I am near the end of my Spring break and I am reading too much. With my wife recovering from surgery on painkillers, I stay around home and read. I finished off one of George R. R. Martin's 700+ page novels in his Songs of Ice and Fire series and am halfway through another.
While washing my hands, I noted a scratch on my thumb. Immediately I thought, "at least the burns on that hand are better." Then I realized that it was not me, but a character in GRRM's book, that had a hand burned. So yes, I'm reading too much.
Movies or books that show scenes out of chronological order cause a similar mental quirk. A Seinfeld episode on a wedding in India messed up my head for a few hours, as did Pulp Fiction and Catch 22 (the book, not the movie).
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Knickknack (Excerpt)
“What is a Son of Rovish?” Jane asked her father as she climbed out of the traveling bag he had packed her in. He took a few belongings out of the other bag and arranged them on the bed. He grimaced, looking between the bed and his bag. He lifted his bag, turning it upside down over the bed. Nothing fell out.
Jane wiped her hair from her eyes and tried to rub the sweat from her face with her damp tunic sleeve. She stretched her thin body and looked up at the big man as he shook his hands to the heavens in frustration. Then her father looked down at her and said in his deliberately calm voice, “Where is the case? It had the scrolls that I will trade.”
Jane reached into the bag that she had spent the last hour in and handed the thin wooden case to her father. He eyed her suspiciously. “Why was it there?”
Jane shrugged. “You put it there before I got in. Don’ think I wanted it all poking against me.”
Stefan Geist took a deep breath, shook his head, and corrected her speech. “It made me uncomfortable. I did not wish it there.”
Jane repeated the phrase, knowing that she was probably giving him “that look” again.
Stefan nodded. “Better. Keep in mind that eight year olds should show respect.”
She put her hands on her hips. “I’m nine.”
Stefan scoffed. “I’m sure that makes all the difference. I correct your speech because you must be able to associate with important people if you are to be of any use in the world.”
Jane muttered, “That’s the way we talk. We’re useful.”
Stefan plopped down on the cot. “We? You mean that your mother’s family speaks that way? First of all, your mother does not speak that way. Second, if you continue to follow the example of your worthless uncle, Asil, you will be a vagabond, like him. I have let you spend entirely too much time with him.”
She had heard it before. “What is a Son of Rovish? You said you’d tell me.” She wanted to hear what he would say, even if it was a lie.
“Rovish was created by Silas. Rovish had the gift of making things. When he fathers a child with a human woman, a son or daughter of Rovish is born. They have Rovish’s gift. I am searching for a scroll that this Son of Rovish made. I think he still has one and I wish to trade him some very valuable things for it.”
“What does the scroll say?” She lay back on the cot beside where he sat and dried her sweaty face and hair on the sheets.
Stefan contorted. “Ach! Do not! Revolting.”
She sat up. “What does it say?”
He sighed heavily. “It is not a scroll that says anything interesting, you disgusting little rat; it is a scroll that does things.”
She leaned back against the wall, bonking her head softly. “What does it do?”
He just sat there looking out the open shutters at the darkening red sky for a time. Finally he said, “Maybe I will tell you after I have the scroll.”
The knock at the door startled Stefan. He muttered, “So soon.”
Jane whispered, “Is that him?”
Stefan stood up, his eyes locked on the door. He whispered intensely, “The Son of Rovish? Of course not. It must be Lord Chappell. But I did not tell Lord Chappell where I was staying because I was supposed to contact him before we meet tomorrow.” He looked around the room. “Quick! Back into the bag.”
Jane almost obeyed him without thinking. She decided she would rather use the bed, so she put the bag on the far corner of the bed before climbing in, while Stefan urged, “Hurry, hurry.”
Jane tried to quiet her breathing so that she could hear every word they said. The door creaked open, then after just a murmur or two, it closed.
“The maid,” said Stefan.
Jane climbed out. Stefan held a pitcher and rag, which he laid on the washbasin. He grumbled, “I am so tired.”
First he sat on the cot. Then he lay on it. Then he slept.
He was good at sleeping when he needed and waking up when he needed. Jane quietly closed the shutters so that the light would not disturb him. She washed up, then combed her hair with her fingers. Jane’s hair was cut short because she was a boy on this trip--a boy that had never heard of Stefan Geist.
If only.
She examined the latch, and then remembered to grab her pouch from the bag she had traveled in and put it on her belt. She removed a thin, pliant, copper bar, unlatched and opened the door quietly, then shut the door on the bar, bending it just right. She stepped out and closed the door, then slid the bent copper back through the space and twisted it until she relatched the door. The key lock on the door only worked from the outside--Asil would have told her that the innkeeper wanted guests to be safe, but not to lock themselves inside so that he could not get at them.
Jane was not going to doze in the room when she had a chance to see Morrow--a real city! Her mother had not wanted Jane to visit Morrow without her. Jane certainly did not enjoy being alone with Stefan, but when she had overheard her mother saying, “Stefan, he is a Son of Rovish! A little girl cannot help you with him,” Jane was dying to go.
She looked down the hallway. Something good was cooking in the kitchen. She had to return before Stefan woke or there would be trouble. But she first had to get out of the inn without attracting attention.
She was a boy for this visit, so she concentrated on the way that her brother and the other boys at their people’s camp acted. If she were a boy she would run screaming down the stairs and out through the door, but she might be stopped for misbehavior. She must be a well behaved boy. She thought that surely there were well behaved boys somewhere, though she had never seen any. What was the difference between a well behaved boy and a normal girl? She remembered the time her brother brought the baby rabbit that he had found back into the camp. She pasted on a grin and strutted down the stairs, past the innkeeper’s wife.
Jane wiped her hair from her eyes and tried to rub the sweat from her face with her damp tunic sleeve. She stretched her thin body and looked up at the big man as he shook his hands to the heavens in frustration. Then her father looked down at her and said in his deliberately calm voice, “Where is the case? It had the scrolls that I will trade.”
Jane reached into the bag that she had spent the last hour in and handed the thin wooden case to her father. He eyed her suspiciously. “Why was it there?”
Jane shrugged. “You put it there before I got in. Don’ think I wanted it all poking against me.”
Stefan Geist took a deep breath, shook his head, and corrected her speech. “It made me uncomfortable. I did not wish it there.”
Jane repeated the phrase, knowing that she was probably giving him “that look” again.
Stefan nodded. “Better. Keep in mind that eight year olds should show respect.”
She put her hands on her hips. “I’m nine.”
Stefan scoffed. “I’m sure that makes all the difference. I correct your speech because you must be able to associate with important people if you are to be of any use in the world.”
Jane muttered, “That’s the way we talk. We’re useful.”
Stefan plopped down on the cot. “We? You mean that your mother’s family speaks that way? First of all, your mother does not speak that way. Second, if you continue to follow the example of your worthless uncle, Asil, you will be a vagabond, like him. I have let you spend entirely too much time with him.”
She had heard it before. “What is a Son of Rovish? You said you’d tell me.” She wanted to hear what he would say, even if it was a lie.
“Rovish was created by Silas. Rovish had the gift of making things. When he fathers a child with a human woman, a son or daughter of Rovish is born. They have Rovish’s gift. I am searching for a scroll that this Son of Rovish made. I think he still has one and I wish to trade him some very valuable things for it.”
“What does the scroll say?” She lay back on the cot beside where he sat and dried her sweaty face and hair on the sheets.
Stefan contorted. “Ach! Do not! Revolting.”
She sat up. “What does it say?”
He sighed heavily. “It is not a scroll that says anything interesting, you disgusting little rat; it is a scroll that does things.”
She leaned back against the wall, bonking her head softly. “What does it do?”
He just sat there looking out the open shutters at the darkening red sky for a time. Finally he said, “Maybe I will tell you after I have the scroll.”
The knock at the door startled Stefan. He muttered, “So soon.”
Jane whispered, “Is that him?”
Stefan stood up, his eyes locked on the door. He whispered intensely, “The Son of Rovish? Of course not. It must be Lord Chappell. But I did not tell Lord Chappell where I was staying because I was supposed to contact him before we meet tomorrow.” He looked around the room. “Quick! Back into the bag.”
Jane almost obeyed him without thinking. She decided she would rather use the bed, so she put the bag on the far corner of the bed before climbing in, while Stefan urged, “Hurry, hurry.”
Jane tried to quiet her breathing so that she could hear every word they said. The door creaked open, then after just a murmur or two, it closed.
“The maid,” said Stefan.
Jane climbed out. Stefan held a pitcher and rag, which he laid on the washbasin. He grumbled, “I am so tired.”
First he sat on the cot. Then he lay on it. Then he slept.
He was good at sleeping when he needed and waking up when he needed. Jane quietly closed the shutters so that the light would not disturb him. She washed up, then combed her hair with her fingers. Jane’s hair was cut short because she was a boy on this trip--a boy that had never heard of Stefan Geist.
If only.
She examined the latch, and then remembered to grab her pouch from the bag she had traveled in and put it on her belt. She removed a thin, pliant, copper bar, unlatched and opened the door quietly, then shut the door on the bar, bending it just right. She stepped out and closed the door, then slid the bent copper back through the space and twisted it until she relatched the door. The key lock on the door only worked from the outside--Asil would have told her that the innkeeper wanted guests to be safe, but not to lock themselves inside so that he could not get at them.
Jane was not going to doze in the room when she had a chance to see Morrow--a real city! Her mother had not wanted Jane to visit Morrow without her. Jane certainly did not enjoy being alone with Stefan, but when she had overheard her mother saying, “Stefan, he is a Son of Rovish! A little girl cannot help you with him,” Jane was dying to go.
She looked down the hallway. Something good was cooking in the kitchen. She had to return before Stefan woke or there would be trouble. But she first had to get out of the inn without attracting attention.
She was a boy for this visit, so she concentrated on the way that her brother and the other boys at their people’s camp acted. If she were a boy she would run screaming down the stairs and out through the door, but she might be stopped for misbehavior. She must be a well behaved boy. She thought that surely there were well behaved boys somewhere, though she had never seen any. What was the difference between a well behaved boy and a normal girl? She remembered the time her brother brought the baby rabbit that he had found back into the camp. She pasted on a grin and strutted down the stairs, past the innkeeper’s wife.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
World Building
I took a major step in developing the The Arch of Time fantasy universe in 1987. A new role playing game was released. I decided to create a supplement to the game--religious role playing.
The supplement had two parts. One part was counsel on using religion in role playing. Since role playing games are viewed negatively by some religious denominations, I advised players not to use gods that had ever been worshipped in earth's history. Game masters should create their own gods or use gods made from whole cloth, such as I provided in part two of the supplement.
My view was that if one used a god such as Cernunnos, the irate denominations would "demonize" the game, no matter that the players, in actuality, viewed the god as a prop and not as a deity that they revered. The denominations would draw parallels between that stag-horned god and another horned figure from their own religion.
Perhaps nothing could inoculate the role player from the charges of those who demonized anything beyond their scriptures. But in my view, it was prudent to do what one could to appeal to the reasonable end of the spectrum.
I further counseled players that the important aspect of using religion in role playing was that religion could enrich the game environment and the players' conceptions of the roles that they played. The precise amount of damage that Odin's spear does is irrelevant to the role play. So my emphasis was on building a fictional world, not on game mechanics.
The supplement also had to create specific abilities and rules for players of priest roles. In role playing games, the in-game physical struggle is somewhat important. The players want to defeat the enemy. Many games are set up so that the players battle a great many enemies in a playing session with no time to fully rest and recouperate in-between combats.
Games (including the game that I wrote the supplement for) traditionally used the priest class to heal wounds. Who/what the priest's god is like should affect the abilities of the priest, not just his outlook on the world.
As I looked over the set of myths that defined the gods in my supplement, I realized that few priests in my universe fulfilled their usual roles. Some priests would be warriors, skilled beyond human abilities. Some would be scholars who had some mental/esp/communications abilities. Some would have many abilities similar to elemental wizards, harnessing fire, for instance. But some priests would mostly heal.
This made my universe into a something that I had never seen in fiction--a fantasy world where some characters have abilities that work similarly to magic, but are religiously based. If I put magic in the hands of the gods, how would my literary universe work?
Do I know that this concept is unique? Of course not. How can one ever know that he has a unique literary creation, since no one has read everything. For instance, a couple of days after I patted myself on my back for creating an excellent name for a street in my city of Tistrin, I found that George R. R. Martin had the same street name in one of his novels. And GRRM may not have been the first to "invent" that name.
In any case, I enjoy exploring a world with wizard/warrior/scholar/mentalist/bezerker/ninja/healer priests.
If you want to explore, you can find excerpts of stories on my website. You can also find my cosmology there--the story of the gods.
http://www.thearchoftime.com/
The supplement had two parts. One part was counsel on using religion in role playing. Since role playing games are viewed negatively by some religious denominations, I advised players not to use gods that had ever been worshipped in earth's history. Game masters should create their own gods or use gods made from whole cloth, such as I provided in part two of the supplement.
My view was that if one used a god such as Cernunnos, the irate denominations would "demonize" the game, no matter that the players, in actuality, viewed the god as a prop and not as a deity that they revered. The denominations would draw parallels between that stag-horned god and another horned figure from their own religion.
Perhaps nothing could inoculate the role player from the charges of those who demonized anything beyond their scriptures. But in my view, it was prudent to do what one could to appeal to the reasonable end of the spectrum.
I further counseled players that the important aspect of using religion in role playing was that religion could enrich the game environment and the players' conceptions of the roles that they played. The precise amount of damage that Odin's spear does is irrelevant to the role play. So my emphasis was on building a fictional world, not on game mechanics.
The supplement also had to create specific abilities and rules for players of priest roles. In role playing games, the in-game physical struggle is somewhat important. The players want to defeat the enemy. Many games are set up so that the players battle a great many enemies in a playing session with no time to fully rest and recouperate in-between combats.
Games (including the game that I wrote the supplement for) traditionally used the priest class to heal wounds. Who/what the priest's god is like should affect the abilities of the priest, not just his outlook on the world.
As I looked over the set of myths that defined the gods in my supplement, I realized that few priests in my universe fulfilled their usual roles. Some priests would be warriors, skilled beyond human abilities. Some would be scholars who had some mental/esp/communications abilities. Some would have many abilities similar to elemental wizards, harnessing fire, for instance. But some priests would mostly heal.
This made my universe into a something that I had never seen in fiction--a fantasy world where some characters have abilities that work similarly to magic, but are religiously based. If I put magic in the hands of the gods, how would my literary universe work?
Do I know that this concept is unique? Of course not. How can one ever know that he has a unique literary creation, since no one has read everything. For instance, a couple of days after I patted myself on my back for creating an excellent name for a street in my city of Tistrin, I found that George R. R. Martin had the same street name in one of his novels. And GRRM may not have been the first to "invent" that name.
In any case, I enjoy exploring a world with wizard/warrior/scholar/mentalist/bezerker/ninja/healer priests.
If you want to explore, you can find excerpts of stories on my website. You can also find my cosmology there--the story of the gods.
http://www.thearchoftime.com/
Monday, March 17, 2008
Interesting Character Trait
Today I contemplated an interesting character quirk. This will be something fun to work with for future characters.
I am associated with a liar. He lies often. He gets caught in lies and usually tells new lies to cover the old lies. Sometimes, though, he gets undeniably caught in his lies.
He has a few interesting traits. First, he expects to be believed when he says anything, though he will admit that he has previously told many lies. "Yes, I lied all those times, but this time I am telling you the truth." Sometimes, of course, he is lying when he says that.
Second, he feels slighted if his lies are not believed when there is not sufficient evidence to strongly conclude that he is lying. That is, he might angrily say to himself, "How can they accuse me of lying about X when they do not truly have conclusive evidence that I am lying?" (though he is)
Third, if he has told 100 lies, but has been accused of lying 101 times, he is furious over the false accusation, even though he seems to understand that he has a bad track record.
Yes, it is frustrating to deal with this person. But this is an analytical post, in which I am marveling at his worldview, not fuming at him.
I am associated with a liar. He lies often. He gets caught in lies and usually tells new lies to cover the old lies. Sometimes, though, he gets undeniably caught in his lies.
He has a few interesting traits. First, he expects to be believed when he says anything, though he will admit that he has previously told many lies. "Yes, I lied all those times, but this time I am telling you the truth." Sometimes, of course, he is lying when he says that.
Second, he feels slighted if his lies are not believed when there is not sufficient evidence to strongly conclude that he is lying. That is, he might angrily say to himself, "How can they accuse me of lying about X when they do not truly have conclusive evidence that I am lying?" (though he is)
Third, if he has told 100 lies, but has been accused of lying 101 times, he is furious over the false accusation, even though he seems to understand that he has a bad track record.
Yes, it is frustrating to deal with this person. But this is an analytical post, in which I am marveling at his worldview, not fuming at him.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Raising the Stakes
I have not read enough by fiction writers about writing to find out what others feel their strengths and weaknesses are. Some things come naturally for me.
The plot is the essential thing for me. Keep the plot moving toward a climax.
I have a feel for the issues of control of the plot. Before I begin writing, I know the direction and the final destination. But I do not know each step and learn the way as I go. And sometimes I find a new direction and twist, but I always keep moving ahead.
The characters live for me. They feel unique with unique voices.
I have difficulty with two issues. I have discussed my difficulty with decisions about moving the plot ahead, vs. creating an atmosphere.
I also sometimes have difficulty with raising the stakes. Not only does the conflict have to take place. For much of the plot, the protagonist has to face difficulty in moving ahead. Sir Edmund Hillary does not just start at the bottom of the mountain, then execute a plan for climbing and make it to the top. Sir Edmund must sacrifice, suffer, face death, etcetcetc.
So after I write a few scenes, I often must then look into what I have written and say, "Are the stakes high enough for enough of these scenes?" Often I find that I have work to do.
The plot is the essential thing for me. Keep the plot moving toward a climax.
I have a feel for the issues of control of the plot. Before I begin writing, I know the direction and the final destination. But I do not know each step and learn the way as I go. And sometimes I find a new direction and twist, but I always keep moving ahead.
The characters live for me. They feel unique with unique voices.
I have difficulty with two issues. I have discussed my difficulty with decisions about moving the plot ahead, vs. creating an atmosphere.
I also sometimes have difficulty with raising the stakes. Not only does the conflict have to take place. For much of the plot, the protagonist has to face difficulty in moving ahead. Sir Edmund Hillary does not just start at the bottom of the mountain, then execute a plan for climbing and make it to the top. Sir Edmund must sacrifice, suffer, face death, etcetcetc.
So after I write a few scenes, I often must then look into what I have written and say, "Are the stakes high enough for enough of these scenes?" Often I find that I have work to do.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
To Sleep, To Dream
It usually takes me three seconds to get to sleep. Occasionally, I have problems staying asleep. I have something that usually works well in getting me back to sleep, so that I seldom stay awake for long if I use my trick.
Before I found the solution, I would try lying there, counting sheep, trying not to think, reading, listening to music, watching television, eating something, and a million other things. What works for me is this. I always have a book on tape nearby with some comfortable headphones. For some reason, being read to generally puts me back to sleep, even if the book is interesting.
I often go to www.librivox.org and download public domain recorded books to import into my iPod. A month ago I was listening to The Prince, by Nicolo Machiavelli and The Art of War, by Sun Tsu. Lately I have favored Mark Twain's The Innocents Abroad and Alexis de Tocqueville's Democracy in America.
This past month, the books have started to bleed into my dreams. Last night in my de Toqueville dreams, some friends were arguing with me about politics, one of them, in particular, favoring a weakened executive branch of government. I would have agreed with him if he had added weakened legislative and judicial branches to his wish list.
Before I found the solution, I would try lying there, counting sheep, trying not to think, reading, listening to music, watching television, eating something, and a million other things. What works for me is this. I always have a book on tape nearby with some comfortable headphones. For some reason, being read to generally puts me back to sleep, even if the book is interesting.
I often go to www.librivox.org and download public domain recorded books to import into my iPod. A month ago I was listening to The Prince, by Nicolo Machiavelli and The Art of War, by Sun Tsu. Lately I have favored Mark Twain's The Innocents Abroad and Alexis de Tocqueville's Democracy in America.
This past month, the books have started to bleed into my dreams. Last night in my de Toqueville dreams, some friends were arguing with me about politics, one of them, in particular, favoring a weakened executive branch of government. I would have agreed with him if he had added weakened legislative and judicial branches to his wish list.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Ammunition
Writers collect interesting experiences and use them. I got some great ammunition today.
Julia and I were traveling in the area, discussing a family thing. We have different views of this "thing." I said, "I would like to tell you what I think about it. You can tell me how wrong I am. I will shut up. And that will be that. OK?"
So she told me what I thought about it, told me how wrong I was, and that was that.
What a character!
An hour or so later I made my proposal again and she agreed to actually let me tell her my view. So I told her my view. Then, oddly enough, she agreed with me. But I was driving, so I could not afford to faint.
Julia and I were traveling in the area, discussing a family thing. We have different views of this "thing." I said, "I would like to tell you what I think about it. You can tell me how wrong I am. I will shut up. And that will be that. OK?"
So she told me what I thought about it, told me how wrong I was, and that was that.
What a character!
An hour or so later I made my proposal again and she agreed to actually let me tell her my view. So I told her my view. Then, oddly enough, she agreed with me. But I was driving, so I could not afford to faint.
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