Category: The Ramble (page 317 of 462)

Worldbuilding is one of those topics that bakes my noodle every time my brain chooses to dwell on it. I have a whole bucket full of opinions, many of them in stark disagreement with one another. So, this list below should never at any time be taken as “25 Exhaustive Universal Truths About Worldbuilding,” but rather be regarded as, “25 Things Chuck Wendig Thinks About Worldbuilding At This Exact Moment In Time, Oh, Wait, Some Of Them Just Changed.”

Kay? Kay.

Let’s chat.

1. What We Mean When We Say “Worldbuilding”

We’re talking about the revelation of your storyworld and its details through the story itself. It’s easy to think this means “setting,” but that’s way too simple — worldbuilding covers everything and anything inside that world. Money, clothing, territorial boundaries, tribal customs, building materials, imports and exports, transportation, sex, food, the various types of monkeys people possess, whether the world does or does not contain Satanic “twerking” rites.

2. The World Serves The Story, The Story Does Not Serve The World

My opinion: you build a world to serve the story or stories you want to tell; you do not tell a story that is slave to the worldbuilding. Story comes first. Worldbuilding supports the story. Meaning, you must look at the components of the story you hope to tell: it’s got these characters, it’s about this idea, it makes a particular argument, and from there you start to see that the world can organically accommodate and reflect those things. Doing the opposite — leading with the worldbuilding — is what you’d do if you were writing a roleplaying game which has to tell all kinds of stories, not just yours. If you put the cart before the horse the horse is gonna headbutt the cart and knock it over and then you’re all, WAIT NO MY CABBAGES then we laugh at you.

3. Put Differently, You’re Not Writing A Fucking Encyclopedia

If you prioritize worldbuilding, you’re probably going to end up with like, seven different versions of the D&D Monster Manual but no actual novel. Which, again, is super-awesome if you’re writing a roleplaying game, but less awesome if your goal is to write a more static and ego-driven story. Worldbuilding can be a giant time sink and, worse, a distraction that can make you feel productive while also keeping you from lashing your body to the mast of your novel, comic, or film — which, again, is more likely your purpose.

4. Okay, Wait, You Might Be Writing An Encyclopedia

But then again, that’s not to say you’ll find zero value in writing a storyworld bible for the tale at hand. If you’re writing a three-book epic fantasy, and each book is gonna be 150,000 words a pop or more, you may want to find a comfort level with the details big and small of the world about which you’re writing — in certain modes of fantasy, the world is itself a character, and a focused world bible will help you reflect that. Just the same, you’re still better off ensuring that what goes into the story bible reflects the characters and themes you plan to work with, and it’s probably also wise to get some of those story details down in your notes before you hunker down and start writing the bible for Middle Earth II: Shirelectric Hobbaloo. Here’s one test: if you’ve spent a year writing a 400-page story bible (one you could use to break the neck of a walrus) and yet you still haven’t put a single sentence down on your novel, you might be committing too much energy in the wrong direction.

5. Variant Approach: Ninja Genesis

Man, now I have a great idea for a Phil Collins cover band. *dons ninja gear, starts singing Sh-sh-shuriken, sung to the tune of Sussudio* WAIT YOU’RE STILL HERE okay I’ll worry about that later. If you’re lazy (like me!) and don’t feel like you can commit to writing a glacier-sized world bible, hey, you know what? Build it as you go. As you write, introduce details relevant to the story, the plot, the characters, the theme, and to the chapter at hand. This’ll probably require work on the back-end — no, not proctology, though perhaps it’s not unlike proctology, because you’ll have to go back on the second draft and root around and make everything work together instead of the random slapdash worldbuilding you just did. The pro: this is organic and works for lazy people (like me!). The con: more work after the fact, and may not give you a full sense of the world going into the story. Probably better for stories that require lighter worldbuilding, like those based off of our existing world.

6. The Pig In A Purse

Here’s some probably-really-bad and likely-untrue advice: give the audience only those details they need to know to understand the story. Now, it’s worth highlighting what I mean by “story” — story, for me, is not the same as plot. Story is the apple, plot is the arrow through it. Plot is a sequence of events as revealed to the reader, but story is all the stuff in and around that. Mood is a function of story, so when I say to include those worldbuilding elements that are necessary to move the story forward, I don’t merely mean the plot. I mean, hey, it’s totally okay to include a detail that is relevant to advancing a particular mood of gloom, or a theme of “man’s inhumanity to mermaids” or whatever. The problem is when the worldbuilding overwhelms — read: “smothers” — the story with needless details. I don’t need you to describe every family crest, guild sigil, hairstyle, nipple clamp, or blade of grass in the world. (Wait, on second thought: tell me more about these nipple clamps.) This is bad advice, probably, because a lot of fantasy storytelling is very much this: chapter after chapter of rich, robust, wormy worldbuilding loam. Fertile dirt, maybe, but too fetishistic and not necessary to move the audience forward in that space. And moving them forward is, I suspect, the goal.

7. Function Beyond Plot

This bears further reiterating: worldbuilding supports story, not just plot. Which means that your worldbuilding supports mood, theme, conflict, character, culture, setting. It doesn’t have to move only the sequence of events further. The details of the world you’ve created can and should engage with the whole narrative, not just action and event.

8. Action And Dialogue Above Description And Exposition

That being said, what’s true for other stories is true with a story featuring thick, delicious worldbuilding — you’re better off conveying the details of that world through action and dialogue than through giant boulders of description and exposition dropped on your readers from a vertiginous height. I get points for using “vertiginous,” right? Fellas? Ladies? Anybody?

9. A Rich Tapestry Or An Unrolled Tube Of Plain White Toilet Paper?

A lot of worldbuilding is dull as a hammer, as complex as a meaty slap to the face. This is fine for certain modes of storytelling (and a powerful story will set aside any concerns over monochromatic worldbuilding), but in general, if you’re gonna build a world, you’re best introducing some measure of nuance into it. We’ve been conditioned, perhaps, by the news and other forces (school, parents, bad fantasy novels) that everything is black and white, good and evil, that all things are easily slotted into their compartments. Example: the Middle East. Our politicians, our news media, our pop culture portray the Middle East like, “Okay, those are the good guys, those are the bad guys, ta-da, yay, simplistic world-view confirmed,” but if you spend more than five minutes looking into it, you realize the picture looks more like this. Certainly some stories are better off relying on the good versus evil paradigm, but generally, they dominate. More interesting (to me, if not to you) are those stories that are drawn from complexity and nuance rather than from easily predictable, simplistic strokes.

10. The Nature Of “Write What You Know”

Write What You Know is one of those pieces of writing advice that inspires glorious epiphany and pants-pooping rage in equal measure. Genre fiction tends to be where folks hit their heads against it in frustration: “Well, how can I write about murder scenes, alien apocalypses, or humping a sexy elf? I’VE ONLY DONE TWO OUT OF THE THREE. And the third, I was really drunk on monkey schnapps.” With worldbuilding, the question becomes: how can this advice hold up? The easy answer is: it doesn’t. It can come into the writing of characters and situations, but worldbuilding, not so much. The more complicated answer is: you can still borrow from things you understand and translate them accordingly. Maybe you know local school politics or neighborhood hierarchy, and you know how both operate viciously, each an engine that runs on gossip and lies — psst, you can use that. Just give it a fantasy or space opera context, and boom. Alternately, you can borrow from culture, politics and history. Read some non-fiction about other places and different people. Again: translate. Use write what you know as a springboard to know more things, then gaze upon said things through the lens of the fantastic.

11. Remix Culture

We live in an era of remix culture. And reboot culture. Everything that’s not something entirely new either feels like a microwaved rehash or a remix of other stories — but believe me when I say, remixing with worldbuilding is perfectly acceptable. Hell, remixing can be fun. On my iPad I used DJ software to remix Kayne West’s “Black Skinhead” with the Thomas the Tank Engine theme and, pow, now it’s getting radio play in both Moldavia and Moldova. Point is to remix things that are different enough and interesting enough so that the result is something new and unseen — remixing can be magical alchemy or it can be as boring as pouring two different types of milk together in the same glass. (“My world is a remix of Tolkien and Robert Jordan” is far less interesting than, say, “I’m remixing Cherokee myth with Eastern European vampires and throwing in a hefty dash of Stephen King’s The Gunslinger.”) Don’t be lazy. Don’t be predictable. Use other ideas to create something new and uniquely yours.

12. Ew, Stereotypes

If you’re worldbuilding, don’t rely on stereotypes. Noble savages and white heroes and damsels-in-distress and people of a single race acting in a single way. No culture is monolithic, skin color does not determine demeanor or magical racial bonuses, men are not all one thing and women are not all another thing. Stereotypes are lazy at best, harmful at worst. They make Story Jesus karate a kitten and then post the pictures on Facebook that say “SEE WHAT YOU MADE ME DO.”

13. Your Heteronormative White Male Gaze

Carrying this conversation a little further: if you’re firmly ensconced in your mini-mansion sitting on top of Heteronormative White Dude Mountain, you should cast an extra-long look at any presuppositions in your worldbuilding and sniff for the acrid tang of privilege sprayed all over from your White Dude scent glands. The result of worldbuilding in genre fiction seem to skew strongly toward White Dudes, and this is frequently excused in some way  — “Well, in the Middle Ages, women were basically sexy goats and dudes were the shepherds and I’m just being authentic and something-something slaves and blah-blah-the-Moors–” Mmm, uh-uh, bzzt, wrongo. First: you don’t need to be “authentic” to history in genre fiction that does not use actual history. Second, history is a lot more nuanced than you think. Third, we know you’re just using that as an excuse, so just stop it. You’re embarrassing yourself. For shame. *shakes head*

14. Small Details Are Just As Important As Big Ones

It’s easy to get wrapped up in all the Big Epic Holy Fucksmuckers aspects of worldbuilding — all the weighty topics like RELIGION and POLITICS and THE DANCE MUSIC OF KINGS. But a lot of worldbuilding lives in little details. What they drink at different meals. How they wash their hands. How they treat their animals. What materials they use to construct their sex toys (“BEHOLD THE ORICHALCUM DONG”). These little details can connect to and reflect a larger cultural aspect without bludgeoning readers over the head and neck with weighty exposition.

15. Simple Interactions Pregnant With Worldbuilding Complexity

Just as small details matter, so do the small interactions of our characters. The way one shares her food. The way another addresses a superior. The way a third chooses to couple rectally with the tentacled yelly-beast of Vrall, and whether or not they cuddle afterward, and what that cuddling means culturally. Allow the world to be built through what your characters do and say.

16. Your World Must Be Active And Alive

Worldbuilding is not an encyclopedia for dead cultures and forgotten races. That element can be in there, sure (because, so cool) but this world is one that features actual characters doing actual things and affecting the world. Worldbuilding has a tendency to feel staid and monolithic: “Everybody does this because it’s the culture.” But that’s never really true in our world, is it? Look at it like this: the rest of the world sees America as this single-headed entity, but they also seem to recognize that Americans are not always representative of that entity. That’s the breakdown: the world is one way, but the people are allowed to be another. Because people are alive. They have free will and agency to confirm and deny different aspects of their culture.

17. “But It’s Cool, Shut Up” Is Not An Excuse

All aspects of your worldbuilding should justify themselves in some way. “BUT IT’S COOL I LIKE IT” is not enough. My experience with worldbuilding is that it yields no small surfeit of Really Awesome Ideas that, at the same time, Don’t Really Belong In The Story. “But this cult! They do awesome things! And they spray acid from their nipples in the name of their Dark Lordess, Areola the Aerosolized Acid Queen, and they have magic based on the configuration of moles and skin tags and–” And none of that belongs in the book. Doesn’t connect to characters, plot, theme, anything. Cut it. Save it for a time when you can use it meaningfully, not just because oooh preshus darling I loves the pretty peacock. *paws at the darling, mewls*

18. The Rules

Worldbuilding likes to offer “rules” — in particular, rules about the way This Certain Thing works, which might be magic, or some alien technology, or political ascension, or what happens when you fuck a minotaur while holding a pelican under the boughs of the whispering wank-wank tree. Rules can be critical in helping readers understand the nature of the world and, more importantly, how the stakes of the story in this world shake out. (More on a story’s stakes here.) But (you know a ‘but’ had to be coming, right?), rules can also be woefully boring. They can be expository, obvious, and they can rob the story of mystery. You’re not writing a technical manual for HVAC repair. And yet, you also don’t want a world where everything is so unpredictable that it feels convenient and lazy. Here’s how to handle it: you should know the rules and conform to them. But you don’t need to spell them out to the audience. The audience is smart! The audience wants to work. Let them figure it out for themselves, like a puzzle.

19. Wait, I Need To Research My Made-Up World?

Tad Williams thinks so, and I happen to agree. Research trade routes. Economics. Religious persecution. Poetry. Guilds. Alchemy. Djinn. Leprechaun ranching. Medieval donkey shows. Knowing how real things work will inform how they work in your made-up fancy-land.

20. Imagine A World On The Edge Of Conflict

Conflict is the food that feeds the reader. Just as characters enter a story facing conflict, so too should the world in which they live. First, because it’s interesting. Second, because has any world ever been entirely without conflict? War! Famine! Plague! Facebook! Miley Cyrus’ soul-leeching hell-tongue! Conflict is good for your story, your characters, and your setting.

21. Everything Affects Everything Else

Behold the complexity intrinsic to worldbuilding. Everything pushes and pulls on everything else, often in interesting ways. Again, our world makes for good examples: think of how a technological development can change the world in a relatively short amount of time (printing press, electricity, the Internet, Robocop). Think of what happens when a critical resource (food, water, oil, coffee, hair pomade, black market llama squeezings) dries up. Small changes in an economic system can have huge results. A new farming practice can fix — or wreak havoc upon — the environment. Everything is tethered to everything else, and in this, you can find compelling worldbuilding as well as the interesting stories that grow out of it.

22. Subtextology

Characters can speak in subtext. So can the world. Not everything must be spoken or spelled out.

23. Preserving Mystery Is Vital

A fully-realized and known world is also a boring world. Mystery, alongside conflict, is another of those vital vittles that feeds the reader and keeps them hooked. Question marks are shaped like hooks for a reason, I say — so leave lots of questions. The best parts of any map are the ones that fade out and leave us with the dread note of HERE THERE BE DRAGONS. Preserve that uncertainty in your worldbuilding. Never pull back the curtain all the way. Always leave us hanging, waiting for you to reveal more, more, more.

24. Worldbuilding Versus Storytelling

Good worldbuilding does not automatically mean the same thing for the storytelling. I’ll leave you with this io9 article, which compares the worldbuilding of Star Wars: The Phantom Menace with Star Wars: A New Hope. One could make an argument that the worldbuilding in the prequel chapters is more robust and more detailed than what you’d find in the original trilogy. And one would hopefully also argue that this didn’t make for a better experience in any way, shape, or form and may have in fact robbed some of the narrative potency from that universe.

25. Construct Worlds Mapped After Your Own Heartsblood Spatter

Pro-tip: build worlds that you love. That interest you. Whose characters sing the song that drums in the deep dark labyrinthine chambers of the puzzle box you call a heart. If you don’t like it? If it doesn’t conjure themes that fascinate you, if it fails to play with images and ideas that appeal to you, the world will feel flat as a frog under an anvil. Get excited about world building! Embrace the mad genesis. Scream, let there be light, and then cackle, and pull the switch, and watch the storyworld of your dreams and nightmares glow bright and bold like a fucking Christmas tree on Jesus’ own front porch. I mean, jeez, if you don’t dig it, what’s the point?

* * *

After yesterday’s blog post, I didn’t expect another lesson in the phrase, “The juice ain’t worth the squeeze” quite so soon. BUT HEY, HERE WE ARE.

Authors: just as I have suggested it may not be in your best interest to write negative reviews, it’s probably not in your best interest, or that of your readers, to respond to negative reviews.

To recap:

A blog said something about an author’s books, the author got on the blog, everyone started out semi-reasonable but it swiftly descended into rage-face and Molotov cocktails and fecal-pitching, and then another website said something, and the author went there too, and then the original blog did an update and the author went to that post as well, and by the end of it everyone has poop on their shoes and now nobody’s happy.

It was a total shitshow.

I’m not linking because it’s no longer worth the attention, and I’m sure you can scare up the links somewhere if you’re really Jonesing to rubberneck at this particular car crash.

https://twitter.com/knight_francis/status/379390620416348160

Author Francis Knight said, wisely, that authors not responding to reviews is a guideline, not a law — and she’s right about that. This isn’t hammered into stone. But a guideline, it remains.

Here’s why it’s a guideline:

Because it’s usually not worth the response.

It can be! Once in a while, an author can — with the right measure of politeness, kindness, and diplomacy! — actually respond to a negative review. This is especially true in forums that encourage this (some bloggers, for instance, are comfortable with writers swinging by their bloggery huts and talking about their work, even on negative reviews).

For the most part, however, assume this isn’t true.

Assume that it’s not commentary meant for you, and so you’re not welcome. Assume that your response will do little to engender the community’s response. Assume it’ll corrupt the discussion. Assume that you will accidentally read more defensive than you sound or that you might be more defensive than you actually think. Assume that people are going to think what they’re going to think, and that’s that. Assume that no good can come of your response.

Bare minimum, your response should be: “Hey, thanks, sorry you didn’t like it.”

Or, if you’re really itchy: “Hey, thanks, sorry you didn’t like it; I’d be happy to discuss this further, but no harm, no foul if you’d rather me not engage with the conversation.”

You think: I’m a reader, too! I want to talk about my work! I want to engage with you, the people who took the time to read that book I worked so hard to produce — it’s like you’re out there talking about my kid, and it’s my kid, so I wanna talk about my kid with you. But it’s not your child. It’s a book. And your book has to stand for itself. I know! I know. You want to respond! You want to correct details that you feel were stated incorrectly. Or you want to disagree with their assertions. Or offer up some behind-the-scenes information. Or serve up a personal anecdote! Or, or, or. Don’t! Don’t. Don’t. Seriously. BZZT! Do. Not.

Okay. Now, with all that being said…

A couple-few times you can probably — maybe, no guarantees — get away with it.

First, you know the reviewer or have corresponded. I know some bloggers who, if they gave me a negative review, I could probably engage with ’em and we’d all be super-cool about it.

Second, the commentary after the review can engender a larger discussion about important things (sexism, racism, politics, book culture, whatever). Note: this is tricky, especially if you will come across in any way defensively. More to the point: if criticism regarding those things is pointed at you or the book, do not engage. Repeat: do not engage.

Third, you genuinely liked the review and want to say so. Hey, some negative reviews are interesting and/or clarifying. No harm in saying so, throwing around high-fives.

And, as always, kill ’em with kindness.

Oh, and duh. Don’t be a dick.

Because, as I said before:

The juice ain’t worth the squeeze.

It really, really isn’t. Hey, listen. Bad reviews happen. They’re a shame, and you feel like — “AAAGRRBLE NO WAIT DAMNIT, STOP TURNING PEOPLE OFF OF MY WORK” — especially if it’s a review that you feel maligns the book unfairly or gets stuff wrong or whatever. It is what it is. Not everybody’s going to like your book. That has to be okay. The review might not be nice. It might be snarky. It might be downright nasty. (Note: nasty as it may be, it isn’t bullying. It may not be friendly, it may not be welcoming or wise, but it isn’t bullying.)

Be happy they took the time to write the review.

Understand that you are potentially not welcome, unless they state otherwise.

Disengage. If you have to, bite a leather belt, punch some drywall, eat a pint of ice cream.

Just the same —

Writers are expected to be professional. The prevailing wisdom says that, just as a writer wouldn’t traipse into a discussion with, say, a NYT critic or an EW review and engage, the writer probably shouldn’t do the same thing on someone’s book blog. The river flows both ways, though. Book blogs, nine times out of ten, are incredibly awesome spaces. Friendly and welcoming and inclusive of everyone, including writers. (Book blogs are some of my favorite places, and my experiences with sites like My Bookish Ways and My Shelf Confessions and countless others have been nothing short of wonderful.) Sometimes, though, book blogs can get a little nasty — very exclusive, very cliquish, very mean-snarky. My advice to those bloggers is the same: don’t be a dick. Just as the writer is expected to be polite and professional, you should do the same, because that whole idea of ‘fighting fire with fire’ actually just creates more fire. If the writer should engage with you in the same way she should engage with a NYT critic, then you should attempt to act with a modicum of professionalism even if the writer will not.

Everybody, repeat after me:

The juice ain’t worth the squeeze.

The juice ain’t worth the squeeze.

Der Saft ist nicht wert, den Squeeze.

El jugo no vale la pena el apretón.

Exprimendum sucus est non tanti.

Juice. Not worth. The squeeze.

*drinks juice*

*makes a face*

*shudders*

Last go around: POC Non-US SFF.

This time:

We’re dropping the hammer.

THE BIG HAMMER.

The hammer called “epic fantasy.”

I suspect this’ll be a big one. I’m guessing you guys have lots of passionate opinions about what counts as essential epic fantasy, yeah? Time to get into it, then. Your job: drop into the comments, give us your top three epic fantasy reads that you consider critical in terms of the subgenre.

Later on, we’ll compile and put up a top ten list here.

Feel free to discuss what epic fantasy even means or is to you, as well.

Top three epic fantasy reads (series or individual books, your call).

Go.

https://twitter.com/vilutheril/status/379261653595877376

That tweet generated some interesting discussion on Twitter this weekend, but I feel like that discussion still needs a bit of unpacking in a space that lets me talk in bursts more than 140-characters at a time. (Twitter is good at starting discussions and not as good at finishing them or making them clear. Twitter is also most excellent at tweeting pictures of tacos, toddlers, dogs, as well as spreading Vine videos of apathetic twerking. USE IT WISELY.)

My argument (read: opinion) is that authors negatively reviewing the work of authors authors is not the best idea in the world. You can! You’re free to. But the value proposition there is a bit shaky. As my wife’s boss has been wont to say: “The juice ain’t worth the squeeze.”

(To clarify, when I say “negatively review,” I mean that in the strictest sense — a review that is, by its definition, a “pan.” I do not mean a positive review with critical qualifications.)

Here’s my thinking on the subject — and you are of course free to agree, disagree, or ragetastically headbutt your monitor into a sparking pile of glass and plastic. As always: YMMV, IMHO, and other fun acronyms that mean, “You do as you like.”

Be A Fountain, Not A Drain

Above all else, I find it’s far more interesting to everyone else — and more constructive to your own mood — to put forth positive vibes into the world than negative signal. Certainly not suggesting you be a robot shouting chirpy cherub-cheeked propaganda all the time, or always be manically happy happy eeeeeee, but negativity also has a seductive, multiplicative quality. It gets attention. In Internet terms, it gets “clicks” and it earns response. But that’s not always a good thing, and you’re probably better off trying to be relatively positive and further, writing your own stories than trying to tear someone else’s apart.

Losing Potential Fans

I say, “I thought Danny Flarngbaum’s newest novel, Whale Thong, was an exercise in sloppy characterwork, poo-bucket plotting, and narrative dick-punching, and I suspect Mister Flarngbaum’s time would be better spent working the Fry-o-later at McDonald’s than poisoning our library shelves with his toxic claptrap.” I go on and on in my review.

You read this review.

And then you say, as a fan of Whale Thong, “Gosh, I really loved that book, and Chuck is being really critical of it.” And then, you might think the next time you see one of my books, “Ehhh, he and I don’t really agree on what makes good story,” and so you pass my books by. Or, you’re more offended than that, and you counter my negativity with your own — maybe you negatively review my book, maybe you just say shit about me on Twitter, maybe you try to argue, whatever.

Again: what’s the value here for me as an author?

What’s there to gain?

Authoritative, Yet Subjective

I’m a writer. Or —

An author, said with nose raised in the air and a snifter of brandy swirling in my hand. And with that comes the illusion that I’m an authority on what makes good writing, good story, good characterization and plotting and cover design and publishing strategies, blah blah blah.

Again: total illusion. I’m not an expert. I am probably strongly opinionated on the matter but for every opinion I have about All These Things, I can surely dig up plenty of examples that exist in opposition of my opinions — and, in fact, that do so quite successfully.

And yet!

When I offer my review, you might take it more seriously than, say, one from Goodreads. Not saying that’s fair or reasonable, only that it’s possibly true. Which means my negative review — which sounds authoritative but is entirely subjective — carries more weight. And I have an audience, to boot! So I’m using my reach and my (again: illusory) authority to do what?

To do harm to another author and their work.

Food Outta Mouths

When I say “do harm,” what I actually mean is:

Potentially rob that author of one or many sales. I don’t want to do that. Writing a book is hard goddamn work. You’ve got rent to pay. Or a mortgage. You’ve got a food bill. And cats or dogs. Maybe one or several kids. I don’t like the thought that my review is going to take money out of your pockets, or snatch food out of your kids’ mouths. Fuck that. I’m not “Internet Famous” or anything, but I have a blog and a social media feed that gets a substantial echo. Do I really want to use my social media reach to drink your milkshake or piss in your cereal bowl? No, I do not.

I’ve Got Hurt Feelings

Some people say that writers don’t have feelings. We have feelings!

Ahem.

Point is, you write a bad review of someone’s book, how are they supposed to feel about it? The easy answer is: “They should harden the fuck up and accept it.” Which is probably accurate. But maybe they don’t. That’s how hurt feelings work — they’re not logical. You feel what you feel. So, you give someone a negative review, you maybe just burned a potential future relationship — and this is a much smaller community than you think. It’s still one based on those relationships, on authors helping authors.

Plus, it goes back to that authoritative thing — a negative review from a fellow author is going to sting more than a negative review from a book blogger, or a critic, or somebody on Goodreads.

(And never mind the fact that authors have been known to play dirty pool from time to time — purposefully writing negative reviews of books by authors they don’t personally like.)

Again, not saying this is fair or reasonable.

But that question again: is the juice worth the squeeze?

What are you getting out of writing a bad review that matches or exceeds the potential negative ramifications for doing so?  What’s the takeaway for you?

Go Write Your Own Thing

It takes energy to write a bad review. Energy you could probably use elsewhere. Like, say, writing more awesome books. Go do that. Contribute word count to your own fiction.

My two cents: that’s where you’re going to get far greater mileage.

Your own stories are a juice forever worth the squeeze.

Last week’s challenge: “WTF Is This Thing?“

This week, simple enough: I’m going to give you twenty different potential conflict prompts to dominate your flash fiction story. Roll a d20 or find a random number generator and boom, you’ve got your conflict. (Or, if you see one you really like, hey, just pick it. ESCHEW CHAOS.)

You can interpret these prompts as you see fit.

(Any genre will do.)

You then write ~1000 words of fiction.

You post it on your online space. Link back here.

Due by next Friday, the 20th, noon EST.

Here, then, is your list:

1. Killed, returned to life to claim vengeance
2. Betrayal by a lover
3. Monster invasion!
4. Lost in a strange place
5. Owe money to some very bad people
6. The bomb is counting down!
7. The apocalypse has arrived
8. A threatened home
9. A spiteful child
10. A crippling disease with a rare cure
11. Stolen identity!
12. Man becomes monster
13. Machines are taking over
14. Dark secrets, exposed
15. A difficult funeral
16. Friend becomes enemy
17. A tragedy of one’s own making
18. Redemption for past sins
19. Nemesis attacks!
20. Power corrupts!

Barry Lyga has a hit YA series on his hands — I Hunt Killers — and so it’s interesting to see that when he had an adult novel ready to roll he juked left and decided to publish it himself (becoming one of them “hybrid authors” they grow in labs in the Pacific Northwest). Here is is to talk about the book:

TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF: WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?

I’m just a guy who writes shit, and for some reason people — actually, big corporations — are crazy enough to pay me. Which is nuts because I’d pretty much do it for dark chocolate M&Ms and health insurance.

Before doing what I do now, I spent ten years working in the comic book industry, occasionally writing comics, mostly trying to get the public to remember that comic books still existed. Now — thanks to the movies — friggin’ Iron Man is a billion-dollar franchise. I’m going to take some of the credit for that, even though I absolutely do not deserve it. But let’s see how powerful the reach is of Terrible Minds. Let’s see if we can get the culture to believe I’m responsible for Iron Man. It’ll be an interesting test of virality and meme theory.

GIVE US THE 140-CHARACTER STORY PITCH:

Randall Banner — depressed, frustrated author — sells his soul to the devil in exchange for a hit book. Hilarity, horror, and sex ensue.

WHERE DOES THIS STORY COME FROM?

I love “deal with the devil” stories, but I’ve always felt like they fall into certain patterns. They become redemption stories or cautionary tales. For years, I imagined telling the story of a Faustian bargain that turns those notions on their heads. A story where the lines between good and evil, right and wrong, seem clear, but really aren’t, and where the devil gets all the best lines. And with a twist at the end that changes everything that has come before.

I mean, I carried this thing around in my head for something like a decade, maybe more. And finally I said, “Fuck it, I need it out of my head and out in the world where it can bother people.”

HOW IS THIS A STORY ONLY YOU COULD’VE WRITTEN?

Hmm. Unlikeable main character? Cynical worldview? Don’t give a fuck if all the “right people” approve of it or not? Radically different than anything else I’ve written? Takes shots at my industry and my profession?

Here’s the thing: At the end of the day, I have this bizarre, misunderstood empathy for bad people. Not necessarily evil people, mind you — just bad people. People who don’t get along. People who are outcasts, usually due to some personal failing to which they’re blind. I get these people. I don’t know what that says about me, but there it is. I get them and I can’t stop writing about them. And really, truly: I believe there are things we can learn from them. Not every character has to be boyfriend or girlfriend material. Sometimes we learn as much from the people we hate as we do from the people we admire.

WHAT WAS THE HARDEST THING ABOUT WRITING UNSOUL’D?

Other than finding the time to do it in between all the other stuff I’m writing? Probably the concern that some people would completely misinterpret crucial aspects of the book, leading to the usual call for my head. But at some point you just have to say, “Hey, not every book is for every reader.” My career has been a crazy-quilt of different genres, different age groups, different topics, different styles and voices… If people don’t dig this one, maybe they’ll dig the next one. I write for myself, really, and I’m so damn lucky that there are enough people out there who are similar to me that I can make it a career!

WHAT DID YOU LEARN WRITING UNSOUL’D?

That writing sex can be exciting and depressing at the same time. That the guy you thought was “you” in the story sometimes turns out to be someone else. That everyone you speak to — upon hearing the soul-for-hit-book premise of the novel — will feel obligated to say, “So is that what you did?” Oh, and that my fianceé is the single coolest person in the world because she still loved me after reading this thing.

WHAT DO YOU LOVE ABOUT UNSOUL’D?

I love the sheer id of it, man. It’s about a guy who sells his soul for the pettiest of reasons, really, and the whole book is a wallow in creature comforts, self-pity, and sex. With no apologies. If you were the sort of person who would sell your soul in the first place, you wouldn’t be all that nice or all that pleasant, I figure, and I wanted to be honest about that. So Randall is just the kind of guy who would sell his soul, get everything he ever wanted, and still bitch about it.

I get that people identify more with characters who are like them or who are likable, but I think there’s real value in exploring people who aren’t quite so gooey at their centers. Like I said before, I think we can learn things from examining the sad, pathetic bastards of the world.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO DIFFERENTLY NEXT TIME?

I think I’m still too close to it to have the perspective necessary to answer that, honestly. With every book I write, I look back at some point and think, “Oh, crap, I missed X, Y, or Z.” Sometimes it’s little things and I just want to tweak a sentence or a bit of dialogue. On one occasion, there an entire book I wish I could just rewrite from scratch.

But for me, I always need some emotional and temporal distance before I can get to that point. And Unsoul’d is still too fresh for me. I’m still in love with it. It’s still our first night together. I haven’t woken up next to it and smelled its terrible hangover breath yet.

GIVE US YOUR FAVORITE PARAGRAPH FROM THE STORY:

Oh, man… I don’t even… I don’t know where to start! I’m tempted to say the opening of the book is my favorite paragraph because I think it just sets up the story to absolute perfection. I’ve always been hypercritical of my openings, but this one time, I think I nailed it. And almost every time the devil opens his mouth, I love what comes out of it.

That said, I can tell you the paragraph that made me giggle like a demented schoolboy when I wrote it. It’s not just a paragraph, though: It’s a single sentence that stands alone, and it’s actually an entire chapter unto itself:

“I have no words.”

Trust me: In context, it’s a killer. 😉

WHAT’S NEXT FOR YOU AS A STORYTELLER?

I’m still cranking away on the I Hunt Killers series, wrapping up revisions on the third and final book. And there’s a middle-grade dark sci-fi-ish sort of thing bubbling up right now. I’ll probably write an epic fantasy after that because this is how my brain works.

Barry Lyga: Website / Twitter

Unsoul’d: Read First Half For Free / Buy Here