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).

syndicated by orbitbooks.net

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.

syndicated by orbitbooks.net

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.

syndicated by orbitbooks.net

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.

syndicated by orbitbooks.net

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!

syndicated by orbitbooks.net

Because I love it when they do! I gotta admit: I’m a swearer, as is Jane. I sometimes wonder how I got such a potty mouth, then I go home and watch as various members of my family drop F-bombs like they’re pilots during the Blitz. It’s like I was raised by a horde of Midwestern pirates prone to stubbing their toes. Cover your ears if you go to the Peeler’s, people.

So, I don’t mind swearing, and I’ve already established I adore a little filth. I also like it when people poke fun at sex, because it is funny, and I have Jane’s libido say some purposely ridiculous things. What I don’t enjoy is when people mean the F-word…and then they say something else. You know what I’m talking about.

The Dreaded Euphemism.

Now, I get it that writers have to be careful. An author writing a sensual scene might not want to risk sounding porny by going all Lawrentian and throwing about the “C” word. There are also a lot of times when a softer, more subtle approach that closes the door gently in the reader’s face works wonders for the imagination as well as the libido.

What I don’t like is when people write what’s pretty intense sex…but don’t use a single “real” word. Instead, they attempt to disguise their writing in euphemisms, as if sex and sexuality need to be stuck in evening dress to be presentable. Here are just a smattering of my least favorite, fairly commonly used euphemisms. Huge thanks to my friends on Facebook and Twitter for helping me compile this list:

Firstly, there’s the “garden variety” euphemism. I don’t know about you, but I sometimes wonder why I want to start planting flowers after I read some sex scenes. Then I remember that “petals” are now labia, which have been described as drenched in “dew.” “Rosebuds” have taken over for bits that are anything but(t). Other people have reported spotting “purple tulips,” “aching buds,” and “nests.” But not the kind sparrows live in! Finally, there’s the dreaded “manroot.”

Then there’s the group of euphemisms that I normally associate with jewelry, but what do I know? Clitori becomes “pearls,” which are not to be confused with “beaded,” as in nipples, unless they ARE confused, and then you should just go ahead and rub everything vaguely pointy. But be careful, in case the nipples are “rubies,” or “diamonds,” or “pebbles.” Fruity pebbles?

And where do I begin with the Weapons-Grade Euphemism? “Swords” fit in “sheathes,” but not so much the “lances.” They just poke at high speeds, presumably. As do “shafts.” “Torpedos?” Really? But I’ll take a torpedo, any day, over a “battering ram” charging at my “gates.”

Finally, and this is where I always get a little squicked, there’s the adjectives. Now, don’t get me wrong. I know that describing sex shouldn’t always be scientific, and I know that a lot of words of which I’m not a fan will push another person’s love-nubbin-of-pleasure. But here’s a short list of words I’m either tired of seeing, or a little squicked out by:

• Throbbing. Do you need an Advil, for the love of all that’s holy?
• Pulsating (see above)
• Fleshy. Does one ever grasp the thing described this way and discover, to one’s shock, it’s TITANIUM?
• Oozing. I know things ooze. I know it’s accurate. But there’s the whole “connection to sores” thing.
• Straining! I see puppies. Happy, frolicsome puppies.
• Turgid. Turgid Turnips Turnabout!
• Spicy. Nothing ever described as “spicy” really tastes “spicy.” Ever. So don’t go thinking you can make a curry.
• Moist! That is all.

And then there’s my absolute LEAST favorite . . . the thing that makes me both vomit, a little, in my mouth AND makes me crave some chips and dip . . .

• Creamy.

I can taste the cool ranch, even now. Now where DID I put those Lays?

How about you guys? What euphemisms have you read, heard, or (gods forbid) said that really knocked you for six?

Jaye and I’ve been going back and forth about humor, heroism, vulnerability, et cetera, and I really couldn’t think of anything to add, especially after Jaye’s great latest post. To be honest, I was a bit stuck. Then I went back to square one, and began thinking about what else I think makes my Jane a bit different, as a heroine.

When I wrote Jane, I was playing with an idea that really attracted me. This idea was inspired by two things: the fact that Jane’s part selkie (a mythological creature that can be quite hedonistic), and the fact that I was a little tired of reading about women who were Much Better People than I am.

The idea in question was that of my favorite vice: Greed.

I am a very greedy girl, on a number of levels. When I like something, I want lots of it. Whatever it is, I want to roll around in it, immerse myself in it, have it till I can’t take any more. And then I want something else.

It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but neither am I ashamed. In fact, I think it’s a facet of my personality that’s at the root of some of my greatest strengths as well as a few of my greatest weaknesses. But it’s there, and I know I’m not the only one who shares a similar vice.

That said, the women in books tend to be so…good. They say no, and they say no, and they say no, until they don’t say no. But by that time, whatever it is they want (whether it’s a man, a lifestyle choice, a new job, a new adventure) has been proven to be so throughly good for them that it’s lost a little bit of the sinfulness I, for one, like lacing my indulgences.

So when I was thinking what kind of heroine I wanted to write, to shake things up a bit, I thought about writing an unrepentantly hedonistic female character. A female character who doesn’t apologize for her lust for pleasures of all sorts, or, better yet, a character who’s really never even considered apologizing.

The idea of such a woman fit in well with the selkie myths. All in all, and except for the risk of clubbing, seals seem to have a pretty good time rolling around the waves and carousing on beaches. Add in the fae element, with selkie men and women (especially the men) known for doing more than their fair share of seducing the mortals, and I had the makings of a very unapologetically sensual character.

From these ideas sprang Jane. She’s gonna eat carbs. She’s gonna have that one last drink. She’s not gonna have to be in love to have sex. And she’s definitely, definitely going to let herself have a wee moan when she really enjoys something, even if it’s not entirely appropriate.

For me, it makes Jane fun to write, because I like people who like stuff, and I love seeing other people enjoy things. We live in a weird world where everything is so abundant, and yet so bland; we have so many opportunities, yet we’re taught to fear our own capacity for pleasure. Jane’s my little black-eyed answer to such first-world demons. And I love writing her pleasure.

When Jaye ended her last post by asking me, “What’s so funny about writing the every woman?” the answer to me was obvious: I get to write about real life!

Real life is ridiculous. Humanity is ridiculous. Sex is ridiculous. Eating is ridiculous. Society is ridiculous. I could go on and on. At the same time, all of the above is also fun, heartbreaking, pathetic, limitlessly engaging, heroic… Again, the list is endless. It’s real life people: It’s messy, it’s complicated, and it’s irresistible.

So, you might be wondering, why the hell do you write urban fantasy if you want to write about real life, Dr. Peeler? It’s because the only thing I like more than real life is satire. And what better way to call attention to just how absurd things are than by contrasting the absolutely normal with the entirely paranormal.

Jane’s “everywoman” as a heroine was, therefore, the natural choice for me. Like Gulliver, she could have crazy, supernatural adventures that titillate reader’s imaginations at the same time she plays with reader’s assumptions about values such as heroism, goodness, love, et cetera. Not that I think I’m Jonathan Swift, by any means. He was a man on a mission and me? I just wanted to tell a good story, with a few extra layers.

So what are those layers? And how does an “everywoman” heroine help skin them?

Let’s start with heroism. When we think of heroes, our culture usually points us in the direction of figures such as Conan. Musclebound, seemingly unstoppable, and gifted with preternatural abilities of size and strength, this is definitely a type of Epic hero. But what about a more quiet type of heroism? For example, I’ve always been fascinated by women like my mother and my sister-in-law. The former has taught special ed all of her life, the latter is a nurse. They’re not musclebound or gifted with preternatural abilities, and yet they’re still unstoppable. Women like my mom and my sister-in-law do what they do despite the dangers, not because of them. They do what they do knowing that they will get hurt, both emotionally and physically. They admit to being afraid, constantly, that they’re not doing enough, or that they could do more, or that they’re not really making a difference. And then they get up and go to work, despite those fears.

So yeah, I think heroism takes a lot of forms. And writing a character who isn’t kick ass is my way of asking people to reevaluate their definitions of strength.

Through subverting such assumptions about “values” commonly made in urban fantasy, I also wanted Jane to subvert the assumptions about female agency that some kick-ass heroines unwittingly recycle. Take, for example, the idea that Jane’s “everywoman” status makes her vulnerable. In some ways, yes, it does. She gets her ass kicked more than a few times, and she needs rescued, physically, even more.

But in reading Jaye’s post I realized something about Jane. She’s nobody’s foil. She’s not crashing around, reflexively whacking back at life as it whacks her first. Jane isn’t perfect: she makes a lot of mistakes and she can be a bit clueless. She’s also oftentimes influenced by the actions of others. But throughout the books, she’s still thinking, all the time, about her life and what she wants out of that life. She’s not just reacting.

Jane’s the one making the jokes. She’s the one who sees through what’s around her: she sees the sublime in the ridiculous, and the ridiculous in the sublime. Granted, she usually does so on the way to find a bathroom or a bite to eat. But don’t we all spend a large portion of our lives in either one of those two positions? And those are the moments no one ever writes about in UF. Nobody ever pees! Or needs a hot dog. But I’m sure even Conan needed both, at some point. The paradox, meanwhile, is that by acknowledging that bugbear, the human condition, this kind of character refuses to reject our lived experience as unworthy of the subject of fiction. Instead, characters such as Jane embrace real life, helping us to see how our own lives can, sometimes, be downright magical.

Especially when that hot dog is covered in chili. And cheese. And served with a Dr. Pepper. Ummm . . . Is anybody else hungry?

Like Jaye Wells, I seem to have become someone “known” for snark. And so, because we’re friends and because we like to hear our own voices, Jaye and I’ve had a few conversations (all of them snarky, por su puesto) in which we’ve attempted to define snark. During such sessions we’ve been drinking, but that has less to do with snark and more to do with wetting our whistles (or whetting our whistles into shivs, as the case may be).

And yet, despite our mutual identities as mistresses du snark, Jaye and I write very different books. Our covers say it all: the imposing figure of Jaye’s vampire/mage assassin, clad in leather, introduces the world to Sabina’s patented “fuck you” stare. Meanwhile, my Jane peers, naked and vulnerable, from her liminal position: halfway between earth and sea, halfway between human and paranormal. My books feel lighter than Jaye’s in tone, our heroine’s are totally different, but both Jaye and I are shelved under “snark” as much as we are “urban fantasy.”

So what is it about snark that makes this possible?

I would argue that the thing that makes our books similar, and that makes the two of us friends, is the same thing that differentiates “snarky” from “being an asshole”: the art of self-deprecation.

Jaye hit on the idea that snark is often a defensive weapon, honed by those of us who always knew we were a little…different. For me, I realized very early that I was never going to be the “pretty girl”: the head cheerleader or the homecoming queen. With that revelation, I figured I had three choices: get angry about that fact (and be an asshole), try to attempt a pale imitation of that identity (and be pathetic), or I could become popular in my own way by making fun of myself. By outlining in painstaking, humiliating, and hilarious detail exactly why I could never be the cheerleader (legs like drumsticks!), I not only got people laughing, but I could also then evolve that mockery into something more: for example, subverting the superficial ideas of “identity” we so often clung to in high school.

In other words, I figured out that if I made fun of myself, first, and got everyone laughing…I could make fun of anything.

It was an epiphany. I stopped being the shy, too-smart girl with her nose always buried in a book, and instead developed a persona who loved working a room. By admitting my weaknesses, I introduced people to my strengths and, more importantly, I got my audience rooting for me.

I didn’t invent this strategy, of course, and it was used most famously by Cyrano de Bergerac, in Rostand’s play of the same name. When The Vicsount makes fun of Cyrano’s nose by calling it, “very big,” Cyrano responds, “Is that all?…You might have said at least a hundred things,” before continuing to list over twenty ways to make fun of his own nose.

Meanwhile, as Cyrano constantly suggests, the art of self-deprecation is exactly that: an art. Too much, and it sounds like you’re looking to host a pity party. Too little, and you risk sounding glib (Tom Cruise!).

Granted, such self-deprecation is, as Jaye points out, a defense mechanism. But it’s a subtle, much nuanced self-defense mechanism that shouldn’t be underestimated. I would even argue that snark implies as much strength as it does vulnerability. Indeed, the “just right” amount of self-deprecation says the following: I can take it on the chin; I came by my right to the funny the hard way; and I know who I am, drumstick legs and all.

I’ve got the same questions Jaye had, as this post is more an addendum to her post than a challenge. How do you define snark? How does a character being snarky change that character, for you? Is it a strength? Or the unwitting display of a whole backlog of personality issues?

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.

Syndicated from orbitbooks.net.