Babel Clash

A long time ago, when the Moorehawke Trilogy (UK | US | Fr) was still just a book-foetus in my fuddled noodle (I was working on something else at the time) I began playing with the idea of the Loups-Garous.

On the Wolves’ Tail - a scene from THE CROWDED SHADOWS

When the story first took shape in my head, the Loups-Garous were just humans. Members of a well structured organisation of men who travelled out from central bases of operation (compounds in the Russias, the Moroccos and Europes) and made a rich living from banditry, mercenary activities and (of course) the trading in slaves. I had wanted them to embody a callous disregard for the welfare of others, and a lack of respect or loyalty to anything other than their own kind. Originally they simply adopted the name Loups-Garous as a tribal title, and used the legend of the werewolf as a guise in order to terrorise the isolated villages and communities from whom they kidnapped their supply of slaves. But I couldn’t resist pushing it further, and eventually they became Wolves – their greed and cruelty now taking on a physical aspect as well as a behavioural one.

So now Loups-Garous was a tribal name for an affiliation of Wolves, and the Wolf nature became the unifying trait for what was a mixed band of diverse races and ethnicities.  In Moorehawke, if a man is born a Wolf he may well find himself ostracised from all other societies, but if he is strong enough and ruthless enough he will find acceptance by and be allowed live as one of the Loups-Garous. (Wolf women are not even that fortunate.) For someone who has been marginalised because of their physical birth-right this would be a very tempting life choice.

The Wolf nature also became the motivation behind the Sevenths. In order to breed more Wolves, the Loups-Garous developed this method of invading a village, knocking up as many women as possible, and then returning seven years later for their own offspring. Any children who were Wolf would be kept and raised within the highly structured brutality of the Loups-Garous community; any who were human would be sold with the rest of the slaves.

The more I played with it, the more I grew to love this new version of my original Loups-Garous. As Wolves the Loups-Garous allowed me to play with all the same heavy themes as before, but now they didn’t feel so heavy. Fantasy does that for writer. You can explore so much in such an exciting way that it doesn’t feel like you’re writing about issues at all. Hurrah for fantasy.

But I had painted myself into an ethical corner. You see, if there’s one thing guaranteed to get my hackles raised it is the concept of innate evil. You read it all the time in fantasy and YA literature – especially in YA – and it drives me mad.

I cannot stand this appalling idea that someone is evil because they are born that way: this concept that one’s name can be drawn from some genetic hat and there you are, irrevocably on the ‘bad boys’ side of the class room makes me see red. There was no way I was going to indulge in that particular mythology.

I had always planned there to be this dichotomy between Christopher and the Loups-Garous. They mirrored and contrasted each other in so many ways. So I once again pushed one step further, and in my mind Christopher became a Wolf: a boy raised by folks who accepted his nature, and who worked with it, allowing him develop the positive aspects of it (the speed, the endurance, the strength, the loyalty, the joy-de-vivre, the musicality) and control the more harmful aspects of it (the quick temper, the violent mood swings, the excess of energy, the hunger (which the Loups-Garous turn to greed) Christopher became the perfect counter-balance to the Loups-Garous,  who a a group had been raised to develop the less positive aspects of the same physical birthright.

By throwing these two disparate aspects of the same coin into the Moorehawke mix, I was still able to deal with all the themes I wanted to between Christopher and the Loups-Garous (themes of deferred revenge, physical and moral restraint, self sacrifice etc. etc.) but they were so much more fun to write now that they also had this physical and mythological aspect  to them.

When it came time to start actually writing Moorehawke, I really wasn’t sure if it was ready. I thought to myself, I’ll give this strange wee book two or three pages, if it isn’t working for me I’ll put it back in its box and move on to something else for a while. Less than 18 months later I had the Moorehawke trilogy written – all 410 thousand words of it! It just poured out as one (very long) book told in three volumes. I was a physical mess at the end of it. LOL. But it was worth it. If I’m honest, it’s one of my favouritest babies and the Loups-Garous are one of my best beloved creations (but shhhhh – don’t tell the others).

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Although Worldcon goers got a sneak preview several weeks back, The Heir of Night, (which is the first book of my epic The Wall of Night quartet) will be officially available for sale in Australia and New Zealand on 7 October — although UK readers will have to wait a little longer, until March 2011 — and I will definitely be celebrating! But a book coming on sale is a time for reflection, as well: not just about the path to that point, but also about the nature of the story I’ve told and what makes it special—for me, and I hope for readers ‘out there’.

One of the aspects I have always loved about Fantasy-Science Fiction (F-SF) is the door it opens into fantastic worlds. Science Fiction offers worlds such as Arrakis in Frank Herbert’s Dune and the Union/Alliance space of CJ Cherryh’s Downbelow Station, while Fantasy gives us Middle-Earth (Tolkien), Earthsea (Le Guin) and Bas-Lag (Miéville), to name only a very few. So it is perhaps not surprising that in The Heir of Night (Heir) I introduce my own world of Haarth.

Much of the wider Haarth world is only alluded to in Heir. The dominant landscape in this first book is the twilit and wind-blasted Wall of Night, a mountainous barrier range garrisoned by the alien and warlike Derai. The Derai keeps are also worlds in themselves, which open, like puzzle boxes, to other realms: the abandoned layers of the Old Keep and the Gate of Dreams—a place of forests and wreathing mist which may—or may not—only be accessed through the Old Keep’s secret heart …

Map of Haarth, by Peter Fitzpatrick; from The Heir of Night

Yet even on the Wall of Night there is knowledge and limited contact with the wider world of the “Outsiders’ ” Haarth. The Earl of Night’s minstrel hails from the great city of “Ij the Golden, the queen of the River”—the River being a loose federation of city states. The heralds of the Guild, whom the Derai believe function in some “form of symbiosis” also hail from the River. Other realms lie further south: these include Emer, which is famous for its armoured knights; Aralorn and Jhaine, of which the Derai know little;  and Ishnapur, the last but still great remnant of the Old Empire. The Empire fell apart in the long-ago calamity known as the Cataclysm, but once stretched from Ishnapur in the south to Jaransor in the north: Jaransor, the line of green forbidden hills that it is whispered can drive the Derai mad …

Worldcon goers who attended my reading there, also got a little taste of the Winter Country, with its hunters and shamans, where a day might be “bright-as-diamond … between blizzards, with the sky pale blue crystal and the snow stretching away forever, white and gleaming.”

And then, of course, there’s what lies on the other side of the Wall of Night …

So where did the world of Haarth come from? Ursula Le Guin, in her book on writing titled Steering the Craft, talks about pulling ideas out of the air—and ideas do often seem to spring from the ether. Influences I am aware of, which may help shape my access to that marvellous air, include:  a love of myth and legend and fairytale; “what-if” sparks from other stories and also events in the real world; the resonance of music, which strongly influences atmosphere and mood; considerable reading of historical non fiction (for fun, you know); and experience of landscape. As part of a post in the intermittent “influences on story” series on my blog, I specifically discussed the influence of my time living in Stockholm, and winter journeys to the north of Sweden, and to Finland and Russia, on the conceptualisation of the Winter Country.

Few influences on story and world building are so direct though, in my experience. I have had the vision of a twilit world and beleaguered keeps from a very early age, although the windswept crags and bitter peaks of the Wall of Night emerged from the ether a long time after that. The concept of Jaransor, a land that may itself be conscious, is also one that had been “lurking” for some time before I began writing the book. Conversely, the southern kingdoms and the romance of the long road that stretches “from Ij to Ishnapur” evolved as much from their introduction into the story as from any prior consideration.

And just in case you wonder whether there really is power in a name, take it from me that characteristics, history and function in the story, whether for characters or realms, can and do change, sometimes quite dramatically, when a name gets changed. It’s dangerous territory—but that is a blog post for another day. Today is about the world of Haarth and now, introductions made, I will leave you on its borders.

—

Helen Lowe is an award-winning novelist, poet and interviewer. Her first novel, Thornspell, (Knopf, 2008) won the 2009 Sir Julius Vogel Award for “Best Novel, Young Adult”, and Helen was awarded the Sir Julius Vogel for “Best New Talent” in the same year. Her second novel, The Heir of Night, the first of the adult WALL OF NIGHT quartet, is being published by Orbit in Australia/New Zealand on 7 October, with UK publication scheduled for March 2011. Helen also blogs on the first of every month on the Supernatural Underground and every day on her own Helen Lowe on Anything, Really blog.

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I’ve got this book out. It’s called Death Most Definite (UK | US | AUS),  and it’s about Death and it’s set in Brisbane and Hell. That’s Brisbane, Australia (not Brisbane, North Dakota, which Wikipedia informs me is a ghost town, so it would have been kind of appropriate).

Most of you have an idea of where the Hell is, but, probably, not so many would know about Brisbane.

So here’s what you need to know.

It’s Australia’s third most populous city.

The outer eastern suburbs rub up against the coast, the inner suburbs cluster around Mt Coot-tha (a low mountain, really more of a hill, that I can see from my window as I type this). And all through it the Brisbane River winds– a tributary of the River Styx, but then all rivers are.

Brisbane is hot and humid in Summer, kind of like a sweaty old sock, but with better views.  The Winters are mild though you wouldn’t realise that if you looked at our clothes – the slightest drop in temperature and we’re all rugged up as if it’s snowing.

Now, some stuff you probably don’t need to know. Brisbane’s where I fell in love with my wife, it’s where I, shortly after, moved, because I’d fallen in love, and it’s where I’ve lived and worked for fourteen years. It’s the only city I know intimately, and it still surprises me.

So when I decided to write a book about Death, and love, it was the obvious choice. Death has been done before and love, yes, but Death and love set in Brisbane – not so much. Where else could I convincingly blow things up, or know the best way to flee for your life (guided only by a dead girl).

Brisbane is also a city reflected in Hell. Not the fire and Brimstone Hell, but an Underworld where the mirror city exists beneath the branches of a soul devouring Moreton Bay Fig (think that giant tree in Avatar, but BIGGER, and you’re on the right track) and souls are sent there by Pomps that work for Death – and earn a decent sort of wage doing it.

And everything is running smoothly, if a little dully, until Steve de Selby falls in love with a dead girl, and someone starts killing Pomps.

I’d like to think that Death Most Definite is a funny, fast-paced romantic action adventure. And I’d like to think that it shows my city, as I see it. A city grown up. A city filled with challenges and adventure. A city where Death might set up his Australian operations.

And a city of love.

Welcome to Brisbane. Steven de Selby’s city. My city. I think you’ll like it a lot, maybe even learn to love it like me.

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Another big award has come and gone, and I’d like to congratulate all the Orbit authors who won or were nominated. It’s great for them because, while being an author is a fabulous line of work, it can also be discouraging. Unless one is in the awards sphere, or one manages to claw his or her way onto one of the increasingly elusive lists, it’s hard to know if you’re really reaching anyone.

Which is why social media rocks. In my new university’s MFA in popular fiction, I’m teaching a course on building author platforms, and we’re talking a lot about social media. One of the things we’ve brought up peripherally is how rewarding it is to interact with fans of our books.

This weekend, I received some lovely letters and messages on Twitter and Facebook. It’s almost impossible for me to express how much these interactions mean for authors like me. I feel very disconnected, sometimes, from my life as a writer. So to see that people are not only reading my books, but really connecting with the issues they contain and really connecting with my characters means the world to me.

But that’s not all I got this weekend. I also received what I think is an ultimate compliment both to Jane, to Sharon Tancredi’s amazing art, and to Orbit for having the chutzpah to take such big risks. I received evidence of my first Jane True inspired tattoo, from a lovely lady in America. Here’s a picture:

And another:

It looks awesome, doesn’t it! Pretty, yet hard core at the same time. I’d buy a drink for a lady with a tattoo like that. Since posting about this tattoo, I’ve gotten word that plans for other tats are afoot. And that makes me smile.

Are my Jane True books ever going to win an award? Probably not. Will they make a list? Probably not. But with fans like these, who cares. I’m pretty confident they’d have my back in a bar fight. And that’s more than good enough for me.

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So you’re preparing your ultimate zombie-themed dinner party, and you’re stuck for a dessert. Or you’re entertaining a zombie who’s recently gone vegetarian, and is jonesing for those good old days of gray matter and the delicious taste of human brains. Whatever your reasons, you need a brainy treat that puts the “sweet” back into “sweetmeats.”

Luckily, I’m here for you.

These delicious desserts were created by Jennifer at Cups and Cakes Bakery, in San Francisco, California, and she was kind enough to let us come in and record the entire process. Here’s how you, too, can create delicious bite-sized brains for you and your victi…er, guests. First up, a quick instructional video, followed by a detailed recipe.

HOW-TO!
YOU WILL NEED:

* A pastry bag.
* A decorating tip (I recommend a Wilton’s Round #6 or #7).
* Vanilla frosting.
* Food coloring.
* Cherry flavoring (the juice from a jar of maraschino cherries should work).
* Cupcakes.

…what, you don’t expect me to tell you how to bake, do you? Trust me, unless you like the taste of flame, you don’t want that.

The first thing you need to do is get the color of your icing right. The cherry flavoring will not just make your icing delicious; it will make it pink. This is good. Add cherry flavoring to your icing until you have a pale, medium pink color–the sort of thing you’d use for a My Little Pony cake at an eight-year-old’s birthday party. If you don’t like cherries, you can use red food coloring. Or human blood. Whatever makes you happy.

Once your frosting is nicely pink, get out the blue food coloring, and add a drop. Mix thoroughly. Add another drop. Repeat until your icing has turned an unpleasant shade of grayish-pink. It shouldn’t take much, and you don’t want to overdo it–brains aren’t meant to be purple–but once you get the color right, you’ll have something nicely vile looking.

Load up your pastry bag with icing, and let the fun begin!

MAKING THE BRAINS:

Step 1: Make a little mound of icing at the center of your cupcake. The key word is “little”: this is going to give height to your brain, and we want human organs, not giant mutant globes. That’s another kind of cupcake.

Step 2: Choose a “hemisphere” and begin using your frosting to make little ripples and whorls. You should only need one continuous line to make the right sort of messy, biological, gooey-looking ridges that you’d get in a real brain.

Step 3: Turn the cupcake around, and repeat on the other hemisphere.

Step 4: BRAINS!

If you’re going to be serving these to an appreciative audience, you can improve your presentation by putting them in the fridge for half an hour or so to set the icing, and then dripping just a bit of cherry juice on the brains and the plate when you bring them out (this won’t work with red food coloring, unless you want to resemble a Troma flick).

It’s so simple, and disgustingly delicious!

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When it comes to fantasy, I don’t mind if a writer ignores reality.  This shouldn’t be that odd.  Fantasy is, by definition, an escape from reality.  Or, if not an escape, at least a chance to see a world that might have been.  The important element is that, either way, fantasy is just reality as we know it with a tweak here or there that allows the impossible to happen.

I go into fantasy with eyes wide open, knowing that reality can be, will be, discarded if it allows a human to teleport or an invasion of space robots.  I don’t need a justification beyond this is fantasy, and that’s what makes it awesome.

I know writers who work hard to justify fantasy.  Just the other day, someone told me that if they were going to write a story with someone who turned invisible, they’d have to come up with a reason why that person wasn’t blind at the same time.  It’s a legitimate question, or it would be if becoming invisible was something that could actually happen in real life.  But it can’t, and unless the goal of your invisible man story is to make someone think being invisible would stink, then it’s counter productive.

This is the “Superman would kill Lois” fallacy.  It comes from a well-meaning place, but it misses the point.  Superman (and much of fantasy) isn’t meant to be realistic.  Superman, like most superheroes, is not intended to be a horror story about a superhuman who accidentally crushes to death everyone he loves.  It’s a mistake to approach it from that angle, even if to do so is with the best of intentions.

This is why I prefer fantasy to science fiction.  Even my science fiction stories are fantasies.  I can’t give you a reasonable excuse for death rays, robots, and alien life forms.  I just know that they’re neat, and that’s really all I need to know.

Fantasy elements should have limits, but those limits don’t need to come from reality itself which already has the biggest limit of all.

I’m sure if I tried very, very hard, I could come up with a semi-believable reason for why getting bitten by a radioactive spider would give someone superpowers.  I know there are writers who strain to justify integalactic travel against the unforgiving limit of the speed of light.  And if anyone thinks there will ever be an even remotely scientifically plausible justification for telepathy, Hulking out, or dragons breathing fire, they’re more optimistic than I.

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