I do have books published by three of those publishers, but I have never consulted with them on this, they are not taking orders from me, they have (as corporate entities) very little regard for me and do not listen to me at all. And I know they don’t because if they did, my fellow authors would be paid better, I would be paid better, people who work inside publishing would be paid better, and the publishers would provide better rates to libraries when it came to e-book licensing/lending fees. Turns out, they don’t heed my requests.
I am a fan of libraries and librarians. They do wonders for this world. I used to work for the public library here in Bucks County for a number of years.
I do not support the lawsuit.
Yes, I once overzealously tweeted at NPR about the emergency library the IA set up, calling it “piracy,” and yes, I regret calling it that. It was in March 2020, when after all, we were all stuck inside and going a little stir crazy as a pandemic was just starting to rise. We were bleaching our vegetables and acting the fools in many a way, and I apologized then and apologize now for that overzealousness.
I wasn’t going to say anything about this during this go-round, though it has been “going-round” for literally the entire breadth of this pandemic. And I see this misinformation (and in some cases, straight-up disinformation) sometimes break out of containment into the general populace, suggesting that I am suing the Internet Archive, that I am the instigator, that I am the sole name and brand behind the entire thing. And I need you to understand that not only is this some kind of deranged parasocial fanfiction about me, but further, you’re actually carrying the publishers’ water on that one, because if they can do this but you’re mad at me about it instead, a guy who is not involved in it, then you’re helping them, not the Archive. So it felt necessary to reiterate, two-plus years later, that I’m not the person. It’s not me. It’s not authors. It’s the publishers. They’re the ones doing this. Go be mad at them. I’ve been mad at publishers many times. It’s an authorial tradition, honestly. (Though I make note here I also like most of the people who I work with inside publishing, because these teams are full of people who like books. Individuals are not corporate entities, after all.)
If you want to support the Internet Archive, I suspect your best bet is not harassing me or other authors and, instead, committing money toward the cause, which you can do right here. I did, you can too. You can also support your own local libraries both politically and financially, as I assure you, they need it.
So, AI Art (in this case, using Midjourney) is pretty addictive. (I’ve seen author Cassandra Khaw also doing lots of really cool stuff with it over on their Instagram.) I’ll dump a handful of the really interesting ones I did here on the blog over the last few weeks. It’s fucking weird, like watching a machine dream art into being. I recognize that none of it is “original” in the sense that it’s compositing new material based on things it believes or thinks or envisions, and that ultimately it’s finding a new way to mash together things it can find inside its brain (aka, the internet) — but at the end of the day, sometimes that’s also what art is. I don’t think it should ever take over Human Art, and I pray it doesn’t, but it’s fun to play with. Then again, maybe I’m part of the problem! Ha ha ha! Oh no!
WHATEVER. Here’s some weird shit. Enjoy.
(Feel free to take a guess at the input strings that got me to these images.)
So, every once in a while, a friend who belongs to a book club will message me and say, “Hey, we’re reading [insert name of one of my books] for our book club and would you mind stopping by (virtually) to talk to us about said book?”
And I’ve done it and it’s been great.
And here’s why it’s been great:
At a normal signing / book event, I can talk about the book in a sideways sort of manner — we can talk around a bunch of stuff but I can’t answer any really squirrelly questions about it, because I don’t want to spoil anything, and ideally, some or most of the people at such an event have not read the book.
But! At a book club, that’s not the case. Presumably, everyone has read the book by the time they’re talking to me, and so that means they can ask me more specific questions about the whole book, and I can answer those questions without fear of stepping on spoilers. Which is really fun and I really like it.
So, an offer: if your book club is reading one of my books, and you’d like me to talk to said book club about said book (virtually!), I am glad to do so.
With the following caveats:
The book club shouldn’t be like, just you. I’d say five or more people would be necessary. I KNOW YOUR TRICKS, THAT ONE GUY. Dave. No I won’t just talk to you, Dave. You gotta form a book club. Dave.
It is obviously subject to both of our schedules, and I make no promises, but I will do my level best to make it work out.
Generally, any virtual chats will have to be late afternoons or early evenings.
Again, these are virtual meetings, not in-person. I’ll only do in-person book club chats if you fly me out there and put me up in the fanciest hotel and buy me a pony or at least a bottle of excellent gin. So in other words: virtual meetings only.
And I think that’s it.
So, again:
If you got a book club and you’re reading one of my books (especially The Book of Accidents or Wanderers) then I may visit your book club like some kind of Author Fairy, and I will sprinkle upon you the Answers to your Many Questions. Or something. Shut up.
AND a reminder too that tomorrow night, I’ll be chatting (live! not virtually!) with Paul Tremblay at Doylestown Bookshop, 7PM. And you should buy his novel, The Pallbearers Club, because you’re a smart person with excellent taste.
And I’ll also be at the Colorado Gold Writer’s Conference in Denver, CO on Sept 9th to the 11th. Details here.
So, a thing happens where, if you complain about your chosen political leader/party, eventually someone comes out and says you shouldn’t do that, you’re depressing voter turnout, you’re encouraging people not to vote, you’re a bad democracy-hating monkey who is fueling fascism and blah blah blah.
Counterpoint: that’s bullshit.
Complaining about the Democrats and Biden is entirely fair game. It is, in fact, part and parcel of our democracy, to be able to complain about them, to demand that they do better — not just better, but the very best they can do. That’s literally the whole point. It is, in fact, one of the things you buy with your vote — the ability to say, “I voted for you because you said you were going to do XYZ, so get to it.” Consider that, when they’re not doing the best job, if you don’t complain — loudly! angrily! visibly! this is called protest! — then they have not received the message that they need to do different and do better. Why would you think anything would change if you don’t push them to change?
That’s not to say we can’t recognize the nuance of all situations or see the difficulties ahead, but also, y’know what? We don’t have to. It’s not required. There’s no law that says we can’t just be like HEY FUCK THAT GUY, I’M KINDA MAD. Or HEY WHAT THE SHIT, THAT IS A BAD IDEA, I HATE IT A LOT. You don’t have to have an answer, or a solution, or anything. You can just be upset. Because as it turns out, there is a whole lot to be upset about — and though nearly all of this was born from Republicans, it is happening on the watch of Democrats, and so far they are having a very hard time meeting this moment and these challenges, despite being the ones who promised that they could. Sorry you got stuck holding the hot potato, but you knew it was coming, so maybe do something?
Like, you get that this is for the whole enchilada, right? We’re at one of those moments in history. It is existential. People are going to get hurt and die — hell, people are already hurting and dying. From botched abortions, from rampant gun violence, from pollution, from climate change, from suicide. It’s already been happening and is going to get a whole lot worse.
“Don’t complain” is not a winning political strategy, nor is it a good political argument. Complaints like these are the bread and butter of our democracy, part of the conversation. Some people treat the complaints as if the complaints are the problem, as if the complainers are depressing voter turnout — they’re not. It’s the politicians depressing voter turnout. Our one angry Facebook post or tweet isn’t the thing that’s dismantling democracy or driving people from feeling engaged. That one angry Facebook post, that one pissed-off tweet, is reflecting the attitude, not creating it. Yes, we need to be aware of disinformation and misinformation that feeds that furnace, absolutely. But the anger at obvious, true things… is not only okay, is not only justified, but I dare say, encouraged.
And believe it or not, it’s actually a good thing. We’ve seen multiple times that the Democrats are actually responsive to approval ratings and anger — demand better from them, and turns out, they seem motivated by it. But they won’t be motivated by people saying, “Hey, guys, no, stop, they’re doing their best, it’s okay, we forgive them.” What the fuck. Fuck that. The boat is sinking, don’t let the captain tell you, “Not much more I can do here, folks, good luck.” That motherfucker needs to walk you to the lifeboats, or patch the holes, or do something. That’s how this all works! This isn’t fandom, this isn’t, “Wow, jeez, let people like things, I thought Obi-Wan was a good show.” This is rising sea levels, this is the loss of bodily autonomy, this isn’t about a Marvel movie.
Long as someone doesn’t say, “Don’t vote,” then most anything else is fair game. I mean, JFC, FFS, how are you not angry? Consider the privilege it takes to not be angry at all of this.
Honestly?
We need to go back to treating our politicians like Philadelphia sports fans treat their teams. When you’re winning for us, we will deafen God with our cheers. When you’re losing, we’re gonna whip batteries and ice chunks at your head.
Way back in 2012, Fireside Magazine published my short story “Remaker, Remaker.” This was back in the days just before they started publishing Chuck’s The Forever Endeavor serial, when they were really first getting off the ground; “Remaker” was part of their very first public call for submissions.
Through subsequent Kickstarters, Fireside went on to publish two more stories of mine, all set in the same vaguely-realized world: an alternate-history steampunk industrial revolution in which the Roman Empire had never fallen. Otherwise, they were somewhat disparate stories, though: a remaker’s descent into depravity and ruin; a story of love and anger in a world gone mad; and an action/adventure of an investigator, betrayed as she’s on the brink of uncovering a conspiracy.
They did have some connective thread, though. A corrupt and rotten empire. A conspiracy to bring it to ruin. Vague references to recurring names. So there was always this open space in my mind, that they were connected, part of some larger narrative; there was a potentiality to these stories and where they might go. An… unfinished feeling about them. I just didn’t know what the rest looked like!
But Fireside’s editor, Brian White, had always encouraged me to reach out if I wanted to do more with the world. And so I unknowingly began a journey towards The Clockwork Empire, my first novel, out June 28th.
We all like our lists here at Terribleminds, so here’s FIVE THINGS on the way to a novel!
1. Finishing a Project
OK, weird that the first thing on the way to a novel is FINISHING, so bear with me.
I like finishing things. Or rather, I like having things be finished. There are too many projects out there that I want to do, and if I don’t explicitly endeavour to finish the ones that I start, I will end up working for years and years and having nothing to show for it.
(I should caveat that I don’t think it’s important to finish literally everything you start, whether it’s writing, or reading, or watching, or playing; sometimes something isn’t working, and you can and should abandon those rather than get mired in the belief that you Have to Finish It..)
Those threestories were out in the world, and I was proud of them, but they felt unfinished. I was working on novels and games and other things that felt endless, but this, this was a project that maybe I could finish, and put behind me, and move on to other things. So I set out to do so.
2. Tying Threads Together
If I was going to take these three stories I’d published and do something to finish them, I had to think about what the full, cohesive narrative was. I had this idea for what the storyworld was, I had set up some stuff that vaguely referenced each other, but that was it. But because I wasn’t originally setting out to tell a cohesive long-form story, I hadn’t put a lot of time into making sure they fit perfectly. That was going to have to change, if I wanted something that felt cohesive and consistent at the end of this.
Luckily, I’ve been running long-term tabletop RPG games for most of my life. How does that help? Oftentimes these games start out with some one-off adventures or storylines, as the group figures out their characters, and if we’re enjoying the system and setting, etc. Introductory episodes if you will. Then as things progress, the actions of the players help dictate what’s most interesting or important in the ongoing story—a villain gets away, they spend time investigating a side plot, whatever.
Around that time I’m also (as the game master) starting to think about bigger plot points, and where I might take the campaign. Often, I’ll seed little things into early stories—rumours, some note left behind by the villain, hints there’s more going on—without there necessarily being an actual connection between them, because I don’t yet know where the game is going.
And one of my favourite things to do, then, is sit down with all this material, and figure out how it all connects to bring the campaign to a satisfying climax.
Now, I don’t necessarily condone this as a method for novel writing, or at least, a novel would then require a hefty editing pass to bring the early adventures back in line with the overarching plot. But here I had three short stories with a few dangling threads… I could work with that.
3. Things Happened
The original stories had been published over the course of a few years, and it was a couple years later that I was really thinking about finishing them. You remember those years. The mid-to-late 2010’s. Things Happened in those years. You remember those Things.
And because of those Things, more of this concept of the rotten, corrupt empire began to form in my mind. The rise of a fascist demagogue; unchecked corporate power; foreign interference and conspiracy. (You know, Things.) And the dangling threads started to come together into a more cohesive concept.
I began to imagine how things might go differently. I began to wonder what anyone could do about unchecked corruption and fascism.
4. So, Not So Finished Then, Eh?
As Brian had expressed interest in something more from this world, and Fireside published short stories, I put together three more short stories. A nice parallel to the original three, each from a different POV, which together brought the narratives I had begun to a conclusion. There was a lot of empty space there still, but I thought it a nice way to still imply that there’s more going on behind the scenes while wrapping up the stories I’d started.
I reached out to Brian with those stories, thinking that that would finally be the end of this little project, and I could move on to other things.
And then Brian asked if I wanted to turn them into a novel instead.
So much for moving on, but how could I say no?
What I had, then, was an outline: the first three stories were the foundation for the first act of a novel; I had a bit of a midpoint; and I had two stories that wrapped up the ending. And a lot of empty space to fill.
But I’d done this already. I knew how to take different threads and weave them together, fill out more storyline, to get from point A to B to C.
(And then at some point I realized I needed just one more beat towards the middle, so I added a train heist. Who doesn’t love a train heist?)
And thus, I had a first draft.
5. The Stories I Didn’t Know I Was Telling
Then began the editing process.
The main character in The Clockwork Empire is a young man who’s always had health problems, and who—at the very start of the novel, this isn’t a spoiler—is “remade” with a clockwork-powered heart and lung. “Remaking” was a big part of the steampunk world I’d devised (inspired much by Perdido Street Station), and ends up featuring in the climax as well. There are some metaphors around it too, thus “The Clockwork Empire”.
I’d set out to tell a story of queer found family fighting fascism, but Fireside rightly wanted to bring in a disability expert for a sensitivity edit, given the prevalence of remaking. And that edit made me realize that I was also telling a story about disability—not just that there was disability discourse inherent in this world, but that it was truly at the heart (pun intended) of the narrative.
Ace Tilton Ratcliff helped me see that, helped me understand what it was I was telling, and helped me do it well. I educated myself, I edited out the ableism (the English language has SO MUCH ABLEISM, y’all), and I tried to infuse the story with a true respect for the disability community. (As an example, the novel is full of parallels to real-world events, like the 1926 General Strike; I ended up adding an homage to the 504 Sit-In.)
Naturally, this process radically improved the narrative. And it introduced me to a community that, as a mass-disabling pandemic set in, helped give me a lot of perspective in the last couple years.
OK, I Guess It’s Six Things
And so, at the end of the day, I had a novel. A novel I’d had no intention of writing, but one that represented an opportunity too good to pass up, a story I’d wanted to finish telling, and a better understanding of the world I live in.
As I figured out what this story would look like, I returned again and again to the central question: what can we do about unchecked corruption and fascism? And the answer I hope to offer is this: be kind to one another; learn from other marginalised communities, and work together towards common goals; always fight fascists. There is no one answer, just many steps we have to take together.
Lucas J.W. Johnson is an author, game designer, and founder of Silverstring Media Inc., a narrative game design studio. THE CLOCKWORK EMPIRE is his debut novel, and just released June 28th, 2022.
In the last, ohh, six or seven years, I think I’ve done a number of versions of this post — I don’t do it to be redundant, or to try to re-farm the same idea for clicks, because the clicks don’t get me anything. I do it mostly because it keeps happening, because the world grows darker and stranger, and I think, quite honestly, that makes it really hard to Make Stuff. And given that this is my job, and also my joy (and mayhaps it is your joy and/or your job, as well), it feels notable to continue to remind myself how the hell to do this thing in the midst of all this area-of-effect trauma. Because I suspect that anybody with one iota of empathy and a few braincells banging together will likely feel caught in a miasma of anxiety and depression, either bearing the brunt of it and smashing themselves like a soup can in a car crusher, or they’re disassociating so heavily that they feel disconnected from everything that makes them want to write stories or make stuff in the first place.
It’s just hard and weird to make stuff, to write stories, right now.
I mean, it is for me. Maybe it’s not for you. No writer is the same, and some will disassociate themselves right into the writing, and hey, fuck it, whatever works.
But for me it can be tough. And I say that as a very, very privileged person. (Yadda yadda, cisgender straight white dude who has a reasonable successful career in writing, etc. etc.) So I can only imagine what it’s like for the rest of y’all.
So for me, I need to occasionally revisit the work, and more to the point, revisit the reason for the work in order to recharge myself. And I don’t think there’s one reason to urge yourself to write and tell stories, whether that’s in a troubled time or in a time of ease and languor; we all write for a panoply of reasons, some very simple (“I like to do it”) to the complex (“I grew up in an abusive household and as such am almost troublingly sensitive to other people’s moods and behaviors, to the point it helps me put that in fiction and contextualize and control what is essentially complex PTSD”). And multiple reasons can be true at a single time. I write horror because I like it, because I like being scared, I like scaring other people, I enjoy the grotesquerie of it, and also it serves as a most excellent place for me to summon the demons of my anxiety and make them fight (and/or kiss) in a narrative arena of my own design, thank you very much.
I think right now, at this moment in time in troubled history, there’s value too — if, let’s say, you’re having trouble getting yourself to sit in front of the story — in viewing your fiction as a box. It is perhaps a blood-soaked shoebox, or a gilded clockwork box, or a box of keys, a box of teeth, a box of gold, a box of bone, but this box is like a reverse Pandora’s Box. Instead of opening it to let All The Evil out, you’re opening it in order to put stuff inside of it. I think there’s value, at least for me, in viewing my fiction as a receptacle for whatever I’m feeling at the time — both in terms of generic emotions and also specific ones. If I’m angry at something, a story is a place to put that anger. It can be a place to put it, not to be rid of it, but to store it. But it can also be a place to put it in order to explore it, to unpack it, to rewire it. And the same can be true for sorrow, or worry, or joy.
And readers may find what you put there useful in the same, or almost the same, way. They too have things to unpack and unravel and examine. And sometimes they just don’t want to feel alone. The story is a signal to them, an echo they hear that reminds them that they are not the only ones feeling this way. Not to suggest stories are, or need to be, an echo chamber; stories can and certainly should challenge the way we feel, and change the way we think. Storytelling, like all things, can be both. Our work can affirm feelings and they can break feelings and it can do this simultaneously, because stories are not one thing. They are broken mirrors in the author’s funhouse.
Obviously, this is essentially catharsis — it’s not a new idea, the notion that we can use art as a purgative, though here I’m not necessarily suggesting that art be the thing that absolves the feeling or rids us of it, but instead I’m saying that the art can make it useful. Because if you’re like me, a lot of you are sitting around feeling like a Point-Toward-Enemy Landmine ready to pop from the lightest pressure, like a little leaf falling on the wind and landing upon you. Boom.
But maybe all these fucked-up feelings can be of use.
Maybe there’s a place for them.
Maybe they’re decoration.
Maybe they’re tools.
Maybe they’re complex machines, I have no idea. Only you can know that.
As such, maybe right now your writing needs to be a corkboard for all the fucked-up things you’re feeling. That’s okay. If it gets you to the page, then do it. The opposite can be true, obviously: writing can be an escape. And if it is, open that door, that portal, and jump on through and get away from *gestures broadly* all this fucking bullshit.
To echo what I’ve said before, it’s okay if you’re not okay.
Hell, it’s normal if you’re not okay. Normal if you feel abnormal. Feeling broken when things are broken is a natural, understandable, even admirable thing.
And if your writing is a box where you can put all your broken feelings, then do so. It won’t fix the world. It won’t even necessarily make you feel better. But it might feel right, and righteous, and at the very least it’s a place to put all the shards and shattered bits of you for now until you can figure out how to put them all back together later on.
It’s up to you.
Failing all of that, you can always write out of spite.
Spite has never failed me — I have written many words fueled by the churning engine of spite. So much spite! So many targets of spite.
Do whatever gets you to the page.
Open the box.
Put whatever parts of yourself need to go in there.
