’m coming to question the wisdom of the idea of “don’t respond, ever.”  I think there’s a lot of virtue in “don’t respond,” but I think there are times when the “ever” is just too much.

I get weird comments on my twitter and facebook a lot (I get it, I have a weird sense of humor, people want in on it), and for the most part I’ve been content to ignore it.  But I noticed that, without an external outlet, I internalized a lot of the stress of having someone make a smart-ass remark about my appearance, or a “joke” about my obliviousness to something, or a gross theory on my personal life.

Remember what I said about emotions seeping through?

I was getting curt.  I was getting short.  I was getting downright angry.  This is not great for me.  When I call myself the angriest man in the world, I’m only half-joking.  As a soft-spoken fat kid who liked to read, I was picked on a lot in school.  To fight back, I became mean.  I became incredibly mean.  To the point that old classmates I meet will still confess times I made them cry in the bathroom.

I don’t want to be that person again.  I needed to do something.

So, over the course of a week, I confronted three different commentaries.  I told them that they were unhelpful, impolite or hurtful.  I did not call them names, I did not cast aspersions on them as people.  I pointed out that I had a problem with what they said.

It felt really good.

And I realized that I needed that.  I needed to be able to tell people that, while I might like them, I don’t like what they said (and the difference is crucial).  And I realized that most people were trying to be clever, or good-natured, or just didn’t realize it and they were apologetic.  I think it was wiser for me to call them out now than internalize my distaste for their commentary until it became synonymous with them.  It felt good to do that.

And so, I’m advising authors to consider that.  Consider that your feelings are not irrelevant.  Consider that it’s okay to call people out for what they said and still being able to like them as people.  Consider the fact that this is stressful and you need to protect yourself or you will meltdown.

And consider the fact that not everyone is going to be apologetic.  This is the internet; whoever is meanest is still the strongest and there’s no way to make people apologize.  Some people will say “you just lost a reader.”  And really, that’s the implicit threat in the “don’t respond” advice, isn’t it?  Don’t get a reputation as a guy who calls people out all the time, don’t be aggressive or belligerent or you might lose readers.

I am telling you, right now, that your readership is never going to be so small that you need to accept people trying to make you miserable out of fear of losing their patronage.

Nor am I advising that you be on-guard all the time.  Don’t look at readers as foes or people who will hurt you.  That’s a mistake.  Readers are wonderful people.  They love your work and, by proxy, they love you.  The vast majority of them do not want to offend, intimidate or irritate you.  The vast majority of them want to be on good terms with you and you should want to be on good terms with them.  Be patient, be polite and never, ever call them out as people you dislike.

Social media is important as a writer.  It’s too important to let yourself not have fun with it.

So take the time to consider it.

So, a few days ago, after getting a little puzzled on brown liquor, I posted this tweet.

This, I felt, was a good idea.

I like pizza.  I like wizards.  How could this possibly not end well?

Hence, I was very pleased when reader Heather sent me the following (warning: awesomeness contained within).

Ask and ye shall receive my writing warm-up for the day:

The Wizard Who Used His Magic to Make Pizza

The Great Wizards’ War of this age started the day Alfred got fed up with kids carving rude things into the beautiful pieced wood tabletops at his pizza parlor.  He had spent the entire lunch hour polishing the counter and glowering at a ragged young man, afflicting him with rashes, odd aches and pains, and even hallucinations, but still the kid worked away with his Swiss Army knife.  His masterpiece of rebellion read, ”FUCK the man.”
Alfred rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath.  ”If you must graffiti my tables, at least you could find something witty to say kid.”
How had he come to a state in his life where his greatest enemy was a kid with nothing better to do than deface pizza parlor tables?  He needed a distraction.
He rolled out the dough and glazed it with olive oil.  He piled cheese on top, pinching it so it hugged the edges of the crust without falling off.  Smiling with satisfaction, he piled on peppers, sausage, anchovies, olives, espresso dust, grapes, and piety.  He poked at the fire until it was hot and slid the pizza into the oven without spilling a single topping.
He then returned to polishing the counter-top and glaring at the young would-be revolutionary.
Three minutes later, the pizza was done–crust golden brown, cheese popping in little bubbles.  As Alfred pulled it out of the oven, a cloaked man with a creased face banged through the front door.
”Why did you do it?” the man demanded.
”Good to see you too, Simon.”  Alfred sliced the pizza, flipping a piece onto a paper plate that buckled under its weight as he offered it to the newcomer.  Simon waved away the slice.
”Don’t act like nothing happened, Alfred.  The coven in Rome is gone–all dead.”
”Oh?”  Alfred continued holding the slice.
”Just now.  I came straight here.  You can put that down, I’m not here for pizza.”
Alfred gently set the piece aside and returned to polishing the already pristine counter.
”It looked like your work.  Only you can cause such destruction with so little mess.”
”So your only evidence is a complete lack of evidence?”  Alfred raised an eyebrow, peering at Simon for a long minute.  ”You look wretched.  Sit down, have some pizza.”
”I didn’t come here for your _pizza_.”  Somehow he made the word sound like an insult and Alfred bristled, but Simon charged onward, heedless.  ”Dammit Alfred, we’re supposed to be at peace.  You can’t just go killing an entire coven.”
”Simon, I make pizza.  That’s what I do now.  If you cannot appreciate the joys of molten cheese hugging juicy vegetables and savory meats atop chewy crusts then I suggest you find another establishment.”
”You suggest _I_ find another establishment?  What are _you_ even doing in this backwater?  Do you know there’s a truck in the parking lot with six deer legs sticking out of the bed?”
”Do you object to the number of legs, or the thought of killing deer?  I would find the second quite ironic given your history.”
”You know what I mean.  This place is so far beneath you.”
Alfred made a sound of warning, like water about to boil.  The pizza server rattled on the counter and Simon took a step back, eyes wide.  The two men stood for a moment, locked in a staring contest, but just as it seemed the situation must boil over, Alfred looked away, voice snapping like ice, ”Boy, if you don’t stop engraving your insipid protest on my table and eat your fucking pizza this minute, I will incinerate you.”
The boy looked up, startled, and quickly folded his knife, shoving it into his pocket.  He picked up a slice of his pepperoni and mushroom pizza and took an exaggerated bite, sighing with relief when Alfred finally looked away.
”Now!” Simon jumped as Alfred’s attention returned to him.  ”You come to my place of business…”
He grabbed a ball of dough and began pounding out the bubbles.
”…you accuse me of murder without any evidence…”
He seized a rolling pin and attacked the dough with it.
”…and you insult my profession.”
He tossed the dough in the air, flour raining down on them both as the dough snapped.
”I think you owe me an apology.”
He arranged the dough on a tray, gestures gentle just for a moment as he pinched and pushed the dough into a perfect circle.  As he slathered barbecue sauce onto the waiting crust, he looked up expectantly.
”I’m sorry, Alfred.  I shouldn’t have done those things,” Simon muttered.
Alfred nodded.  He began piling cheese on the crust, pinching it around the edges as he had done before.
”But you did do it, didn’t you?  It felt like your work,” Simon persisted in a voice that now held more curiosity than accusation.
The corners of Alfred’s mouth twitched.  ”Does it matter?  Are you really so disappointed that it was done?  I had the impression that the Roman coven had been a mighty pain in your ass for a long time.”
Alfred began layering toppings on the pizza: ham, pineapple, coconut, macadamia nuts, ash, sunshine, and sea salt scented nights.
”That’s an unusual combination of toppings,” Simon commented.
”I hear the Hawaiian coven has been giving you trouble too,” Alfred tossed the comment over his shoulder as he slid the pizza into the oven, prodding the flames to life.
Simon stood, watching as the pizza baked–tropical toppings melting together into a sea of cheese–and then looked back at the slice Alfred had offered him earlier, covered in Italian toppings now congealing as the cheese cooled.
”Alfred, no.  You can’t.   Not two covens in one day!”
Alfred grinned and clapped Simon on the shoulder saying, ”Relax my friend, it’s just a pizza!”
As Simon rushed out to check on the Hawaiian coven, Alfred chuckled and returned to polishing his counter.  When the kid left, he ordered the wood to mend so that no scar remained.

Sweet Jesus.

I can’t say I ever do not go into a frothing spiel of lunacy when fans send me cool stuff.  And it was very much the case today when Heather sent me her Pizza Wizard fan fiction.  I am so immensely thrilled by this.

So thrilled.

And so hungry.

Keep writing.

So, apropos of nothing, I started reading Anthony Ryan’s Blood Song.

For those not in the know, Mr. Ryan is an alumnus of the class of self-published authors whose work was so applauded by the public that he was able to secure a deal with a major publishing house.  And surveying the evidence, it’s easy to see how this came to be.  The book is a darling of /r/fantasy, it’s received many fine reviews and accolades from the reading public at large and it was recommended to me several times even before it was picked up by a publisher.

Thus compelled, I read it.  Over the course of a few months (this is simply how I read most books; I’m not so much of a devourer as I am a piecemeal eater), I fell in love and out of love with it, dabbling here and there and nibbling on it when I thought it wouldn’t notice.

It had its moments of fast-paced, rollicking action interspersed with moments of introspection and angst that scratched an itch that has long been wriggling under my skin in this era of remorseless bastard heroes.  Likewise, it had rather depressing moments of cockney orphans and feasting (two of my most loathed devices in fantasy) combined with depressing moments of “no girls allowed” fantasy in which women were relegated either to mysterious love interests or a scheming, manipulative Cersei.

It had magic swords.  It had epic battles.  It had mysterious women in dream sequences.  It had backlogs and backlogs of worldbuilding.  It had magic wolves howling and chosen ones being chosen and scheming kings and scheming princesses and dudes who flat out hate the protagonist because of how awesome he is.

Summarily: it is everything you would ever think to find in an epic fantasy book.

When I finished it, after so many months, I walked away with the thought that this was a very important story.

But not necessarily for the reasons you think it might be.

As my last blog post might suggest, I’ve become rather fascinated with looking at that whole nebulous mess of a fantasy reader’s inner psyche: why we like the things we do, why we’re sometimes ashamed to admit we like them, why we use the word “escapist” to justify things that we enjoy, why we have such a hard time being up front about liking people with swords.

In Ode to a Dark Elf, I studied the subject of Fun, that peppy, wild-eyed dreamer who wants to tell you there’s a world out there that’s full of dragons you can ride and magicians who want you to save the world.  In this blog post, we’ll be talking about his shyer, more-organized brother who lives in the basement: Tropes.

“Tropes,” like “Fun,” is one of those words that’s become something like bad language in this genre and for much the same reasons.  If a fantasy is “Fun,” then it must have no particular meaning and be relatively unchallenging.  And if a fantasy has “Tropes,” then it must be a shamelessness of stitching together ideas that other authors have done before and better.

I disagree with that interpretation, but I don’t necessarily disagree with the fear behind it.

Tropes, when used improperly, are awful, terrible things that dance closely next to Stereotypes.  Tropes, when used as shorthand, promote lazy thinking and connote rather wretched implications.  This dude has a magic sword and a magic wolf, because of course he does, he’s the hero.  This girl is sexy and has a bare midriff because how else would you be able to tell she’s the girl.  This wizard is wise and scheming and speaks in cryptic riddles because duh, he’s a wizard.

This leads to that darkest outcome: pandering.  Where authors simply stop trying to create and are content to merely regurgitate, where publishers are content to push out anything with a sword on the cover because of course you’ll buy it, you stupid kid.  At that point, we stagnate.  At that point, we start echoing ourselves.

There are some of us as readers who have bought this argument wholesale: the anti-fans who loathe the genre’s conventions and loathe themselves for continuing to read it, and the public at large for whom the word “tropes” has become a coded word for “bad.”  In general, I fear that we have as unhealthy a relationship with the idea of tropes as we do with the idea of fun.  We think it’s something that has no value, a limitation we put on ourselves that hinders our reading.

To that end, I certainly understand when people advocate turning heel and walking in a straight line away from tropes and his ugly sibling.

And I most certainly disagree with it.

I’m of the Scott Lynch style of thinking.  I believe that cliches are cliched for a reason and that tropes are tropes because, in general, they work.  Most of us fantasy authors started from somewhere and it almost always started with a love of what made fantasy fantastic: swords, fights, giants, dragons, kings, queens, wizards, fireballs, horses, what have you.

To that end, I vehemently disagree with the idea that the only way forward is to abandon everything that made us fall in love with it in the first place.

What’s more, we have proof that they work and we have it in the form of some of fantasy’s most beloved authors working today.

Let’s say I tell you a wonderful story about a ladies’ man storyteller, a masterful chosen one who is just more special than anyone else and is simultaneously loved and loathed because of it.  Or, if you don’t like that, how about I tell you about a noble savage barbarian with an intense desire to do good if only he could master the raging tempest in his heart.  Still not sold?  How about a farm boy with a destiny bigger than himself who will eventually unite the world and save it from the forces of evil that descend from the darkness to annihilate it?

You might be scoffing at such flagrant cliches, up until I tell you that I’m talking about Patrick Rothfuss, Joe Abercrombie and Peter V. Brett.

At which point, you might join the ranks of people who are undoubtedly furiously pounding on their keyboards at that revelation, illustrating just how I have totally misrepresented their favorite authors who wouldn’t dare use such (shudder) tropes!

To those people, I beg you to pause stuffing that straw effigy you have been making of me and have a glance at my point.  You can boil anything down to a trope.  They are inescapable.

This is not to say we should merely accept tropes as they are, though, and go down that decidedly dark road of pandering and stagnation.  But if you’ll look at the most popular authors today, the ones who are actively using tropes, they are most definitely not using them at face value.

As if we’re too ashamed to admit we enjoy those tropes, though, we saddle them with words like “subversion” and “deconstruction.”  And speaking as an author who has been frequently accused of (or lauded for) both, I’m not sure if those words really do justice to the relationship between authors and tropes.

To subvert has negative connotations: identifying something stagnant, wrong or gross and changing it.  Whereas what I think we’re doing is inherently positive: we are taking something we love and sharing it with the audience.  We are not sharing that trope with the audience, we are sharing our love with the audience.

I certainly didn’t intend to deconstruct the idea of the adventurer.  I didn’t mean to point out a bunch of flaws and subvert it.  I love the idea of adventurers, I love the idea of plundering for treasure and fighting monsters.  But I also love the idea of being hated for it and I love the idea of it being a messy, difficult job with intense consequences for someone’s mental well-being.

If you pay attention at all to the fantasy genre, rife as it is with critics and anti-fans, you’ve probably heard the phrase “my elves are different” trotted out as a means of mocking authors who try to incorporate the tropes they love and shaming the audiences who read it.  But as silly as it sounds, that phrase is exactly the contract you are making with the audience as an author.  You are showing them why you’re different.  You are sharing your unique love with them.  You are giving a new and interesting insight into the subject.

Sometimes, that does mean tearing everything down.

But more often than not, I find it means building something up.

Such as it was in the case of Anthony Ryan’s Blood Song. 

And that’s why it’s an important book.  It is an unabashed love of what makes fantasy fantastic.  It is an open love letter to everything wondrous about fantasy.  It is highly emotional, unashamedly epic and wholeheartedly Mr. Ryan.

And it is pretty successful.

And that, as I see it, is a good thing.

Recognize this fucker?

 

Chances are that you probably do if…

• You were ever fourteen.
• You ever read fantasy.
• You were ever a young male.

That’s not to say that, if you’re not a fourteen-year-old boy, you didn’t read Drizzt Do’Urden novels by R.A. Salvatore.  That’s merely to say that you probably stood a higher chance of encountering this oft-misunderstood chaotic good rebel and his amazing adventures if you were.

And why wouldn’t you?  The character of Drizzt Do’Urden was tailor-made for you.

He’s misunderstood and unfairly judged by his peers and society.  He’s a whirling dervish badass with two swords and a magic panther and spells and shit, but he only kills when he’s forced to, so he can’t be held morally responsible for the millions of corpses left in his wake.  He attracts ladies like nobody’s business, but he’s so virtuous he never gets laid.

There’s likely some readers out there who are about to leap onto their keyboards and rend me asunder for the glaring inaccuracies of my summary of our favorite ranger.  I’d advise those people to relax, since we’re not talking about Drizzt much further than this paragraph.  Not directly, anyway.

The idea of cover art routinely weighs heavily on my mind.  Not just because I’m routinely crucified for mine, but because it’s a frequently touchy subject in fantasy genre.  With good reason, it’s basically a free blog post, requiring little more than putting it up and going “ugh” or “not so ugh” and not having to think too hard about it.  Now there is a tremendous debate between bloggers and publishers between what’s good and what actually sells, but I’m far too much a coward to talk about that today.

But in regards to the fact that this is a frequent subject of concern for me, and regards to the fact that I’ve had Drizzt on the brain lately, I had a look at several of his covers.  They touch on all the bases that make bloggers tear their hair out: magic animal companions, glowy weapons, bare midriffs, and…whatever’s going on here.

My reactionary process to these covers, and covers like these over the years, have evolved from a singular to multi-part process.

When I was fourteen, I would look at them and think: “Damn, I like that.”

When I was twenty-five and starting to read blogs and learn more about fantasy, I would think: “Man, stop.  You shouldn’t like that.”

And now that I’m twenty-nine and slowly losing patience and brain cells, I think: “Wait, why shouldn’t I like that?”

The reasons for why these covers are so heinous range from the simple (“it’s cheesy,” “it’s stupid,” “it’s too D&D-y”) to the complex (“it’s not realistic,” “it’s not artistic,” “it’s just tits and swords”).  But the general reason we seem to fall upon, as a fantasy genre: “it looks like a fantasy cover.”

That would fall under the category of simple were it not for the immense amount of baggage that came with the idea.  For some reason, fantasy fans (or at least, fantasy fans who frequently talk about the genre) have an immense problem with being identified as such.  And if you pay at all attention, it almost always links back to the desperation to be accepted by that successful and respected older sibling: mainstream literature.

Fantasy always seems to be in a very big hurry to grow up, or at least to be seen as grown-up, hence why all we seem to write about these days is rape and widespread murder and all the other stuff we used to think made us look more adult when we were seventeen (note: I am not saying that these subjects, books or authors are inherently childish, but equating maturity with sex and violence certainly is).  To that end, we get frustrated when people point at our magic wolves, our glowing weapons, our three-headed liches and say “looks like you’ve got some growing up to do.”

And maybe it’s just me for whom this particular criticism isn’t having a lot of effect on anymore.  Maybe I’m getting too comfortable in my ways.  Maybe I’m not thinking hard enough.  Maybe I’m just too old to continue to give a shit over whether anyone might see me enjoying this stuff.  But the fact of the matter is that I’m having a much harder time caring about what other people are thinking of me.

And I’m not alone.

I mentioned last week that I believe that the geeks at New York Comicon and other joints are the future.  And I stand by that.  But one thing I was struck by at these displays of passionate geekery was the complete and utter lack of shame.  Quite the opposite, being excited and enthusiastic about this sort of thing was considered praise-worthy.  Squee-worthy, even.

I liked that.

And I find that, the older I get, the more comfortable I am with admitting that there are things about fantasy that I like.  Not that this wasn’t obvious to anyone who has read my books rife with exposed skin, sword fights, magic shenanigans and fiery urine, but it’s kind of refreshing to just look at the shit you’re writing and say: “Yeah.  Actually, I really like that.  That’s really fun.”

Let me tell you, I am a lot happier being able to take “fun” as a positive.

I’ve talked about this before, but we’ve got a problem with the word “fun.”  It’s inherently negative from a critical standpoint.  “Fun” has become coded for “unthinking, unchallenging, uninteresting.”  We apologize for it.  We say it with a wince.  We look at it and sigh and it doesn’t even occur to us once how immensely insulting it is to readers to attach that connotation to it.

Sure, it’d be a problem if things were only fun.  But–and it’s downright embarrassing to have point this out–there isn’t such a thing as a reader who feels only one emotion.  And it’s kind of troubling that we seem to think there is only one definition of “fun.”

This was touched upon by Justin Landon’s blog, but what gets my goat about the high and mighty declaration that “fun” is inherently trivial is the idea that fun does not engage.  The idea that a reader shuts her brain off when reading–and take a moment to appreciate just how ridiculous that idea is–is downright mistaken.  The idea that a reader gets nothing out of a book that they’re having fun with save some mindless faffery is mind-bogglingly stupid.

How do I know?

Because I used to read Drizzt novels.  So did a lot of my fellow authors.  Like it or not, we got something beyond just fun out of those books and it shaped our writing.

I’m sure some asshole out there could chuckle blithely at that statement, stroke a goatee and say “case in point,” but I give about as much of a shit about them as I do about mainstream literature giving a shit about what I read.  I just don’t have enough shits left in me to spend on people having opinions on how I enjoy myself and whether or not I’m enjoying myself properly.

And here’s a tragic secret about writing: it’s selfish as shit.

You can write only for yourself.  If people love it, then great.  But no one’s going to love it if you don’t love it first.  And if you’re possessed of shame for enjoying what you enjoy, you’re not going to be writing what you love.  You might achieve that perfect nirvana of becoming an anti-fan, pointing out the great and glaring flaws of the genre you despise but can’t get away from and otherwise masturbating furiously to your own genius on the page.

But maybe I’m just speaking for myself here when I say I find that more tiresome than a dude with two swords on a cover.

…and I’m back.

Weary, exhausted, sore, fighting back disease and despair, I have returned from New York Comicon 2013.  It was a very long trudge through a very long line of very thick crowds of people, most of whom were very unhinged and very fine with closing in on people.

It was loud.  It was crowded.  It was smelly.

And it was awesome.

There were, of course, the requisite awesome cosplays to see.

 

And really, I should have taken more.  But I was distracted this time around.

Even more cooler than seeing the awesome costumes were meeting a bunch of awesome artists I’ve been dying to meet for some time now, including the ever-awesome Mike Luckas, the traditionally amazing Edwin Huang, and a dude who is fast becoming one of my very favorite comic book writers, Jim Zub.  As well as a slew of authors, writers and artists I didn’t get see.

What’s cooler than that, though?

 

Fan-made presents!

Though my traditionally stoic, ever-composed exterior would not allow me to do so, I always squeal with delight at the prospect of people creating things based on my work.  Be it art, hand-knitted things, food products or t-shirts, I just go completely berserk for them.

As you can see above, a very ardent fan, Wandering Knits from twitter, made me a hand-sewn Bagagame from Black Halo.  You remember him, right?  The slow-witted lizardperson with a heart of gold?

And props go to Mia, who made me the tremendously apt shirt declaring that shicts have more fun.  Which seems quite apropos, considering the only thing cooler than fan-made presents is…

 

COSPLAY!

I had mentioned that the supremely cool Lela Gwenn would be cosplaying as Kataria and she just kind of knocked it out of the freaking park with this one and I went a little crazy inside at seeing it I hope that’s okay.  Note the feathers!  The dirt!  The fangs!  The scowl!

It all came together amazingly and made for one of the most awesome cons I’ve ever been to.

I’ve mentioned before on this blog that WorldCon is a perfectly fine con to go to, and that’s still true.  But I honestly think we’re seeing an up-and-c0ming breed of “new” nerd.  This new geek is younger, more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.  They consume media en masse and violently devour comics, literature and television with equal measure.  They’re less concerned about cred, less concerned about appearances and less concerned about anything that isn’t expressing joy for what they love to do.

Honestly, I think any new author (aspiring or already published), should be making an effort to go to the bigger cons and see where these new nerds dwell.  These are the people who will be your fans in the future and it’s worth seeing just how joyous they can be.

Because frankly, that’s the best thing to take away from something like a comicon: joy.  The unrepentant love they have for genre, for nerdy shit, for dressing up in costume and for rubbing shoulders with fans from different media.  It reminds me of why I got into this business in the first place: to have fun (and also because I hate working “real” jobs).

But yeah.  Check it out, if you haven’t.  Speaking as a guy who tends to consider himself introverted, the crowds were well worth the experience.

Of course, now I’m ready to not talk to anyone for about a year.

…which will mean I’ll be ready in time for NYCC next year!

Hey there, friends.

I know I haven’t blogged in a while.  This entry, too, will actually be super-short.  I’m hellaciously busy trying to prepare for New York Comicon next week.  As it turns out, an unintended side effect of being a lazy procrastinator is that you constantly have to be on the move to catch up to things you should have been doing ages ago.

No, I’m not actually doing any panels or talking anything specific this year.  I find that I’ve never actually really gotten to experience a Comicon as a fan and I kind of miss being able to see everything.  So now, while my project has yet to be announced, seems like a good time to come as a standard yokel.  I’ll be just a regular attendant, as average as you or anyone else could be, save for my staggeringly handsome countenance and awe-inspiring height.

But that doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends!  In fact, if you find me at NYCC, I’ll be happy to give you one of these.

 

Postcards!  With some of the art I’ve been commissioning for the new project.

What’s on the back, you might ask?  Oh ho ho ho.  You’ll have to get one to find out.

But wait!  You might have noticed that NYCC is freaking huge.  How will you be able to find me?  I mean, assuming somehow both of my thumbs are broken and I won’t be tweeting literally everything I do all the time forever (which I will).

You might just look for the savage shict I’ll be traveling with.

 

 

 

The tremendously awesome Lela Gwenn has opted to come to NYCC cosplaying as Kataria this year.  Which is frankly the coolest thing that has ever happened to me since I started authoring.  Like, seriously.  Words cannot express how much of a nerd squeal I’ve got going on at this.

So, hope to see you there!