Category Archives: The Fictorians

Guest Post by Sarah A. Hoyt

So you’ve written a novel – but do you know in what genre?

According to Kris Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith, whom I have no reason to doubt, you probably don’t. The reason for this is simple. We writers tend to work from the idea out. If we have – say – this neat idea where you use a machine to perform magic, we go ahead and write it that way. And then we send it out to agents or editors who are likely to run in circles, screaming. (Well, mine did, when I did just that.)

Genre is largely a marketing category. This means that no story fits it exactly. Take the story idea above, and throw in a hot magical engineer and the girl who loves him. Then have her father murdered for trying to market the machine.

Is that novel science fiction, fantasy, mystery or romance?

The answer is “yes.”

In general all novels, no matter how much they are science fiction have a hint of mystery and some romance. (Okay, some novels from the pulp era didn’t.) There is something that must be solved, and someone the character is attracted to.

What used to happen – in the bad old days when your only choice for publication was traditional houses mostly via agents – is that you’d take the book to your agent, and after she ran in circles, screaming, she might tell you “Look, you’re known as a fantasy writer. Knock off with the machine stuff, and emphasize the magic more.” Or “You’re a romance writer, just pump up the romance and wooing scenes and we’ll sell it as a quirky futuristic romance.”

Of course, sometimes they told you they just didn’t know what to do with it. Or they’d tell you what you thought was military SF was actually YA SF, because at the time it was easier to sell as YA and your character was seventeen.

What about now? Well, now it’s all about the tags. One of the things I’ve noticed, when I put up my back list short stories, is that those I can possibly tag romance (not all shorts have a romance element strong enough to mention!) sell better. But the idea is to tag them or list them with all the genres you think you can get away with. Oh, by all means, tag it for the main idea. For instance, the one above I’d class as fantasy, but then in the description and the tags include the other genres.

As for writing… Well, I tend to write stories as I read them, and I started reading long before I was aware of genres or the idea of genre. I gravitated, mostly, to science fiction and fantasy – but I also read a good bit of mystery because my dad belonged to a mystery book club and it was my sworn duty (I thought) to read every book that came in the house.

I didn’t read Romance until I was in my thirties. Not unless you consider my cousin’s collection of romances, which was in the house and therefore must be read. But those were Portuguese Romances (I was born in Portugal and lived there till 22. My family still lives there. English is my third language, and if you heard me speak you’d believe it. Or maybe not. You’d probably think I was Russian. No I don’t know why. Stop being nosy.) Portuguese Romances all seem to be based on Romeo and Juliet. In the perfect Romance, both die for love, but if you’re very lucky, the girl survives and mourns her boyfriend forever.

Anyway, so by the time I read Romance, I was aware of genre conventions, and how they work, so the book didn’t go against the wall the first time.

See, the thing you have to be aware of, when writing any genre, or tagging the story as a genre, is “genre conventions.”

These are normally invisible to the fan of any given genre, but you do know when they’re violated. They’re simply “the way things are done.” What they do in most cases is get around the awkwardness of telling the story. You know that new machine, in your sf story? You might know how everything works, but you don’t describe it in detail over 40 pages. That’s not the story. You tell us about things it does/is that are relevant to the story. In a Romance, you don’t spend half the book making sure the characters REALLY know one another, before they fall in love. You show instant attraction (usually. Or its polar opposite) and then hints that there’s more in it. In a Mystery, you don’t have the character go “yeah, okay, he’s dead. Big deal. Now, this machine-“ not your main character, at least.

So before you write cross-genre, you need to be aware of what readers of each genre expect. This is best achieved by reading both (all three?) genres you’re crossing, so you’re aware of what the readers expect from each. And hey, once you’re aware of it, you can give the readers special “genre cookies” which will make each of them very happy. For instance, my Darkship Thieves, winner of the Prometheus Award for 2011, has science fiction, romance, and definitely a mystery element. It also happens to be told in the style of Urban Fantasy. The fans of each of these will swear it belongs solely to them. While the Urban Fantasy elements are somewhat mitigated in Darkship Renegades and A Few Good Men, the sequel and not-so-sequel (it’s complicated) it’s still there.

In fact, at this point, I have so many fans from different genres, I have to make sure to put in cookies for all genres every single time.

***

Sarah A. Hoyt has sold over 23 novels and 100 short stories in science fiction, fantasy, mystery, horror and romance. She not only couldn’t confine herself to a single genre, but trying might break her permanently. Her science fiction — the Darkship series and the Earth Revolution sister series — and her Shifter series are published by Baen books. Her mystery, historic mystery, romance, historical fantasy, or whatever she might take in her head to write tomorrow, will be available from Goldport Press or Naked Reader Press (mostly and for now).

What Can a Poet Say to a Fiction Writer About Writing?

March 15, 2013

fictorians

Guest Post by Bob Stallworthy

I can hear you all now, “What does a poet know about writing fiction?” At one time I might have agreed with you. However, I’ve begun to wonder whether the lines that divide fiction from poetry are more blurred than I thought they were.

Let’s start with the obvious: poets and fiction writers both use words to get their information, images, impressions, across to the reader. I have often heard fiction writers say, “Yes, a poet has to be so careful with word choice. Poetry is harder to write.”

American poet, essayist, non-fiction writer, Robert Bly, once told an audience of young writers that fiction entered the body through the ear and poetry entered through the heart. Before you stomp off in a huff, let’s think about this for a minute. How often have you read a poem or heard one read, and before you are really conscious of hearing it, you have reacted to it? As if something shadow soft had passed over and then through you. Then you begin to think about the words you heard. And, how often have you read a good piece of fiction and found yourself relishing the words and then the images and emotions they have created? My question then is, aren’t the fiction writers being just as careful about their word choices? If they aren’t they should be. Good fiction, just like good poetry, has a lot to do with using precisely the right word in the right place in the line. And, speaking of the right place in the line and in the right line, when we get this right we get the image we want that makes the reader say, “Wow! I never thought of it like that before.” Isn’t that what we, as writers, want?

Part of what will make the reader’s eyes go wide open and whisper that wished for line is an interesting use of rhythm. Oh sure, it is really important in poetry, you say. And, yes it is. I used to say that free verse poetry had no rhythm and no rhyme. I was only partially correct. It often has no rhyme. It does have rhythm – the rhythm of the language. It is there in fiction too. As a fiction writer you can use that rhythm to your advantage.

Rhythm may be obvious in a poem and not so obvious when it comes to fiction. How do you hear the rhythm when writing fiction? The same way one does when writing poetry. Read the piece out loud. Get into the habit of doing this. Look for the ebb and flow. If you do, it will help to carry the reader away on your words. By the way, it will help you with your public performances.

Rhythm is just one component that goes into a poem or a piece of fiction. As a fiction writer you already know what the other elements are that must be in your fiction – plot, setting, character, crisis, resolution, etc. But, the question which comes at some point is, whether you write fiction or poetry, “Is this any good?”

First of all, I would like to suggest that the use of the terms good and bad, works or doesn’t work, get dropped from the vocabulary. These are value judgements which sidetrack the discussion into the realm of personal taste. You can spend a lot of time in that realm and get no useful information about the writing.

Years ago, I found a hierarchy created by American writer and critic, James Dickey. The hierarchy is based on his reaction as a reader to a piece of poetry. I suggest that these statements apply equally well to fiction:

Lowest level: This probably isn’t true and even if it is, I couldn’t care less.
Next level up: This is probably true, and therefore I react to it differently than I did the first level.

Third level: This is probably true, but so what –

Best level: Not only is this true, but it is with a truth I would not have reached on my own had I not read this piece of writing.

Some writers dislike the idea of a hierarchy when it comes to assessing writing. Perhaps you would prefer to consider a number of questions which are used to illicit the reaction of the reader. I encountered these questions as a member of a poetry group facilitated by poet, essayist, professor, Richard Harrison. The following questions are adapted from Writing with Power, Techniques for Mastering the Writing Process by Peter Elbow. Within our poetry group, the poet presents his/her poem and then asks the group members some or all of the following depending on what the poet wants to know:

– what did you notice?
– what connections did you make?
– what questions were you left with after you finished reading?
– were there places where you left? i.e. your mind wandered
– where did you stop reading?
– were there places where you agreed, disagreed, argued?

I can’t help wondering if these questions apply equally well to fiction. For example, “Where did you stop reading?” translates into “Where did you close the book and put it back on the shelf or in the box for the book sale?”

Whether you write fiction or poetry, there is always the pesky question of, “How do I know this is done?” I leave you with some thoughts that, again, I have learned in Harrison’s poetry group:

– a poem is the dramatization of a single voice
– a short story is the dramatization of a character
– a novel is the dramatization of a world

If the above is so, then a poem is complete when the voice has said all there is to say that will add to the understanding of the reader/listener.

A short story and a novel are similarly finished when nothing is left that the reader/listener needs to know in order to understand the character or the world.

Can fiction writers and poets learn from one another? I certainly hope so. I have been doing so for most of my writing career. Thank you to Ace Jordyn for inviting me to put some of my thoughts together for this blog. I hope the ideas are of some help.

***

Bob Stallworthy has four books of poetry published and one non-fiction e-book, In Silhouette: Profiles of Alberta Writers, which is hosted on the Frontenac House website. His latest book of poetry, Things that Matter Now, Frontenac House, 2009 is in its second printing. Bob’s poetry has been short-listed for the W.O.Mitchell City of Calgary Book Prize twice and the Stephan G. Stephansson Award for Poetry once. He is co-recipient of the 2002 Calgary Freedom of Expression Award. He is also a Lifetime member of the Writers’ Guild of Alberta.

Link on Frontenac House website: http://frontenachouse.com/?s=Stallworthy&submit=Search+Site

Making the Science Work: Freedom through Limitation

March 14, 2013

Evan Braun

Craft & Skills Evan Braun The Writing Life World-building 2 Comments

EMC2 Sixteen-year-old me dried off after a long summer evening languishing in the family hot tub with one of my best friends from high school. The discussion that evening had been scintillating. With the tangy scent of chlorine still hugging me like a toxic cloud, I opened the patio door and stepped into the house, my damp feet sinking into the now-soggy carpet. I draped the towel over my shoulders and made my way towards the living room, where my friend was already spread out on the couch. I was pleased he hadn’t gone straight home; true, it was well after midnight, but I was awake. I wanted to converse. I wanted to think!

My friend Troy and I spent many late nights deep in conversation while the rest of the house slept, but this particular night in 1998 was the granddaddy of them all. I don’t think we went our separate ways until 5:00 a.m. In the intervening hours, for some unbeknownst reason (I may never recall the exact circumstances that inspired this), we took out a pad of paper and began to sketch out a history of the coming hundred years or so. What would be the defining events of the twenty-first century? Would mankind colonize space? How about the moon? Mars? Perhaps other, more exotic locales? How would we get there? What technologies would we use? How long would it take us to develop them? How would politics contribute to these endeavors? And perhaps more importantly, how might politics hinder them?

We weren’t interested in wild flights of fancy. This was a sober-minded effort to gauge the direction our society was moving in and extrapolate it to its most probable outcomes. And perhaps the oddest part of all is that there was no inherent “story.” No, this was an undiluted act of futurism. We were thinking on a grand scale, laying out the broad strokes of history, albeit a future history. It wasn’t until the following October that I zeroed in on a particular timeframe in our nascent world and decided to set a story there.

On the subject of future studies, Wikipedia says there “is a debate as to whether this discipline is an art or science.” Now, I understand that Wikipedia isn’t the most reliable research venue, but that statement really hits the nail on the head. You see, I was an artist and Troy was a scientist. All these years later, I’m releasing my first novels and he’s a globetrotting geophysicist-but that artist/scientist partnership is crucial. I need the balance it provides. Not that I don’t do my own research (I do a lot!), but it’s helpful to have a watchful eye appraising the more outlandish ideas in my first and second drafts.

This might sound limiting-and I’ll grant that in many ways it is limiting. But as a hard science fiction writer, I love those limits. Placing limitations on the way the world functions on a practical scale, forcing myself to find ways to work within the confines of occasionally unyielding science, often forces me to explore more interesting story possibilities than I ever would have been able to uncover if I had allowed myself to play against a completely open canvas.

What kind of limits am I talking about? They’re mostly in the realm of physics. A big one is gravity. In Star Trek, for example, technological hand-waving allows for the existence of artificial gravity, simplifying ship design and scene mechanics (believe me when I say that having characters float around in unpressurized compartments presents huge scene-blocking challenges… especially if they have to fight to the death). Warp speed allows ships and characters to gallivant from planet to planet the same way we move around in cars today. For space opera, these conventions are accepted and welcome. But what kind of story develops when you embrace the fact that it could take years (or decades) to get to one’s destination? What kind of story develops when you embrace the realities of living in space or on another planet, right down to the nitty-gritty, inconvenient details?

The answer is the kind of stories I like to read. In my experience, scientific inconvenience breeds creativity. I’m constantly asking myself, how does a space elevator work? What kind of propulsion are we likely to use to get to Mars a hundred years from now? What kind of spacecraft might we design for the purposes of traveling into deep space? What kind of fuel might it require, and where might that fuel come from? What kind of resources will be valuable, and how will we access them? These questions lead invariably to conflict, and from those conflicts are born all manner of plots that resonate with me (and hopefully readers) because of their firm basis in probability and reality.

And then I run my ideas past someone who’s smarter than me (in Troy’s case, much smarter than me). That’s a human resource no writer should ever go without.

Not that there’s anything wrong with writing a story about a moon-sized Death Star (that might cost 850 quadrillion dollars to build, by the way). There’s room for everyone under the sci-fi umbrella!

Science Fiction ““ Our Conversation with the Future

March 13, 2013

fictorians

Craft & Skills Guest Posts Writing Tools 2 Comments

Guest Post by Hayden Trenholm

For me, fiction is about a conversation we have with each other and with the world; science fiction is a conversation we have with the future. No matter how far away in space and time, science fiction is in the realm of the possible – decisions that we take, individually and collectively, will either bring that future about or prevent it from happening. Fantasy, on the other hand, is in the form of a wish, or even a dream, about worlds that never have and never could exist. No decision I make can defeat Voldemort or destroy the One Ring.

More than that, science fiction relies on the laws and principles of science both for world building and for problem solving. That means cause and effect, the conservation of matter and energy, measurability and certainty. The laws of physics can’t be broken on a whim and mysterious and mystical “forces’ can’t be called on to save the day. Star Trek (“I kenna break the laws o’ physics, Captain”) is science fiction; Star Wars (“May the Force be with you, Luke”) is fantasy.

So to write good SF you need a basic understanding of, and interest in, science. Make an error in the science and someone – probably an editor but certainly a fan – will point it out to you. If science bores you and fact-checking is an abomination, maybe writing science fiction is not for you. If you feel your grade 11 chemistry doesn’t quite ground you enough, try some of the Writing Science Fiction Series books from Writers’ Digest. Edited by people like Ben Bova (both a scientist and science fiction writer), these will give you lots of basic information on space travel or world-building. Robert Zubrin has some good books on near-Earth space travel and Michio Kaku’s “Physics of the Impossible“ lays out the law of what can and cannot be accomplished – and when.

Having said that, one probably shouldn’t be dogmatic about it. A lot of the fun in writing science fiction lies in exploring the gaps between what we do and don’t know. In “The Steele Chronicles,” my trilogy of books from Bundoran Press, I read a lot about “junk DNA,’ genetic causality and the theory of mind-machine interfaces to ground my near-future police procedurals. Discovering that there were several as yet unproven theories about the function of junk or inactive DNA, I was able to pick the one that best suited the story I wanted to tell.

That’s the other thing to remember – science fiction is first and foremost fiction. While the science background is critical, you still have to tell a good story with strong and interesting characters. The story also has to be about something. Defining Diana was, for me, about the nature of human identity: who we are and, more importantly, why are we who we are. By addressing that theme, I could look at issues of choice and destiny – free will versus programming -in self-definition.

The choice of story is, of course, impacted by the genre. Mystery novels have to have a mystery (usually a murder) as the core problem to be solved and romance has a broken relationship at its heart. In science fiction, science and technology are more than simply background, they are central to the main conflict. The main character may not be a scientist but the problem they face must be grounded in something that is essentially “scientific’ in nature. Isaac Asimov used to say the way to tell if a story is science fiction is to remove the science from the story; if it’s still a story it wasn’t SF to begin with.

Of course, it isn’t all about physics. As I already mentioned, my novels were mostly immersed in biology and theories of mind. On the other hand, my short stories have often revolved around political or anthropological questions. In my five Arakan universe stories, I wondered what power ideas – especially those imported from “alien societies’ – might have to change a culture. In that case the alien society was human and the cultural element was music. But, of course, what I was really talking about was how multiculturalism might change the way we live and the values we have.

There are, of course, many sub genres of science fiction, each with their own rules and regulations. So-called “mundane’ SF demands stories confine themselves to known facts and well-grounded theories (remember: in science, theories are never proven, merely not disproven yet). Post-singularity science fiction posits a point at which we can no longer predict the future because advances (usually in the area of artificial intelligence) have outstripped the ability of the human mind to understand them. Space opera routinely permits faster-than-light travel without worrying too much about the physics that might be involved – though most writers try to give it some kind of scientific gloss involving black holes, anti-matter or wormholes.

Nonetheless, they all have those basic things I listed at the heart of the story – cause and effect, adherence to the basic laws of physics, and a reliance on reason and human action to get things done. Even in the most pessimistic post-apocalyptic novels, where all our problems (environmental, political, economic) may have arisen from the misuse of technology, science fiction will still rely on science to find a way through, rather than falling back on a mystical return to nature or the power of prayer.

To learn more about my views on writing and other topics, visit my web-site at www.haydentrenholm.com or my blog at http://bundoransf.wordpress.com