Apocalypse of the Un-People

I won’t be doing this regularly, but . . . I had so much fun creating a story out of a playlist that I did it a third time (the first time being the playlist for Bargaining Power and the second time being Descent Into Monster from my November 30 post). 

This one is also k-pop.  I call it Apocalypse of the Un-People.

Part 1

Scientists invent a new machine called the Eye (“The Eye”) meant to watch over people, but something goes terribly wrong (“Error”) and it instead begins to control them.  A woman rises above all others and seizes the device (“Room Shaker”).  She is determined, no matter what the cost ("Blood Sweat & Tears") to create a paradise of happy, obedient people ("UN Village").

As she seizes more and more control, a rebellion begins to defeat her (“Power”).  Men proclaim that she is an evil overlord (“Bad”) and rush to take her down.  But whenever they encounter her, she seduces them with her great charm and beauty (“Hip”) and they succumb (“Be Mine”), whereupon she turns the Eye on them and they become happy, mindless slaves (“Why So Serious?”)

The world has begun to fall apart, now that so many who were against her are now for her.  Everything is upside down and twisted (“Trouble”).  Finally, one man rises up, determined to face her and save everyone from the Eye (“Hero”).  He goes and, instead of her charming him, he charms her (“Love words”).  She is immediately smitten with him (“Electric Shock”). 

For a little while, everything seems great (“Paradise”), but that’s just an illusion; it won’t last (“Fantasy”)

Part 2

The evil overlady soon begins flirting and suborning more men (“The Boys”), making the hero horribly jealous (“Jealousy”).  But the more hurt he becomes (“Damage”), the more she exults in playing both sides (“Bad Girl Good Girl”). 

The hero finally accuses her of being two-faced (“Jekyll”), then immediately apologizes in the face of her anger (“Sorry, Sorry”) and begs for her to forgive him (“Back”).  But she replies that clearly, he doesn’t love her like he swore he did (“You Don’t Love Me”) and turns The Eye on him (“Voodoo Doll”).

Trapped inside his own mind as he’s forced to obey her commands, the hero contemplates that it might be better to die (“Might Just Die”) and makes peace with himself—true peace, not the false peace the Eye mimics (“Beautiful Goodbye”).  He dies soon after in one of her schemes (“Kill Bill”).

There is now no one left to stop her from taking over (“History”) to create her paradise of faux-peace (“Oasis”).  Indeed, she has come to believe that it’s always been her destiny to rule over the world (“Destiny”).  Forever (“Eternity”).

=====

One of the things I really enjoy about both Descent Into Monster and Apocalypse of the Un-People is that they’re very different from the stories I normally write.  It’s like being given 31 or 32 writing prompts all at once and having to incorporate them and turn them into something not just coherent but, if possible, actually good.  And, of course, it helps that these are all songs I chose because I like listening to them. . . .

Bargaining Power - First Chapter

My new book, Bargaining Power is now available in paperback and ebook (Kindle, but the DRM is unlocked, so you can easily, legally, and for free convert it to any other format using zamzar.com or Calibre). In celebration, here is the prelude and first chapter!

Buy now on Amazon!



Bargaining Power by Deborah J. Natelson, © 2019. Book 1 of the Power Trips trilogy.

No king can maintain his power long without the consent of his people and the support of his lords. And by “lords,” I’m including—you know, just to take a random example—Gil Winter, Prefect of Avior, whose car had been circling the Carinan Security Service building for the past eighteen minutes.

“Would you look at that,” I said. “He’s parking.”

“At last,” my boss said, putting his pencil down atop the cipher he’d been unraveling. “Stay sharp, Mercedes. If you are gone more than twenty minutes—”

“I won’t be,” I promised.

“I will call,” he said steadily, almost ponderously, and I smiled. There wasn’t much even a high-ranking member of the Security Service could do against a prefect; but then, there wasn’t much Sr. Nordfeld couldn’t do, once he’d aimed his marvelous brain at the task. I let that comfort me as I passed through security and stepped out into the chilly autumnal smog.

On the sidewalk by the sleek sapphire-blue limo of Avior Prefecture, a man waited. He was massive: nearly two feet taller than I and three times as broad, with hands like shovels and a chin to match. His ivory-and-sapphire uniform and the stars decorating his collar labeled him head knight: Avior’s second-in-command, answerable to no one except his prefect.

“Miss Cartier?” he demanded.

It doesn’t do to mess with head knights any more than to mess with their prefects. Besides, I had an image to maintain. I clutched my handbag timidly and bowed, not making eye contact. “I am she.”

The head knight nodded politely and opened the limo door.

I rocked back as perfume and alcohol gusted out. Red leather seats glistened under dim LEDs, which fit exactly what I’d heard about Gil Winter. But the smells were old and stale, and no rave music thundered at me, and that didn’t fit in the least.

“Get in, please,” the head knight said, looming close behind me.

I bobbed another timid bow and in no way pointed out that this was Silvertip Prefecture, not Avior, and that he had no business ordering me around. Instead, I got in the limo like a good little personal assistant. And when the door shut behind me, it was no harder than necessary. And when the lock clicked, it was only because we’d begun moving.

“Miss Cartier,” said the man in the shadowy, lime-and-raspberry-lit depths of the limo. “Thank you for joining me.”

The voice was . . . almost familiar. Strange. I’d have thought I’d have known Lord Winter’s voice from television. I’d have thought, in person, that it would sound charming and confident.

Keeping my expression neutrally polite, I peered down the throat of the limo, trying to see past the distortion of the neon lights. But try though I might, I couldn’t make out my host’s face until he leaned for­ward. Then I inhaled sharply.

He was five-foot-seven, forty-six years old, and had the un­healthy, prematurely aged skin of a man who lived off mayonnaise and potato chips and didn’t believe in fresh air or sunshine. Unlike his brother, who had a certain rough charm, this was the sort of man most women instinctively avoided—unless, like this man’s wife, they were so desperate for elevation that they would sell themselves to the devil if he came knocking.

I dug my fingers into red leather. The temperature had jumped about twenty degrees. “I don’t un­derstand,” I said distantly. It was an automatic response, a placeholder while I struggled to wrench my rational mind back into place. “What is this? I thought Prefect Avior wanted to talk to me. Are you bringing me to him?”

My host watched with detached interest. Dim lights carved out the hollows around his eyes and stained his teeth. He had no reason to hurt me. No reason to think I knew anything. He said, “I am Prefect Avior.”

“What?” I shot back. “No you aren’t. I know what Gil Winter looks like—I used to live in Avior Prefecture. What’s really going on? Who are you?”

My host laughed, genuinely amused. “Gil,” he said, “was my brother. I’m Lord Lucio Winter, the new Prefect Avior.” He displayed his heavy signet ring, and I scooted close enough to see. He smelled of incense, sulfur, and body odor. And upon his finger, sure enough, was the engraved Avior bat.

Softly, I asked, “Gil Winter is—dead?”

“He was bound to die eventually,” said the new Prefect Avior. “It’s no secret that he drank like a storm drain. The wonder is that he didn’t totter off a balcony years ago.”

He spoke casually, as if his brother had meant no more to him than a drop of rain to the ocean. My eyes flew up to his, and behind his words I saw the glee of violence, the thirsty self-satisfaction of triumph. And in that moment, I knew as clearly as if he had confessed it in court that this man had killed his brother—and that my life de­pended on him not realizing that I knew it.

Sweat prickled my eyes like tears. I clutched my hands before my sternum. “You poor thing!” I cried, three parts nice and seven parts stupid. “You don’t have to be brave for me; I can see how deeply you’re hurting. I’m so, so sorry.”

“A thousand thanks,” he said, “but I didn’t actually drive a hundred miles to Silvertip to talk about my brother.”

“Of course!” I exclaimed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—I’m sorry.”

Avior cleared his throat. When he spoke again, he’d infused his tone with false jollity. “You’re not in trouble, Miss Cartier—I promise. I came because I wanted to talk to you.”

He’s putting me at my ease, I thought absurdly, and let the nervous giggle escape unchecked.

“I believe—correct me if I’m wrong—but I believe you went to university in my prefecture. You studied—what?”

“History, my lord.”

“Ah, yes! I remember now. I saw one of your papers on warfare. Hardly an appropriate topic for a girl!”

The title of my 80,000-word dissertation had been, “The Applica­bility of Ancient Tactics in Modern Warfare.” It had taken me two years of concerted research to write.

I shrugged and tittered again.

“How did you end up as a cryptanalyst’s personal assistant?” Av­ior asked. “If you didn’t want to marry straight out of school, you could always have become a teacher. Or were you planning to join the military?”

He was joking, but enlisting was exactly what I’d planned. I’d have done it, too, only I’d failed the vision requirement and didn’t have the cash for eye surgery. That’s why I’d gotten my current job: to save for it. I had put away enough money nine months ago, but some­how, I’d never gotten around to taking the next step.

 “Oh, no!” I exclaimed, channeling one of my brother Francis’s girlfriends—#14, I thought: the one who’d thrown up from watching us play Zombie SlashHouse III. “I could never join the military. Wait . . .” I placed one delicate hand to my lips. “Oh, that’s not why you came, is it? But, you see, it’s different on paper. You don’t have to see the—the—the blood and—and all the rest of it.”

He patted my hand kindly. “No, no. I only wanted to understand you—to understand what could have drawn you to your current posi­tion. I thought it might have to do with your employer. Jon Nordfeld sounds like quite an extraordinary man.”

“Oh, yes!” I cried, cycling to Francis’s Girlfriend #29, the enthusiastic one. “He’s brilliant, truly. Amazing. I’ve never met anyone like him.”

Avior nodded encouragingly. “I can see you’re a perspicacious young lady. Go on.”

I twirled my hair, deciding where to begin. “Well . . . he’s brilliant, like I said. You can’t be in the same room with him for ten seconds without seeing that. It’s in his eyes, you know? And . . .” I stole a quick, shy look at him. “And I’ve never had any problems with him. He’s never—never come on to me, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re a very pretty woman, Miss Cartier.”

His approval meant so much.

“He sounds,” Avior coaxed, “like the sort of man who likes to talk about himself.”

I shook my head in chagrin. “Hardly ever. He’s incredibly private. I’ve worked for him for three years, driven him to and from his apart­ment building every day—and I’ve never even seen inside the front door!”

This part was true, unfortunately. My boss had made it extremely clear from the start that we were to have no contact outside of work, and that I had no right to any of his personal information. I didn’t know how he spent his free time, although I suspected he read a great deal. Nor did I know if he had any family, whether he lived alone, or where he’d grown up. Flattering attentiveness could get him to ex­pound upon any other subject, but his personal life remained a void.

“Sometimes,” I sighed, as vapid as the hated Girlfriend #42, “I think I’ll never understand him. He’s too smart. It’s like he’s beyond normal people. But you don’t mind, do you?” I added earnestly. “You won’t be disappointed in him, I promise. He always delivers.”

The change might’ve been funny, if it weren’t so terrifying. In an instant, Avior went from friendly to draconic: tension stretching his torso taut and contorting his fingers into claws. His voice rattled harsh and low, and I shrank from him as he demanded, “What has he told you?”

“I—I thought—” I stumbled, fighting to keep my real alarm sepa­rate from the pretense. “I thought that’s why you wanted to talk to me! Because you want to hire him to—to break codes and ciphers for you and—I’m sorry! I won’t say a word. I promise. Please don’t be angry with me.”

Avior’s expression cleared as I spoke, and he resumed his avun­cular guise by patting my hand again. “Quite all right, Miss Cartier. I’m not angry. I should have known you’d guess. I said you were perspica­cious!”

I went weak at that, as much in real relief as in false, but he pinned me back down with a frown. “There is one other matter,” he said, and steadied his nerves with more patting. “It’s awkward and embarrass­ing, but during your time in Avior, you must have heard the slander my ene­mies spread about me. The nonsense about demonology.”

I had, as it happened. Frequently. One of my classmates had grown up in the neighborhood of Avior Manor, and had told us about the time her beloved dog had disappeared, along with every other pet in a half-mile radius. I also had it on good authority that Lucio’s obses­sion was the reason Gil had originally been the one chosen as prefect, although Lucio was the older brother.

There hadn’t been any recent scandals, so Lucio must have learned caution—but since my boss had contacted him by posing as an expert on a demonology forum, I suspected caution was the only thing he’d learned.

“It’s fine,” Avior assured me. “I’m used to it. Their lies have even proven somewhat useful, because I end up hearing about the crazies who really are interested in such superstitious nonsense. You’d be shocked at how respectable some of them seem, before you know the truth about them. I even heard that Jon Nordfeld—”

I snatched my hand back. “How dare you!”

“I didn’t finish.”

“You didn’t have to!” I cried, too enraged to respect the rules of rank. “And if you think for one moment that I will sit here and listen to you slander the most respectable, gracious, gentlemanly man on the planet, then you can think again!”

“He never mentioned—”

“Certainly not. And I’ll thank you to keep your nasty implications to yourself. For shame!”

Avior studied me, taking in the heaving chest, the brimming indig­nation and righteous offense, the way I didn’t shy from eye contact.

“My apologies,” he said at last, “but as prefect, I must ask these things.” He leaned back and tapped three times on the driver’s barri­cade.

I slashed my furious glare over to the seat opposite, squeezing my handbag hard as the limo slowed.

“I hope,” Prefect Avior said as the limo settled to a stop, “that you’ll keep this conversation privileged.”

“I know my duty!” I flashed at him and then relented from anger to mere stiffness. “I didn’t mean to offend you, my lord. I mean, I realize that you did need to ask.”

“I did,” he agreed, “and I thank you for taking a weight off my mind. Have a nice day, Miss Cartier.”

“You too, prefect. And . . . and I am sorry about your brother.”

The limo door opened, and golden-white light rushed its rhombus upon the seats. I scooted down and let the head knight hand me out of the neon-lit stale smoke and onto the sun-warmed sidewalk. After nodding politely, I walked directly back to the Carinan Security Service building, not look­ing around until I reached the door. Then I paused and watched the limo drive away, a glittering sapphire worm among black beetles. I wasn’t feeling wistful; I just wanted to make sure it really left.

It did, and I went in.

*

There is something wonderfully calming about the ritual of making tea, although I slopped boiling water onto the tray and rattled cups in their saucers. That’s adrenaline for you: terribly inconvenient when it’s not busy saving your life.

Anyway, a little hand-trembling didn’t matter, not now that Avior couldn’t see me. So I let the cups clatter as I carried the tray back to the office and set it on the desk.

My boss took one look at me and said, “Something is wrong.”

I’d eat glass before looking foolish in front of him. I sat on my hands so I didn’t jiggle, and I gave a full report. My memory’s not perfect, but I wouldn’t be forgetting that conversation for a long, long time.

“Did he suspect you?” my boss asked, when I was done.

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

“I’m certain.”

He relaxed back into his chair. “Good. Then we can proceed as planned.”

Read More . . .

How K-Pop Boy Bands Saved the Day - Descent Into Monster

My dog has had anxiety issues this past week.  First, there was a drastic shift in weather (it dropped near zero Fahrenheit with up to 50mph wind gusts and with very low pressure), then there were a number of other little things—a possible low battery fire alarm in the apartment below ours that kept beeping; me moving around my furniture to fit in an inversion table; possible even her digestive supplements. 

Her anxiety worsened until, night before last, she couldn’t sleep.  It was like the Fourth of July all over again, and I had no idea what caused it.  I ended up having to leave my bedroom to sit in the main room after less than four hours of sleep.

I’ve noticed before that I can decrease Flora’s alarm over thunderstorms by watching a film with her.  So last night, when she had sudden high anxiety again as we were going to bed, I considered watching a movie.  But I was very tired, and didn’t want to start one.

Now, I’ve been having trouble editing lately—trouble staying focused.  I’ve always edited in silence; I’ve always had to.  But three days ago, I was desperate enough to try listening to music again.  I started with Dark Sarah’s trilogy (beginning with “Behind the Black Veil”), but partway through—

Actually, I’m not sure what happened.  I wasn’t particularly familiar with k-pop and definitely not boy bands.  My only real exposure was the “Growl” music video by EXO that deservedly went viral a few years back.  But while editing, I went down a rabbit maze of k-pop boy bands, and especially EXO.  Over the course of one evening and two full days, I spent 15+ hours listening to k-pop boy bands and compiling (read: buying with iTunes credit) a playlist.  I then rearranged it so that it told a story.

Here is the YouTube version of the playlist.  I used official music videos when available.  The exceptions are the B.A.P. songs, because their MV are three times longer than the actual songs and mini-movies.  Very good mini movies, (“One Shot” and “Skydive”), and I do recommend watching them (and also the “BTD” (“Before the Dawn”) music video; I used the dance version for the playlist).  But this playlist is for the music.

The story goes like this:

Part 1

Our main character (MC) spends his time doing drugs (“Dope”) until he overdoses and seeks medical attention (“Overdose”).  Now clean, he finds that he’s a loser (“Loner”) with mommy issues (“Mama”). 

Then MC spots a woman and falls in love (“Beautiful”).  Though he knows he’s not good enough for her (“Mr. Simple”) he asks her out (“CALL ME BABY”, “Love Shot”) and to his astonishment, she accepts (“Take You Home”).  For the first time in his life, he’s happy and in a relationship (“Ring Ding Dong”, “EL DORADO”, “Ko Ko Bop”). 

But things start to go wrong (“Dramarama”) and she breaks up with him (“HURT”).  He can’t handle this (“Black Pearl") and begins going crazy (“Psycho”).

Part 2

MC increasingly views women in a predatory way (“Growl”, “Wolf”) and engage in stalking behavior (“Obsession”).  This escalates until he becomes a monster (“Let Out the Beast”, “Monster”).

We meet another character, a former soldier who starts to recognize what is going on (“Skydive”).  They go back and forth, with MC stalking soldier (“Alligator”) and soldier deciding what he must do (“Like Rain Like Music”).  Finally, soldier takes it upon himself to solve the situation.  He ambushes MC (“BOOM”).  They fight (“Shoot Out”), and MC retreats (“Run Away”).  Soldier gives chase (“Follow”) and the two contemplate their situation (“EXODUS”). 

Soldier sees he has one shot at victory, but it'll cost him his life (“One Shot”).  He decides to sacrifice himself to end MC's evil (“Before the Dawn”).

It occurred to me that instead of starting a movie, I could play my new playlist for Flora.  So I set the computer in front of her and hit play.  Immediately, she stopped struggling and freaking out.  She relaxed and soon fell asleep.

I fell asleep too, and woke just before the last song.  I figured that, since it had been nearly two hours, she’d be fine now.  Nope.  The moment I stopped the music, she began freaking out again.  So I got my computer cord, set the playlist on repeat, and hit play.  At once, she calmed back down and went to sleep. 

We listened to the album on repeat all night.  I slept extremely well also—ah, the benefits of <4 hours of sleep the night before—and got in a full eight hours.

So there you have it: how k-pop boy bands saved the day. 

Bargaining Power Available for Pre-Order!

Happy November 1^st!  I’m very happy to announce that at long last Bargaining Power, book 1 of the Power Trips Trilogy—is available for preorder!  Thank you everyone for all your support down the years.  I hope you enjoy my new book!

In the meantime, here are the details:

RELEASE DATE: December 1, 2019 in paperback and e-book (in time for Christmas!).  Available through Amazon and elsewhere.

E-BOOK: pre-order on Amazon.  Thinklings Books never attaches DRM, which means you can convert the book to any ebook format.  To convert for free, I recommend using zamzar.com or downloading the free and safe Calibre software.

PAPERBACK: pre-order through Indiegogo

HARDBACK: limited signed editions available through Indiegogo.

When she agreed to work for Carina’s greatest and strangest cryptanalyst, Mercedes didn’t realize she’d be playing cloak-and-dagger with aristocracy.  But once her boss uncovers a grotesque plot against King Emil II’s life, she doesn’t hesitate to dive into a world of deceit and trickery.

Her plan might have worked, if the would-be assassins hadn’t had dark magic up their sleeves.  Soon, Mercedes has not only treacherous lords and ladies to deal with, but also both the beautiful, vicious personification Deals & Bargains and a horrifying pair of weapons ready to devour the king, bones and all.

Rosa: A VERY Early Book

Although young enough (5? 6? 7?) that my mother took pity on my handwriting and transcribed the story on my behalf, I was already writing books.

The Infamous Mary Sue

Well, I guess it’s time to have a good ol’ chat about Mary Sues: history, definition, discussion, and ranking out of ten.

So let’s go.

HISTORY

In 1973, Paula Smith wrote a parody fan fiction called “A Trekkie’s Tale” making fun of the typical Star Trek: The Original Series fan fiction of the era.  Her protagonist’s name was Mary Sue, and she personified what we now think of as Mary Sues.

Originally, though, the term only referred to fan fiction characters.  It wasn’t until Star Trek: The Next Generation rolled around that the term began to be applied to canon characters as well.  It happened like this:

In TNG, the Enterprise is strictly run, and Captain Picard has very firm views on bridge protocol and who is and is not allowed on the bridge.  He also doesn’t like children.  Then 15-year-old Wesley Crusher comes along (“Wesley” being the show’s creator’s middle name).  Within short order, he’s not only frequently on the bridge, he’s also sometimes saving the Enterprise and Captain Picard seems fond of him.

And there was an outcry.  “Mary Sue!” the watcher’s screamed.  “He’s unbelievably talented and perfect.  No child could save the Enterprise!  He’s knocking Picard out of character! We hate him!”

Now, as a Trekkie myself, I don’t agree with this label, because I believe there are valid canon reasons why Wesley might be a special exception to Picard’s rules—specifically, that Wesley’s father was Picard’s friend and then died in circumstances that made Picard feel guilty.  As for him being perfect—well.  He is very skilled, but he also makes stupid mistakes sometimes.  As for him saving the Enterprise—who hasn’t saved her?  It makes sense that aliens might overlook a child or that the ship might have an unlikely hero.  Happens every other episode . . .

So I don’t think Wesley is a Mary Sue.  But I do believe that if the accusations were correct, he would be, because I’d define a Mary Sue like this:

DEFINITION

A Mary Sue is a character who is meant to be perceived as flawless and who warps the universe of the story around her.

So this is in two parts.  A character can’t be merely flawless.  Characters like Admiral Thrawn (the beloved baddie in several of Timothy Zahn’s Star Wars books) are flawless but they can be beaten or defeated, because they can’t warp the universe of the story.  Besides, people act in character around them: Luke Skywalker is clearly the same character regardless of whether he’s in the same scene or even in the same book as Thrawn.

“Mary Sue,” by the way, is the gender non-specific term, and “she” the gender non-specific pronoun.  You can also say “Marty Sam” or “Gary Stu” or other variations for the male version—but here, I’m using the generic. 

There’s this idea that Mary Sues are overwhelmingly female, but I haven’t found this to be the case.  True, females are more likely to write female ’Sues and there are more females in the literary world than males . . . but at least from my personal experience with popular published books, the male-female Mary Sue split is 50-50. 

BLAND VS. INSIDIOUS PART ONE: POSITIVE VS. NEGATIVE FANTASIES

Mary Sues are written as self-indulgent wish fulfillments and therefore the expression of fantasizing rather than imagining.  Since Mary Sues exist on a broad continuum of characters and writers, it’s hard to split them up into easy categories.  But I would like to briefly go into the concept of positive and negative fantasies. 

Positive fantasies are fantasies in which no one gets hurt: “I entered the piano competition and played perfectly and won and everyone loved me and then I got a record contract and toured and was rich and happy forever!”

Negative fantasies are those in which someone gets hurt—the protagonist, love interest, or villain.  So: “I entered the competition and played perfectly but the judges were unjust and I didn’t win and I’m terribly put upon” or “My love was kidnapped by a baddie and hurt and now I have to comfort him,” or “she was mean to me so I got terrible revenge, as was my right.” Generally, these are much more psychologically harmful to the fantasizer than positive fantasies. 

CHARACTERISTICS OF THE MARY SUE

Something you might note about these examples is that the protagonist is always in the right.  This is one characteristic of the Mary Sue: she is always right and good and if you don’t like her it’s only because you’re mean or jealous or don’t know her well enough.  She deserves to have the world wrap around her, and so it is right that it does.

If this is sounding like the wish fulfillment of a narcissist, there’s a reason for that.  We all of us have some level of narcissism; and youth, inexperience, and thoughtlessness can make that manifest in ways we’ll later perceive as embarrassing.  Yes, I have written a Mary Sue.  She had fabulous red hair and color-changing eyes.

The more extreme and unhealthy the Mary Sue, the more the author personally identifies with them, because in many ways the author is (usually) the Mary Sue, and it’s her wishes that are being fulfilled.  Mary Sue authors therefore take personal offense at any indication that their character might have character flaws.

Ironic, yes?  Good characters are always flawed.

Mary Sue authors will also often become jealous of their love interest Mary Sues—but let’s give an example of that.

THE LOVE-INTEREST MARY SUE

There’s this book.  It’s very good—maybe 4 stars out of 5.  In it, we have a fabulous villain.  He’s the sort of villain who just enjoys being wicked.  And because he enjoys it so much, we the reader enjoy watching him.  We don’t want him to win—we like our protagonist too—but we want to read more with him because he’s just a terrific character.

Unfortunately, it seems the author felt so too.  My theory is that she fell in love with him.  You should always love your characters but never fall in love with them, or you might do what she did . . .

She wrote a sequel that was the villain’s backstory.  Turns out, he’s just a watered-down version of the protagonist from the first book.  "He’s not really bad.  He’s just misunderstood because he’s so extra special that he has to keep his specialness secret."

In short, he went from fabulous villain to Blandy McBland Bland.

And if that weren’t enough, the author retroactively reinterpreted the events of book one to totally discredit all our good guys because she couldn’t stand anyone, even her own characters, saying mean things about her Mary Sue.  And she’s very jealous of her relationship with her ’Sue and doesn’t want other readers getting too close . . .

See?  This is why people hate Mary Sues.  Not because they’re bad characters, but because they ruin what would otherwise have been good.  But let’s get back to—

BLAND VS. INSIDIOUS PART 2: DEFINING PERFECTION

Here’s the thing: I don’t hate the mild Mary Sue—i.e., the flawless character with positive fantasies.  She’s not good writing and doesn’t have much worth, but she’s not particularly harmful unless the reader takes her to delusional extremes.

But then you have the other sorts of Mary Sues.  The sorts that encourage people to revel in unhealthy, negative fantasies.  And that not only encourages bad traits; it’s simply not truthful.

You know that time someone said something mean to you and you later thought of a comeback and wish you’d said it?  Well, your Mary Sue always has a comeback.  She is constantly cutting people down.  And we’re meant to regard this nasty piece of work as “flawless”!  Or she’s captured and tortured and it’s so unjust.  And we’re meant to regard her torment as beautiful!  She’s the sort of person who is always right and so never has to learn from her mistakes.  The world revolves around her, and if anyone disagrees with her, it’s because they’re evil.  What a hero!

I’m sorry to say that I’ve known people who think they are always right.  They are just poor put-upon souls who are never to blame for anything.  And that's . . . not good.  It’s not good for them, and it hurts the people around them.

Mary Sues who are like this are insidious because they encourage and reinforce this type of behavior and thought-pattern through mental repetition and indulgence (in reader and writer).

So no, I don’t have a big problem with the occasional self-indulgent positive fantasy Mary Sue any more than I have a problem with occasionally eating a piece of cake.  But if you live off rotting cake that you scraped out of the Dumpster?  That’s a problem.

RANKING OUT OF 10

With all I’ve said, you might imagine that I’m going to rank the Mary Sue 0 out of 10, since she ranges from bad writing with no real benefits to bad writing with real detriments.  But I’m actually going to give her 2 stars out of 10.  Why?

Because for readers who haven’t yet become discerning or stopped to think about the real impact of Mary Sues, reading Mary Sues can be fun.  And this “fun” factor has brought people to reading who might never otherwise have read.  If it ended there—if people never read anything but Mary Sues—I wouldn’t account this a bonus.  But many readers then go on to read actual good books.

And so, Mary Sue, not for your sake but for the sake of you unintentionally doing some good, I’ll throw you a bone.  2/10.  You’re welcome.

The Maze Home: Childhood Story Art

"Avus" is Latin for "Grandfather," and is what we called my father's father.  Thanks to my mother for explaining the picture and to my grandmother ("Avia") for keeping the sticky note.

I love how, apparently, the normal locations within a town were "house," "ghost's house," "witch's house," and "church."
There isn't a date on the piece, but judging by my handwriting, I was between 6 and 8 years old.

Writing Violence

I really hesitated before posting this, but I think it is important, if you’re going to be writing any sort of violence (including action violence) to write it correctly.  Both for good writing and out of general respect.

So, to start: violence falls into two major categories: blunt and visceral.

Blunt violence is written in broad, vague terms.  For example:

He hit her.

She shot him in the shoulder.

He blew up the building.

Blunt violence is great for big flashy action sequences that you want to be fun, and not just for the psychopaths in your audience.  Think PG-13 action flicks—those are almost all blunt violence.  

You can intensify blunt violence by increasing the vulnerability of the victim (such as making her a woman or child or by having the person be naked or barefoot) or of the location (such as a bathroom, dentist’s office) or by edging it toward visceral violence by using more specific word choices:

He ripped out her throat.

She jammed the knife between his ribs.

In general, blunt violence is not meant to be taken too seriously, and no one but the most tender-hearted will be bothered by it.  It’s cartoonish, vague, and no one really gets hurt.  Your characters generally shrug off their injuries and go on with their lives with a Band-Aid and a one-liner.

Visceral violence is a different beast.  Visceral violence is written in incredibly specific—preferably medical—terms, and targets the more vulnerable areas of the body.  For example:

He slid a needle under the nailbed of her thumb.

He dug out the veins in the undersides of her wrists.

He pressed the burning end of his cigar into the arch of her foot.

Visceral violence is used to make violence horrible instead of fun.  The reader squirms uncomfortably and maybe isn’t sure if they want to keep reading. 

Visceral violence is also extremely memorable.  On a ghost tour I went on, our guide showed us a collection of real torture devices that had been used.  This was thirteen years ago, but I’ve always remembered what she said, because it was so visceral: torture is about making things go pop that were never meant to go pop.  The specific example I remember is nipples.

If you’re going to use visceral violence in your book, make sure you do it correctly.  Anything beyond the most minimal use of visceral violence is tasteless and gratuitous.  Visceral violence has its uses (shouldn’t we always think of violence as being horrible?) but should never be used except when extremely necessary.  Furthermore, for maximum impact, and to be respectful toward real sufferers of violence, the writer should focus on making the visceral violence as realistic as possible.  And this includes the traumatic emotional and physical aftermath.

This also increases the severity of the perceived violence, because violence is most effective when written as non-fiction.

I first came to this conclusion while reading The Amityville Horror, which is published as non-fiction.  Its actual content is barely PG, but I found it one of the scarier books I’d ever read . . . because of the factual way it was written.  I have since then read a couple of nonfiction books that have included torture, and they’ve hit me much, much harder than anything in literature.  In the memoir Tortured for Christ, which I only got halfway through because I simply couldn’t take any more, the author seldom describes any of the torture he endured; and when he does, he focuses primarily on the details of his humiliation rather than on the sensation of pain.  Frankly, he doesn’t have to tell us there was pain.  His wails of agony echo through every line of the book. 

The other book is the memoir Between Silk and Cyanide.  In that book, the author’s friend, the famous White Rabbit, Yeo-Thomas, is captured and tortured by the Nazis.  The author does not describe what happened to his friend.  He does not describe what his friend looks like.  He says, when Yeo-Thomas’s wife goes to the train station, that she’d been “warned” about Yeo-Thomas’s appearance.  And when Yeo-Thomas comes to visit him, the author only describes him as looking like an old man.  And afterwards, “I waited until his footsteps had shuffled away, and then was violently sick on behalf of mankind.” (pg 580 in the hard cover)

I literally cannot think about that without tears coming to my eyes. 

Sometimes, the most effective violence is that which is not written at all.

Thinklings Books: Publishing Quality Fantasy and Sci-Fi

Well, here it is: big announcement time.

I'm the new CEO of Thinklings Books, LLC, a publishing company dedicated to publishing quality fantasy and sci-fi.  And by "quality," I mean that, unlike traditional publishing companies, we publish books based on how good they are, not on the social media platforms of their authors.  That means great reads every time, guaranteed.

Speaking of social media . . .

facebook.com/ThinklingsBooks

We're working on boosting Thinklings Books' own social media platform, because we want to reach out to readers and writers worldwide.  My part of this is running our YouTube channel.  Our first video is up:

And future videos will come out at least every two weeks, with interesting and informative videos for readers and writers.  Please subscribe and join us in promoting really amazing writing and writers. :)

(But don't worry; I'll keep posting here, too.)

Where to Get Ideas

The old cliché of a question from fans and reporters to authors is, “Where do you get your ideas?”  Most authors find this a very difficult question to answer, simply because there isn’t one specific place they get their ideas.  “Ideas just come to me,” they say, or “out of my head” or “from anywhere.”

Yes, these things are true.  But what many of these questioners are actually asking is, “How can I get ideas for writing?”—for which none of those answers is helpful.  I would therefore like to give some actually useful advice for coming up with ideas and brainstorming when you feel stuck.

What ideas you get “out of your head” depends on what you put into your head.

One of the greatest dangers for a writer, when it comes to coming up with new ideas, is stagnation.  If you only read the same things, go to the same places, talk with the same people—it’s easy to dry up.  Diversity is the key here.  Choose to randomly go somewhere new.  Make sure you keep learning new things.  Occasionally read National Geographic or some other magazine of your choice from which you can learn things you not only never knew, but never knew you wanted to know.

Now consider: what do you spend a lot of time thinking about?  Are you thinking about a variety of topics, or just the same three to five things over and over again?  Do you think continuously about (from my own life), 1) your dog, 2) what you’re going to make for your next meal, 3) your current goal . . . and not much else?  If so, you are constraining your own brain.  Go find something different to think about.

Not sure what to think about?  Go to https://randomwordgenerator.com/.  Take the FIRST word it generates, and then go read the Wikipedia article on that word and learn something.

(Excuse me for a moment, I need to go read about “mouse.”)

Most really clever ideas are in fact the combination of two or more seemingly unconnected items.

The second random word I generated was “election,” so I have mouse + election.  So let’s write something.

The first mouse President of the United States was not, despite all expectations, named “Mickey.”

or

This is the tale of how a theme park/movie company came to rule the world.

or

We shuddered, terrified in our homes.  We’d thought the aliens had been bad, but then the mice had stepped up to protect us, and we found ourselves under far worse dictators.

or

Jimmy would never have elected to transform in a mouse, but he hadn’t had much say in the matter.

or . . . or  . . . or . . .

You see what I mean?  It took me all of two minutes to write those ideas, and I could’ve kept going for a very long time.  If I started to get stuck, all I had to do was a) learn more about mice and/or elections (don’t assume you know!  There may be interesting little facts you never guessed with hiding within articles), or b) grab a third random word (“tooth”).

The position of tooth fairy was, naturally, always held by the elected head of the mice.

This technique isn't only for new stories, by the way.  If you’re in the middle of a novel and come to a road block, this is one way to get through it: introduce a new, unexpected mouse (or other random factor).

Don’t starve your brain.  Read your genre.

This ties into the first factor, but from a specific angle.  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: read more than you write.  Devour novels you adore that are in the same genre as you write.  Don’t read garbage; read what you love.  Remember that when you’re reading, you’re feeding your brain.  You can feed it nutritious food (quality prose with depth of story) or you can feed it junk food.  And the quality of your writing and of your brain refreshment will reflect that.