Archive for January, 2010

Susanne asked:

What is the difference between Science Fiction and Speculative Fiction?

Consider speculative fiction something of a super-genre, or a category that includes several mainstream genres: fantasy, science fiction, and horror.  Each of these genres then split off into multiple sub-genres (think high fantasy or military sci-fi).  It is called speculative fiction because these stories all have a major speculative element, or something that is not factual in reality.  Fantasy is usually defined by something magical or mystical; science fiction involves something that may theoretically be possible given extrapolation of our current understanding of natural law; horror generally involves some incarnate of evil, whether literal or metaphorical, often a being or entity of some sort (which is what differentiates horror from thriller).   

So, you can think of speculative fiction as the big tent under which fantasy, science fiction, and horror all reside.  I use the term speculative fiction more than most because much of what I write doesn’t fit cleanly into any of the three main genres under the tent.  This is sometimes called a ”slipstream” story, or a story that slips from one genre to another and back.  I find it easier to call my writing speculative because it doesn’t mislead people into expecting something more well defined, which much of my writing isn’t.  If people read some of my stories expecting high or epic fantasy because it’s called fantasy, they’ll be confused and maybe disappointed.      

Next post: an update on my visits to Farnsworth and Jordan Ridge Elementaries.

Vivia wrote the following:

I plan to attend the workshop each month. Do you attend regularly? I am willing to learn, and would welcome any advice you can give me.

If you mean the Oquirrh chapter meeting of the League of Utah Writers, I attend as often as I can. It was the first writers organization of any kind I ever became involved with, and through the people I met there a lot of important things have happened in my career. Also, I’ve made a lot of friends in the group, as well as throughout the other chapters of the League. So I go as often as I can.

Back to Vivia:

What does LTUE stand for?

Life, the Universe, and Everything: The Marion K. “Doc” Smith Symposium on Science Fiction & Fantasy. No, I’m not making that up. 2010 is the 28th annual holding of the conference. Er, um, symposium. I believe one’s nose must be slightly elevated in a snooty way to pronounce that word properly, by the way. That’s why I call it a conference. I can do snooty, but not very well.

Vivia (a name I am going to “borrow” for a character at some point) concludes with:

Hope to someday read one of your books. I will get one as soon as possible.

As things hoped for go, this is about the grandest of them all. World peace is almost as good.

Now to practice my assembly presentation a few times before visiting Farnsworth Elementary later today. Not that I’m complaining, not at all, but I’m still a little perplexed at how intelligent, responsible adults can knowingly and willingly expose large numbers of children to me. I’m pretty sure my odd breed of madness is catching. Oh well. Who doesn’t appreciate 300 tetched elementary students?

Tangent:…

(Tangent from the tangent: If one is of a schizophrenic persuasion, chasing impulse and flighty ideas like a dog spinning at cars on the freeway, is any thought really tangential? It’s not like we have a strong, solid baseline from which to diverge. Well, back to the initial thought.)

Isn’t it cool that storytellers rule the world? I find that truth to be totally awesome, to use a Dashnerism. (Dashnerism: noun—A word used with great frequency by James Dashner and which is, without exception, completely incongruous with the world of Jane Austin, unlike James’s name; common Dashnerisms include “totally”, “awesome”, and “totally awesome”.)

What do I mean? Simply that story is structure, as William Goldman says. This doesn’t mean that screenplays include three acts or that novels wrap up with a denouement, no more than consciousness means having the physical ability to sense the outside world. The truth is so much greater and grander and unfathomable than that. The structure of story is nothing less than meaning; story is the interrelating of stuff (anything really) in such a way that relevance can be drawn from the raw material of life, thought, and imagination.

I’ve been thinking about this since teaching an adult learning class on writing last night. (Thanks to Brenda Bench and her class for an interesting and enjoyable evening, as always.) The presentation was on using POV to achieve the three objectives of story simultaneously, and I got to talking about how we can only make sense of anything by incorporating it into a story. Here’s an example: China has a population of about 1.2 billion; the U.S. population is around 300 million. So tell me what that means. No, “China has more people that the U.S.,” doesn’t count. That’s like saying red and blue are different colors: meaningless. Can’t do it, can you—at least, not without placing these numbers into a story, such as: Because of their massive workforce, China will supplant the U.S. this century as the world’s greatest economic power because of its power; or, as environmental destruction and global climate change continue to intensify, China’s massive population will result in far greater negative consequences than the U.S.’s smaller citizenry, which is why China will not overcome the U.S. as the world’s dominant economy. One story is the story of environmentalism, one is of means of production. What are these, really, but perspectives or points of view and the narratives that go along with such?

No fact matters in isolation, only in conjunction with other facts. The structure of aligning information is story. Story is the substance of who we are as individuals, cultures, religions, nations, and even as a species. With that being so, a storyteller becomes something a good deal more than the proverbial daydreamer detached from things that really matter. We’re more akin to superheroes, possessed of mystical powers to manipulate reality according to our desires and designs. All the truly influential individuals in history have understood this or have benefited from someone who did, whether politicians, scientists, artists, business people, philosophers, or whatever. History isn’t just written by the winners; the meaning of life and its substance is created by the tellers of tales.

Which leaves only one question: am I, Clint Johnson, also known as R.D. Henham and a slue of less respectful appellations I won’t mention, a superhero or supervillain? There is a certain romanticism about being bad….

May one be a  super-anti-hero? Now come on, there’s no way a question that important could be considered tangential.

When you work at a college and travel in academic circles you come across quite a few people for whom teaching is a distant plan B from plan A (writing), some of whom—not many, thankfully—make perfectly clear that their fondness for plan B is no greater than plan Q.  I find this genuinely sad.  While storytelling is my prime passion and writing my medium for expression, and I consider these my profession, in many ways the opportunities I have to teach are just as important to me.  In some ways, certainly more important. 

Thursday night I was reminded of this when I spoke to a chapter of the League of Utah Writers.  I talked about networking, and people participated by asking questions, sharing stories, and making comments and recommendations.  Like just about every instructional event I do, it was constructive and fun for me, as I hope it was others.  I don’t have to try very hard to hope that, though, because of the expressions of appreciation and gratitude that followed the presentation, that night, here on my blog, and elsewhere.  It’s very easy to convince yourself you’ve done something helpful when other people tell you so.  And I can’t recall a single workshop or panel I’ve ever participated in that people haven’t thanked me for.  I share this not merely to acknowledge the many kind people I get to meet, but to admit I’m just beginning to see how important this all is to my advancement as a writer.  I don’t mean by broadening my name recognition and interest in my writing, though that is certainly true as well; for me, teaching others is a large part of what makes the writer’s life—my life—happy.

There are pitfalls for writers, like any artist, some darker and deeper than others.  Addiction to self-destructive vehicles of distraction is always nearer than we think.  Every good story goes places that no healthy person would ever want to travel emotionally; to get the story there, the writer has to go  as well, if only in their mind.  It’s no wonder that individuals who emotionally confront the darker aspects of human experience rather than retreat from them sometimes cope unhealthily.  But not every pit is so insidious.  Some, like feelings of rejection and loneliness, are common to all humans.  It’s just that, for writers, these pits are so broad it’s incredibly difficult—if not impossible—to avoid them for much of your life. 

Writing is, mostly, a solitary art.  So is the contemplation it involves, the ruminating and daydreaming and asking yourself innumerable questions to which you have no answers.  Success doesn’t change that.  In a way, it only makes it worse.  There is a special kind of loneliness in fame (a supposition of mine, as I’m as far from famous as one can get); in being marked and noted by mobs of people, none of whom know you at all beyond the brand you’ve come to embody.  There is no escape, not completely.  When you decide to become a writer, to do it full-hearted and regardless of cost or condition, you reconcile yourself to being a lonesome kind of person.  Rejection is just as inescapable.  In a flux so great as that of written story, where every person has the potent birthrights of language and narrative affinity; where these potentials tie together into a unique, subjective, and lovely snarl that we call a person;  where mastery is so impossible you may write your whole life and send your skill not a jot higher but only sideways—in such a place, how can any of us expect to write and not be rejected, under appreciated, and misunderstood?  It’s a great and terrible truth that every person is a mystery, even to one’s self.  When we bump against each other in passing there is zero chance that our rough edges will always fit together.  The best work we will ever do—could ever do—will not please all people.  Sometimes when it does not, we will hear about it.  We will hear. 

Agents, editors, those who publish our work to world, they don’t want to reject us.  But they will.  Many, many times, they will.  

We don’t desire to be away from people, alone and apart, to make our stories breathe.  But we will be.  For too much of our lives, we will be.

We can’t help but feel these things.  I certainly can’t.  Which is why, as much as any other reason, I love to teach.  It fills my writer’s life with those things it so desperately lacks: society instead of solitude; mutual edification rather than private refinement; gratitude and immediate returns rather than form letters, criticisms, and the hollow ticking of the clock.  If you are like me, a writer and storyteller for better and worse, then I offer one heartfelt suggestion: share that.  Teach.  Find something you know and do well and help others to know and do it too, still their way, only a little better than before.  I have no doubts that your career, your quality of life, and your entirety of person will all improve if you do.

Here’s my final schedule for LTUE.  All ladies will be ecstatic to note that I am on two panels addressing the issue of romance, which you may regard as comic relief provided by the event organizers but I chose to consider a testament to my suave and charm.  Men are certainly indifferent.

Thursday, Feb. 11th

2:00 pm: Putting Romance into Your Fantasy—Do you have to have a love story in Fantasy?  Why or why not?  If you do, how do you balance it with the action and adventure?  Other panelists will be Mette Ivie Harrison, Ami Chopine, Lesli Muir Lytle, and Anna del C. Dye.

4:00 pm: No More Dead Dogs (or Moms)—Why do mothers and dogs always die in children’s literature?  How do we pull at the heartstrings and give child characters independence without killing off dogs and moms?  Other panelists will be Julie Wright, my old editor Stacy Whitman, and Paul Genesse, all good friends so this should be fun.  Also, Stacy and I kind of invented this panel last year.

Friday, Feb. 12th

9:00 am: How to Become an Idea Factory—Where do you find ideas?  How do you go from an idea to a story?  Other panelists will be Brandon Sanderson, Howard Taylor, James Dashner, Larry Correia, and Karen Hoover.  There are some heavy hitters on this panel, so don’t miss it.

12:00 pm: I’ll be having a book signing.

2:00 pm: Writing Fantasy and Science Fiction for a Discerning Audience—How to write believable child characters.  Other panelists will be Julie Wright, Laura Bingham, Laura Card, and Bron Bahlmann Wilcox.  Just a heads up, I think I may take this one in two different directions.  It seems the panel is asking two questions: how to make speculative elements feel authentic, and how to write authentic children characters.  If you’re interested in either question I think you’ll get some interesting insights.

Saturday, Feb. 13th

9:00 am: A Guy’s Take on Writing Romance.  Other panelists will be L.E. Modesitt, Dan Willis, Aleta Clegg, and John Brown.

I don’t see many movies, but over my annual holiday month off—and with my writing career mostly stuck in waiting mode—I had time to see a few movies recently.  So I thought I’d comment on them.

Note that I said “comment” not “review.”  I don’t plan on reviewing movies on this blog, or much of anything else, truth be told, including politics.  I may comment on anything at any time, but that’s not the same.  The one thing I may formally review is books, but only books that I really love.  When I read a book I love, or at least like very much, I’ll mention it here; doesn’t matter if it was sent to me for a blurb or just something I picked up, it works pretty much the same way.  So, for those who send me books, be aware that I’m not an easy blurb or reviewer.  Quite the opposite.  I’ve found that I’m probably quite stingy when it comes to formal praise of others’ work to be used for marketing purposes.  I hope this doesn’t discourage anyone, because I do enjoy giving recommendations that I truly mean for whatever purpose might be beneficial.  Just understand that I don’t recommend many books, even books that most others feel are good or even great, and I don’t do negative or neutral reviews.  So if you approach me for a recommendation of some kind and don’t get it, please understand that I may not have had time to devote to reading it thoroughly, or I may not have loved it.  There are plenty of fine writers, many very successful, whose work would and has earned exactly the same response. 

So why even try?  Why approach an elitist curmudgeon with the puerile sensibilities of a mentally deficient hamster?  Because when I do give a recommendation I mean every single word, so it may be worth a go.

Films, on the other hand, I won’t review.  I’ll just tell you what I think.  So today I’ll tell you what I thought, in various levels of detail, about the movies The Blind Side, Avatar, and Sherlock Holmes. 

The Blind Side I liked a lot, even though it is a great example of my claim there is no such thing as non-fiction and that the statement “based on a true story” is ultimately irrelevant.  As someone once said—just who, I have no idea—”If the truth be told, I’d rather hear a story.”  It’s a good story, and so shouldn’t surprise people that it’s true but not factual.  In fact, I liked it so much that I won’t say anything other than go see it because I think you’ll like it.

On Avatar and Sherlock Holmes I will be somewhat more elaborate, which in this case isn’t good.

In the past few weeks I’ve seen a number of film critics and commentators recommending Avatar as one of the top films of the year, and I find this a bad, bad sign about the future of cinema.  Now, don’t misunderstand me: the film was visually stunning and the 3-D wasn’t gimmicky, which is an admirable move in the narrative form.  I enjoyed the movie mostly, though I won’t see it again and there were times when I found myself on the brink of boredom.  And while the story was decidedly cliched, predictable, and thematically didactic, it wasn’t any more so than most blockbusters, especially given recent history (the latest Transformers film, anyone?). 

You might tell from what I’ve said so far that I don’t greatly enjoy many movies, certainly not as many as I did before I started work as a professional storyteller.  But what I disliked the most about Avatar and its reception by many critics and the public is the clear foreshadowing that in future years I’m going to enjoy even fewer movies.  The Hollywood blockbuster, to which I have no ideological objection, is moving ever more toward excess glitz to cover anorexic story.  But that’s always been true, you  might say.  Yes—but recently more and more movies have been getting away with it. 

There’s always been a strong strain of visual puritanism among movie-makers, which often expresses in a fixation with technique even at the expense of rhetorical effect on the story.  Typically, these films have made the indie circuit where they’re watched by other filmmakers and no one else.  But now CGI has become so advanced that it’s capable of entertaining mass audiences purely on the level of distinction, so much so it can distract from or even hide the poor narrative structure beneath all the glamour.  Avatar used revolutionary production techniques to communicate what is, frankly, an unremarkable story—and in many quarters is being celebrated for this.  As a fan and writer of speculative fiction, this really, really worries me.  For years the best sci-fi and fantasy stories were avoided by Hollywood because of how difficult—sometimes impossible—it was to do the settings justice.  Recently we’ve seen technology unlock the door barring some of the greatest stories ever told from the visual medium.  The Lord of the Rings trilogy is a fine example of technology being implimented in service to great story.  But with the door now open too many filmmakers are mistaking their visual tools for their product, not as a means of production.  Avatar is the most spectacular average story ever filmed, and is certainly paving the way for many more gigantic expressions of mediocrity.  

If you think I’m being too harsh, consider that Avatar and Dances with Wolves are essentially the same story at the archetypal level.  Their structures are nearly identical, as are their themes.  Yet watch the two and there is no question which is a great story and which is not.  I’m disappointed because Avatar could have established a new standard for visual storytelling, broadening the possibilities of the medium; instead it took something very old standard and unremarkable, wrapped it in a massive, intricate, and glitzy bow, and called it revolutionary.  A revolution means doing something that hasn’t been done before, something truly new.  Avatar puts all its creative energies into packaging the common, old, and trite.  There’s nothing revolutionary in that. 

And you know, I think I liked Sherlock Holmes even less.  Partly this is because Holmes inexplicably became more Iron Man than super slueth (only without the suit); partly it was because the resulting action/mystery balance was, well, decidedly unbalanced; partly it was because I figured out the great “mystery” of the film about ten minutes in, and I hate that.  But the whole, complete, and total reason I didn’t much enjoy Sherlock Holmes is because it never understood what story it was actually telling.  I can’t say much without giving the story away, so I’ll leave it at this: the story is about Holmes vs Holmes, but the movie thinks it’s about the audience vs the filmmaker.  Really.  The entire movie is spent trying to manipulate the emotions of the viewer through uncertainty, and the manipulation is both intellectually and emotionally obvious.  The great crisis of the film is one of belief, and that belief is Holmes’s; his perspective should have been the perspective of the audience.  If that had been so, then the audience would have travelled the difficult path the movie wanted to take them down, because the character would have been their vehicle.  (If anyone’s interested, this is an example of abused point of view.)  Instead, the film feels schizophrenic and dishonest, trying to force the audience along a different path from the characters while claiming a joint journey.  In many ways, it’s a mess.  An entertaining mess sometimes (it does have Robert Downey Jr. in it, after all), but those moments of cohesion and pleasure are spaced out by all the instances where the film completely forgets its own story and goes places it had no business going by pathways better left untaken.  If you’re interested in an example of undisciplined and rhetorically mediocre storytelling in spite of strong moments of material, then Sherlock Holmes is something you should probably see.  If you’re just looking for a good time, read Doyle’s stories or watch Basil Rathbone or Jeremy Brett, because you can do much better than this movie.

Sorry this is a few days late.   I thought about giving an account of Wednesday’s BYU class visit before this, but, well, I didn’t. 

For the record, the students in Rick Walton’s children’s book publishing industry class are the luckiest in the nation, certainly, and most likely this world and most others.  And no, not because I talked to them for an hour earlier this week.  (I’d like to think that wasn’t too detrimental.)  Do you know the people scheduled to stop by to talk to them this semester?  I don’t know all the names, but the Brandons Mull and Sanderson top the list, along with Chris Schoebinger from Shadow Mountain, just to start.  And that’s after Shannon Hale tried to undo any damage I did earlier in the evening on Wednesday.  If these students are prepared for the publishing climate after this class, they haven’t been listening.

Anyway, Wednesday was great.  I arrived and greeted Rick, who knew my name and had seen me around but I’m not sure he could place the name with the face until we shook hands.  Kristen Chandler was there as well, and it was great meeting her for the first time as well.  Then Rick called Kristen and me to the front of the class and asked us to answer questions for a little over an hour, which we did.  I was impressed by the questions we fielded, which ranged pretty widely in content, as we were addressing up-and-coming authors, editors, illustrators, agents, and one lawyer who Shannon couldn’t quite figure out why he was there.  (She decided it must have something to do with women, which is a good bet, because I’m convinced everything that’s the least bit confusing ties in some way to women.)  Then Shannon answered questions for the last hour plus, signed books, and, I assume, went home.  I must so assume because I said goodbye to everyone and left earlier. 

So, the postmortem (don’t you love how macabre that sounds): finally got to know Rick a little better, met Shannon and Kristen for the first time, and got to talk about my profession and passion to a very attentive and bright class of kindred spirits.  I hope Rick finds some reason—real or imagined—to have me back some time. 

The Saints just kicked off, so I’m needed elsewhere.

Just a quick post to let everyone know that I’ve updated my calender, which now includes a free writers’ meeting where I’ll be speaking about networking to get published. Check out my calender for more information.

Random other news: My wrist seems to be getting better at such a lethargic pace, I swear, it’s healing just enough for me to estimate the amount and get frustrated. So I’ve started lifting weights again. That should show it: go ahead, taunt the bear with the kamikaze look. (No lectures, please. I’m doing my heaviest lifts at 60% weight, which has been cleared by my doctor.) Also, I’ve decided to take Rick Walton upon on his offer and drop in on his Children’s Literature Publication class at BYU tomorrow evening. I’m sure he’ll be able to use me as some sort of object lesson, perhaps in reference to things best avoided. Finally, I’m debating a post about a few movies I’ve seen in the last month. When the debate is over I’ll post or not depending on which faction wins. (Yes, I’m made up of factions, disparate and contentious all.)

Still resting my wrist (kind of), so this’ll be quick.  Here’s a look at the list of panels I may be on at LTUE this year (Feb. 11-13th).  While this is subject to change, I’ll probably be on 3 or 4 of these panels.  I’ll also be doing a signing, and maybe a reading, despite the fact that I’ve never really taken to readings (don’t worry, I’m proficient at reading out loud, I just don’t enjoy it).  Hope to see some of you there. 

Thursday

9:00 a.m.—Killer Openings: How to write a gripping, engaging and interesting first paragraph.

2:00 p.m.—Putting Romance into Your Fantasy: Do you have  to have a love story in Fantasy?  Why or why not.  If you do, how do you balance it with the action and adventure?  (No, I’m not kidding.) 

3:00 p.m.—Writing Strong Female Characters. (Clearly, my reputation as a specialist on women has preceded me.)

4:00 p.m.—No More Dead Dogs (or moms): Why do mothers and dogs always die in children’s literature?  How do we pull at the heartstrings and give child characters independence without killing off dogs and moms?  (I think my friend and former editor, Stacy Whitman, and I invented this panel at LTUE last year.)

5:00 p.m.—Worldbuilding 101

Friday

9:00 a.m.—How to Become an Idea Factory: Where do you find ideas?  How do you go from an idea to a story?

1:00 p.m.—Style in Speculative Fiction: SF was long denigrated for being a literature of ideas, not of good composition.  How has that changed?  What constitutes “good style” in SF or fantasy, and what is the difference between the two?  What special stylistic challenges (for instance, exposition) face the SF or fantasy writers that aren’t an issue for mainstream writers?

2:00 p.m.—Writing Fantasy and Science Fiction for a Discerning Audience: How to write believable child characters. (I think I’ll be on this one, as I’m something of a voice in the wilderness on this topic sometimes.)

Saturday

9:00 a.m.—A Guy’s Take on Writing Romance.  (Wow, how unbelievably romantic I must be!  And I never knew.)

Saw the doctor.  Good news.  No arthritis.  No carpal tunnel.   Mild trauma (I’m betting from lifting weights or lifting a three year old).  Breaking doc’s orders by typing.  Trying to be good, so may be quiet for a few days.  Bye.