Angry Robot all over the world are waking up in unmarked graves this holiday season--or, more often, not waking up. Our robot overlords at Angry Robot Books have decided to afford a chance to live to see the new year, with the catch that only one of us will. And we have to earn that privilege. The Christmas Deathmatch Flash Fiction contest is well underway. While I've already been left in a shallow ditch (a bloody hole in my Christmas vest) after trying to off novelist and Obsidian Games narrative director Carrie Patel with a sentient Baby's First Christmas ornament, you can come read all of our 250 word flash fiction entries on Twitter, under the Christmas Deathmatch hashtag.
It is officially official -- Angry Robot Books, a fantastic UK SF/F/WTF press, will be publishing my debut science fiction novel QUIETUS in March, 2018!
The official summary from Angry Robot--
Come see the full cover reveal (art by the amazing Dominic Harman), a teaser, and some other words at Barnes and Nobles's Science Fiction blog! An excerpt below, and more at the link:
I have a silly relationship with nostalgia.
I can feel nostalgic for things I never miss, or even things that I find hokey or actively annoying. I can board a long flight, not enjoy it, and still feel bad when it's over. I can dislike a television series more than I like it, and still coo when something else references it.
Star Trek has always traded in this feeling. Its absurdly-long-lasting and still-ongoing new series and films started decades after the original left the air. Every new bridge set, every saucer-and-nacelle model, is in some sense a recreation. Beyond that, though, Star Trek will sometimes rebuild the first sets, and try to convince you that they're the same ones.
Any of the old-style set recreations grab my attention. But the thing is, I can pull up any of the old episodes, at any moment, and not be half as interested. Or not even want to watch them, really. When the set and costumes and comforting background noises are the originals, my sense of awe of the sets and costuming disappears. Those things become background.
I used to think that I was being pandered to, even if I couldn't exactly figure out why I responded to the pandering. Reconstructions of the old sets mean nothing to my partner, for example. But there's something more than that happening.
This has been on my mind since I started playing the most recent expansion to the Baldur's Gate games. The two Baldur's Gate games were released in 1998 and 2000. This expansion, Siege of Dragonspear, was released in... 2016.
That was as much time as passed between Return of the Jedi and The Phantom Menace. For games, sixteen years is even more of an eternity. The Dungeons and Dragons ruleset, which Baldur's Gate and Siege of Dragonspear both used, has gone through three new editions. Siege of Dragonspear is still using 2nd edition rules. Siege of Dragonspear may be the last officially licensed 2nd edition product.
Now, the games have not exactly gone untouched. Beamdog, the company that released the new expansion, also re-released the originals as "Enhanced Editions" with some new content. But Siege of Dragonspear is on a scale unlike what they did before. Unlike the Enhanced Editions, they reunited much of the voice cast. And it was listening to the voice cast that made my breath catch.
In-game, Siege of Dragonspear does not draw attention to the years that have passed between this and the original releases. It takes place between the games. The intended course for a player through it is to finish the first game, play this, and then go on to the second game.
Unlike Star Trek, Siege of Dragonspear does not trade in nostalgia beyond the simple fact that it exists. In what I've played so far, the expansion visits some of the original games' locations, but it does not dwell on them. In fact, it curtails the player's ability to visit them. Sprawling city blocks that, in the originals, had a dozen locations of interest and maybe two critical to the plot, are cut to just the plot-important locations. Old characters are not reintroduced with dramatic flourishes or musical stings. They're just there--as, from their perspective, they always have been.
Every time I hear the voice cast, the fact of their presence grabs my attention. The silly part is, I had just heard these voices before starting this interquel. I'll hear them again as soon as I move on to the second game. They won't have the same effect on me there, and not just because I've played the games before.
What all of this is forcing me to do is to think about the game's production. I don't usually do that, largely because of the medium I chose to work in, but also because of the short-sighted way I view other work.
In short stories and novels, deep behind-the-scenes analysis is rarely a part of the reading. Most writers, myself included, would sooner vomit on you than show you a rough draft. Few writers will even talk about research processes. I construct stories all the time, every day, in whatever time I can spare, but I don't think enough about how other people produce their stories--especially in other media.
I follow authors, but rarely actors or directors. This was a conscious decision I made when I was young. When I was old enough to begin to recognize the artifice in films, see the strings and painted backdrops, I pushed that to the background. Even at an older age, I wanted to believe that the screen was a window into another world--that I could go to the Enterprise bridge and feel tritanium and not plywood. I didn't want to know what was really underneath those carpets.
Now no film or other work can ever be removed from its context. As of course I grew up I became more and more aware that everything is a product of its time, of the people who made it and their biases, and so it. But there has always been a part of me that did not want to peel back a film any farther than that. I never wanted to see casting videos, behind-the-set photos, interviews with actors, or so on.
In Star Trek and Siege of Dragonspear, I appreciate those things in ways that I've trained myself early on to avoid. I want to see how perfectly a set can be recreated, hear actors pick up sixteen-year-old roles.
Getting so much of the old voice cast back together for Siege of Dragonspear feels like an immense accomplishment. This not to minimize the work that went into casting the original games. But a revival has much more rigid expectations. Every departure is noticed; every detail is going to be picked over. The originals had to be very good. The new expansion has to be very good and "true" to the source. Every time one of the characters from the originals appears, I'm caught in suspense, trying to figure out if they'll get it "right."
The way I read these stories has been crucial to my development as a writer. I want to immerse myself in the fiction, believe that it's real, whether I'm reading or writing. So far, that's meant not seeing the sets, the actors, the lighting, and all the other minutiae of production. I used to think that following the career paths of actors and directors was a distraction from their art. But it's another way of reading them. I feel like I'm waking up to something most other people realize in second grade. There are connections I'm not seeing, statements that have gone unread, because of what I programmed myself to ignore.
Resurrecting media whose sets have been destroyed, whose actors have moved on, forces me to pay attention. It's been a silly way for me to realize what I should have long ago. The ways I've trained myself to interpret media have been valuable for me, but I can't rely on them forever.
It's not enough to watch, read, and listen to new things. I need to find new ways to decipher them, too.
I'm under the general misconception that I know what I'm doing until I actually start doing it. Even in my more detailed outlines, my plans for a novel are nebulous. They look pretty, they can expand to fill plenty of space, but there's not much substance to them.
The substance that actually fills that space ends up being much different than I imagined. Some space is left unfilled, and that's all right. Some of the finished work has grown strange new limbs, spiraled off in unexpected directions. It makes for a messy and lumpen rough draft, but I've gotten better and better at addressing that in revision.
It's worth the work. The finished substance is usually bigger and better than I would have believed at the outset. If I'm good and lucky, some of the original intent is still visible.
My current big project, Quietus, has been one of the latter. It's changed significantly in the details and the margins since I started sketching it out, but I can still recognize my goal.
Whenever I read history, I couldn't escape a feeling of futility, of partiality. For as much as I tried to understand the people I read about, their lifestyles and their values, there was too much of myself, of my lifestyle and values, getting in the way. I found, and still find, it particularly difficult to grasp their religious values. No matter where I went or how hard I squinted, I couldn't escape my own shortcomings. At best I could try to minimize them, but that didn't feel like enough.
Quietus began as an attempt to directly address this in narrative. It would be a story about the Black Death, about the people cut down by the Black Death and their survivors, but told in a modern voice, through modern sensibilities. Anthropologists from an other-dimensional Earth visit and study the Black Death to learn how to cope with a mass death event of their own. I wanted to highlight our biases and tell a story that was as much about the things we bring to history as history itself.
Of course, things mutated from there. They always do with me. The anthropologists were meant to come from a world much more like ours than the heady, multiverse-spanning, conspiracy-driven civilization of the finished draft. But Quietus continues to be a story about the ways in which we see and change history as much as it is about history itself. All of the otherworldly elements, while leading in their own new directions, continue to support that.
There is no way to understand history without bringing ourselves into it. If I visiting history, I think I would make some of the same mistakes as Quietus's anthropologists.
And I would end up regretting them just as much as they do.
So there's been an article going around the twittersphere about the things one must do to be a Real Writer™ and most people on my feed are drinking deeply of the well of snark. I'll pass on linking the article in question because articles like it happen every once in a while, like flat tires or stubbing one's toe. You'll come across another one eventually.
I've certainly fallen prey to more than one of them when I was an impressionable young breaker of keyboards. And, to be honest, there's something not entirely unhelpful in them--at least not for me. The theme of this week's article was to write every day, and it's not the first time I've heard that. The motivating power of guilt kept me on track when I was first making serious efforts at composing stories for other people rather than just myself.
But--do I write every day now? Hell no, I don't. When I'm working on a project, I try to get something down every day. But between that, there's outlining. There's research. Particularly with my historical novels, research is an essential part of my creative process, and I'd rate a day of research as far more productive than a day of writing. Writing is complicated, and the words I get down on a page without research and without planning would be worth far less.
Thanks in part to articles like the aforementioned, it took me a lot longer to understand that than I'd like.
But this is all besides the point. The point here being that writing articles tut tutting impressionable young authors is good for exposure, and I want to throw my two cents into life's take-a-penny bin!
Starting with the premise that I am a Real Writer™, obviously all Real Writers™ must behave as I do. Here is my confessional-- er, 7-point guide to Real Writing™.
1) When you sit down with the intention of writing, you must actually stare at Twitter for half-an-hour before typing a word.
2) When writing scenes appropriate for them, you must make engine and spaceship noises with your mouth. For experts only.
3) Only Real Writers™ have the ability to read a sentence five times over and still miss the glaring typo.
4) While gearing yourself up, you must listen to the same bad music that you have listened to since high school*. You must know it is bad. You must embrace the bad.
*Exception: high school writers and younger. You are still allowed to fool yourselves into thinking that the music you listen to is good--for now.
5) You must inconsistently allow your word processor to autocorrect double dashes into em dashes, and drive your beta readers mad.
6) You must include up to 100 semi-colons in your first draft, and you must also cut that down to 5 in editing. (Note: if this is a short story and only 200 words, semi-colons still mandatory.)
7) At least once per project, you must include a mortifying error, on the level of describing a sunrise as coming from the west, to test your beta readers and editors. Yes. To test. That is the story I am sticking to.
I hope you have been appropriately enlightened by this glimpse into my processes. If you try hard, you, too, can live up to them.