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Tangerine Dream: Ultimate Sci-Fi Music

9/2/2015

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I’ve been a fan of Tangerine Dream for only sixteen years or so. I say ‘only’, because their work has been around for over forty years. From surreal, progressive rock, to early synthesizer pioneers, on to composing film soundtracks, then to New Age soundscapes, and finally back to a slick reimagining of their electronica, the group has covered so many styles. But more than providing mere listening pleasure, Tangerine Dream is often my personal soundtrack when I write.

There’s a certain nostalgia about Tangerine Dream’s music, taking me back to my 80s childhood. Synthesizer music dominated that decade, and hearing the warm, analog passages of Tangerine Dream is like an aural time machine. I’m reminded of all the wonderful technological advances like Apple computer, Atari video games, and the glorious Space Shuttle launches, pre-Challenger. I’m also reminded of Omni Magazine, of the beginnings of the sci-fi subgenre known as cyberpunk, and of the euphoric feeling that in the 21st century, technology would solve many of our problems.

This is all a construct of my mind, associating events, places, and things with Tangerine Dream’s compositions. It fills my mind with tangentially related memories of the sound of sequenced beats, sine pads, and synth bass. It is the creation of memory, real or imagined, and I realize this even while the music evokes these sensations and images. That is part of Tangerine Dream’s brilliance. Their music really is like a waking dream.

But all that aside, there’s something else that their music conjures in my mind: alien worlds, starships on interstellar journeys, and technology so advanced it is beyond human ken. It makes me think about, and want to write, science fiction stories. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the merger of artificial sounds with live instrumentation, or the contrasting arrangements that play out in synchronized lockstep only to collapse into bursts of chaos. Perhaps it’s the band’s introspective, yet hopeful, vibe. I only know that it moves me.

There are two things in particular that come to mind whenever I begin a Tangerine Dream playlist: alien skies, and Michael Whelan paintings. The music suggests vistas on another world, where the sky is wide open, and I can fly through it until I finally cross over into vacuum. I can even look skyward on my own world, at the blue sky and clouds, and their music flows into my thoughts.

Whelan is among my favorite fantasy artists, and there is a sophistication and humanity about his work that I hear in Tangerine Dream. One piece of his perfectly illustrates this: Robots of Dawn, from the Isaac Asimov book of the same name. The otherworldly hue of the sky in the background, the tragedy of the robot’s beleaguered pose in the foreground, and the contemplative visage on the stone at the robot’s feet, epitomize what I’m talking about. Look at that image while listening to tracks like ‘Zulu’, or ‘Hunter Shot By A Yellow Rabbit’ and tell me you don’t feel something.

From ‘Rubycon’, “Roaring of the Bliss’, and ‘Phaedra”, their compositions possess an energy, a relentless drive to move forward, as if progress itself is nudging us on. This isn’t because Tangerine Dream uses loops and sequencers. This same drive exists in their live performances. It’s the same drive I feel when I read science fiction. It pushes me into the next stage of thought, of being.

When Edgar Froese, the founder of Tangerine Dream and its only original member, died in January 2015, I was quite saddened. He was still working on new music up until his passing. I think that reflects the energy, hope, and forward-driving intuition that permeates the band’s music: that’s who he was, and you can hear it in the arrangements.

So as I gear up to write the next science fiction novel, I already hear the opening strains of ‘One Night In Space’, taking me on another voyage of the imagination. Whatever Edgar Froese intended with his work, I’m sure such a comment would make him proud.

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Don't Reply to a Critique with Excuses

8/27/2015

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You send your manuscript to a beta reader. You know, someone you trust and respect enough to give honest advice about your latest masterpiece. You wait for a week, or a month, and when you finally get that critique back, you feel the need to explain why that beta reader didn’t understand why your space marines call each other ‘Shirley’, or how that villain is supposed to appear one-dimensional because he’s so shallow, or why your centaurs only use hand signals while turning on a paved road.

Whatever it is you feel the need to explain, just stop. Don’t do it. Unless, of course, your friend asks for clarification, than you swat them with a 30,000 word conspectus detailing exactly how the character names are pronounced, in syllable breakdowns, complete with regional variants.

But that’s unlikely to happen. The beta reader has already perused your manuscript, made notes, annotations, decided which critical words to say so they won’t hurt your feelings too much, and have formed an opinion of your aforementioned masterpiece. So if you send them back a message, explaining something they didn’t like, understand, or simply didn’t work for them, you’re not educating them about your literary gymnastics that was too subtle for them.

You’re making excuses.

I know, because I’ve done it. For years, without realizing what I was doing. Holy shit, I’m embarrassed about it, too. I thought it was writers talking shop, you know, and some of it was. Some of it was insightful conversation. But most of it was just me, trying to make excuses for why something didn’t work in the story. I hate that it took me this long to realize it. I feel I owe my beta readers (yes, even those of you who read the only zombie story I ever wrote) an apology. You know who you are.

There’s an old saying about writers that I’ll paraphrase: if they have to explain what they meant after you’ve read it, then they didn’t do their job as a writer.

Sure, there’s the occasional reviewer who really doesn’t know what he or she is talking about, or just hate the story so much that they tell you to burn the damn manuscript, change your name, and relocate to another country—but, come on. If you sent them your work to begin with, you trusted them to be honest. So don’t leap to the attack because you don’t agree with their opinion.

You don’t like what they think? Then rewrite it, make it better. Make it kick some serious literary ass. But this isn’t about proving somebody wrong. It’s proving you’ve got what it takes to listen to constructive criticism, go with your gut, and make the next version even better. See, the burden of proof is on you. Nobody else.

So the next time you get a critique, and you’re tempted to send back a reply, don’t. I won’t, except to thank that person, promise to reciprocate by reviewing their material, and leave it at that. Unless they ask for that glossary of names, and then, watch out, because I could drive people insane with the ‘exotic’ monikers in my science fiction and fantasy drafts. Especially the ones with multiple apostrophes.

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Write the Damn Novel

8/9/2015

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So, you have this novel you want to write, but can’t. Here’s a few tips:

Stop blaming it on writer’s block. No such thing exists. Seriously, it really doesn’t exist. It’s all in your head. You know, where your novel is, because you’re using excuses for not getting it out of your head and into a manuscript. Stop staring at that blank screen/page like it’s going to suction your life away. The blank screen/page is you arch enemy, your alabaster nemesis. Destroy it by filling it with words. Don’t worry if the words are good the first time around. They won’t be. Stop fidgeting with the keyboard like it’s going to devour your fingers. It’s awaiting your punishment, not the other way around. Your fingers should be striking it with machine-like staccato, merciless and unending.

You have a novel to write. It’s been gnawing at your subconscious for months, perhaps years, and you’re sick of the guilt trips whenever you revise that trunk story yet again instead of writing the novel. So nail the trunk shut and write the novel. Those short story markets will still be around when you’re done. The good ones, anyway.

Remember, procrastination has never built anything. Not even a little matchstick hut that two ants couldn’t fit in. So why give in to it?

Stop claiming you can ‘write better than that author’. Maybe you can, but guess what? You’ll never find out until you write your own damn novel.

Stop saying that no one will publish your ultra-gritty, controversial, darker-than-a Goth’s-wardrobe, too big and epic to be told in one volume, masterwork. Truthfully, a publisher probably won’t, but write it anyway.

Don’t lower yourself to blaming the gatekeepers. Agents and editors would love to enjoy your work, because they could sell it to a big super-duper publisher, and that makes them money. They don’t get paid for each rejection they send out. I shit you not.

So you fear rejection? Don’t be a writer. No, it’s that simple. Don’t. You’ll only get depressed and become one of those bitter, wanna-be auteurs that haunts the coffee tables in the corner of the bookstore. Yeah, that person.

Hmm, so you don’t have the time? If you want to write, you’ll find the time. Stop binge-watching television shows. Lay off the gaming console. Have one less night out with the gang for drinks. Time is a human creation, after all. Like your novel. I don’t care if that makes sense or not. But writing your novel does.

None of this advice is new. It’s been said before, and more eloquently, by better authors. But it bears repeating. Why? So many people ignore it. Man, do they ignore it, try to work around it, read books about how to work around it, bug established authors about what their big secret is for working around it, and on and on and on. There’s no magic formula, regardless of what ‘master class;’ is being sold to you. You can’t drink it from a bottle because, a. you’re not Ernest Hemingway, and b. there’s no words in that bottle. So write your damn novel already. That first draft is the easiest part, and I cannot overstate that. The real work lies ahead.

Oh, and writing less blogs when one could be writing the novel instead? I completed two chapters on my latest work in process before I typed this, thank you very much. Hypocrisy isn’t a hat I wear well. Probably because I don’t wear hats.

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Actions Scenes: The Emotional Context

7/26/2015

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Action scenes in fiction are much like sexual ones: unless they drive the plot forward, reveal something about the characters involved, or reflect on the story’s theme, then they are mere titillation. Tits and explosions, if you will. Much like their cinematic counterparts, action scenes can satisfy a reader’s cravings for adventure, high stakes drama, or a simple adrenaline rush. But without emotional context, they are meaningless.

What do I mean by emotional context? I’m reminded of a scene from the Bruce Lee film, ‘Enter the Dragon’, where Bruce tells a young student to execute a martial arts move with ‘emotional content’. Though that phrase has been interpreted in various ways, in regards to fiction, it’s pretty simple:

Why are your characters engaging in violent acts? Can the story be told without the action scene? Is it possible to resolve the conflict in this scene without resorting to violence? And most importantly, why should the reader care?

This isn’t about morality in fiction. It’s whether or not your characters are emotionally invested in the acts they perpetrate. This can be as simple as the hero saving a friend from a villain; the battle had to take place to save another’s life. But the action shouldn’t be random; it should have a purpose, just like any other part of the story. Stories are about emotions—that’s how readers connect with them. It’s why they care what happens to their favorite hero or heroine. So if your reader is emotionally invested, so should your character.

How can this be shown? Not during a battle, or at least not much, because you don’t want to interrupt the flow of action with navel-gazing. It should be foreshadowed before, and reflected on after, the action has been resolved. Is the character nervous beforehand? Frightened? Excited, even? And afterward, is he or she triumphant? Regretful? Guilty? Or simply indifferent? These things, if done with subtlety, can say volumes about that character.

What’s at stake if the character loses this violent encounter? It should be something of value to justify the action. Some writers begin a novel with an action scene, but that rarely works. Without context, there’s no reason why the reader should care who wins. Even if presented in a cheap, easy manner (the hero rescues a defenseless person from the clutches of a gruesome villain), the action still won’t resonate as much because there’s no backstory yet. And I call that example cheap, because most people will root for the defenseless person. A character’s morals can be better shown than with this simple trick.

In real life, combat and death take a heavy psychological toll. For a story to be more believable and engrossing, a battle should affect characters the same way. Too often, especially in fantasy fiction, the bad guys are wiped out, and the heroes never give that violence and the resulting carnage a second thought. I realize epic fantasy usually doesn’t concern itself with such psychological musings, but I’m talking about a hero’s conscious. How it affects them, and the story later on. Because unless such grand scenes further the plot and character growth, then it doesn’t need to be in the story at all. When I read a novel where action is to be expected—space opera, epic fantasy, thrillers—I’m also expecting it to have a real effect on the story’s outcome, and especially the characters. Such a thing could be built up over a series of action scenes, each more tense and riskier than the last, culminating into what the author is trying to say.

Some examples of what I mean:

In Arthurian legend, regardless of which version you read, there is always a last, catastrophic battle between Arthur and whatever evil forces threaten his once-great kingdom. The conflict alone is but the culmination of many betrayals, failures, desperate hopes, and a refusal to die on one’s knees. The valor and virtue of Arthur’s knights, and of Camelot, receives one last gasp of glory at Camlann. It is about far more than the clash of blades and charging horses.

When Aragorn leads a desperate force against Sauron at the Black Gate, its real purpose is giving Frodo a chance to destroy the ring, not about having any real hope of defeating all those orcs. This works because of the heroic stands that Aragorn has been a part of throughout Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. It’s far more than an over-the-top spectacle—everything Aragon has done has brought him to that moment.

In the Empire Strikes Back, when Luke Skywalker duels Darth Vader on Cloud City, it’s about Vader beating down Luke’s resolve and confidence, as much as it is defeating Luke in battle. This affects what Luke does before and during his next confrontation with Darth Vader.

When Achilles faces Hector outside Troy’s walls, all the previous combats, feuds, and strife influence that duel. It illustrates the tragedy of the Iliad, which asks why do men have to slay each other for petty, ephemeral concepts or the whim of the gods. Just telling a story about two warriors fighting to the death means nothing; it is the background, the emotional context, that makes the reader care.

That doesn’t mean every single action scene should be weighed down by The Plot. It does mean that each piece contributes to the whole. I love a thrilling scene, where the heroes are in danger, as much as anyone. I love to write them. I expect fiction to excite as well as reveal something about ourselves, and I do my best to achieve that in my own work.

That is what stories are about, after all. They should not be cheap rides through an amusement park of car chases, gunfights, and explosions. They are intimate journeys of self-discovery.

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Confessions of a Reformed Fanboy

7/16/2015

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Years ago, I had an identity crisis in regards to being a science fiction and fantasy fan. That sounds like an overly-dramatic way of putting it, but it’s true. I doubted my love for the genre, my place in it, and its effects on my life. I’m going to examine why that happened, and how I came back to the thing that I love.

Back in the 90s, I was immersed in fandom. The Star Wars prequels were on the horizon, TSR was releasing some its most original material for Advanced Dungeons & Dragons (Dark Sun and Planescape, baby!), comics had taken a more adult turn, and video games took a major leap forward with greater graphics and plot. I was reading the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan, and devouring issue after issue of the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. I spent late nights looting dungeons in Daggerfall, and many a weekend combing toy stores for the latest Star Wars figure. I snatched up the newest Magic the Gathering booster packs. Every Friday, I hung out with my local RPG club, rolling those d20s until I kicked that elemental lord’s ass.

Those were fun times, and though I wanted to be a writer, I didn’t give it serious consideration. I was happy playing around in the worlds others had invented. There’s nothing wrong with that. This isn’t a rant against fandom.

But I oversaturated myself with it. I still lived with my parents at that time, and my room was filled to the ceiling—literally—with my Stars Wars toy collection. Rather than saving the money to buy myself a car or get a place of my own, I blew my meager earnings on the latest RPG supplement, the fastest gaming computer, or yet another Boba Fett action figure.

People should do what makes them happy. The problem was, this stuff wasn’t making me happy anymore.

In the wake of The Phantom Menace, my interest in Star Wars dimmed. Not just because of that flawed film, but there were too many things to keep up with: the Expanded Universe comics, the novels, the card games—and all of it was supposed to fit into the official ‘canon’. I tired of toy collecting, and sold it off, one huge cardboard box at a time. I got bored with the Wheel of Time saga after the sixth volume, Lord of Chaos. I loved the ending, where Rand made the Aes Sedai kneel (after mistreating him), but by then the series had dragged its feet too much. My local RPG club had started to crumble, and I became frustrated with the pettiness between players, so I put up my d20s for two years. When I finally played a tabletop RPG again, the spark wasn’t there. Video games were taking up too much of my time, with nothing substantial to show for it—I mean, how times did I need to complete Dungeon Siege II?

Thus began the dark age of my fandom, in the first half of the first decade of the twenty-first century. Oh, I still watched genre films, and rediscovered Frank Herbert’s Dune books, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Robert E. Howard at this time, but I fell out of the loop. I took up other interests. I finally moved out of my parent’s house, to a place all by myself. Dealing with my real life became more important. During these years, I wrote the occasional story, many of them historical fiction. It was as if I was tired of fantasy, and needed to ground myself in reality.

But writing brought it all back to me. When I took fiction writing seriously in 2008, my pseudo-historical tales evolved into science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories. Not good ones, but at least they were coming. When I sold my first short story in late 2009, it was the boost of confidence I needed. My appreciation for fandom returned. This time, with a clearer head. I didn’t let it dominate my existence anymore.

So here I am, a few years later, with my first novel coming out this fall. It’s a science fiction epic; a space opera. Many of its ideas and characters were developed in the late 90s, during the heyday of my fandom. See, my interests, my passions, weren’t what let me down. It wasn’t the fault of George Lucas or Robert Jordan that I needed to step back for a moment, and balance my fandom with reality. Part of it was that I need to grow up where it counted. And part of it was, sometimes I wanted to create my own worlds, rather than simply interact with someone else’s.

Now, I keep up with the latest genre films, graphic novels, television shows, and most importantly, books. I recently bought a Magic the Gathering starter set. Whenever I pass the RPG section in the bookstore, I peruse the latest rulebooks and smile. Once again, I’m eagerly anticipating a new series of Star Wars films. I love Game of Thrones and The Walking Dead.

But this time around, I not only have my own home, but I’m married, with a young son. I can still enjoy my fandom, while cherishing what I have in the real world. One informs the other in a comfortable synergy that has made me the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. And that’s what this is all about. 
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Writing Isn't a Pissing Contest

7/10/2015

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There’s been a lot of negativity directed at successful authors here lately. It’s unprofessional, it accomplishes nothing, and it makes you look like a jealous hater. Sure, dealing with criticism is part of the game, but what I’ve seen on social media has gone beyond that. I’m going to use E.L. James, the author of Fifty Shades of Grey, as an example.

I’m not a fan of E.L. James. I haven’t read her million-selling books. The examples of her prose that I’ve seen—and there have been plenty—are not what I’d call quality writing. The subject material is too tame and vanilla for my taste. But so what? That’s just my opinion. And there’s nothing wrong with me, or anyone else, stating such an opinion. There’s nothing wrong with scrutinizing her command of the writing craft, or lack thereof. Writers talk shop like anyone else.

What bothers me is how some people go out of their way to criticize James’s fans, or start comparing how many books she sells to other, better writers. How they refer to her books as ‘trash’.

Leave the fans out of it. If they want to read Fifty Shades, it’s their business. Stop regarding them as tasteless plebs who wouldn’t know literature if it smacked them in the face with a copy of War and Peace. See, people who think that are missing the point: these fans are reading a book, instead of watching TV, playing Xbox, or trolling on Facebook. And more readers is always good for the writing community. James’ astronomical sales also help the rest of us—that’s more money to the publisher, which means more new authors can get signed and published—like yours truly.

Besides, would you want someone saying such things about your fans? Me either.

Speaking of sales, I’ve seen fellow writers bemoan the popularity of Fifty Shades, and how they’ll never sell that many books. One person even calculated how much James makes in one hour, based on her sales, then complained that he was writing in the wrong genre, or that he shouldn’t write what he wants, but something that will ‘sell’—implying that all commercial fiction is prefab crap that is doled out to the uncultured masses. Oh, the humanity. Give me a damn break. If you started writing just to make cash, or your only goal is to make money, then you never had any artistic integrity in the first place. Much less the right to lambaste someone who is successful, while you’re not.

There is no magic genre, no easy, sure-fire way to pen a bestseller, and no way you’ll ever get anywhere yourself by bitching about what others read or write. If you love what you’re doing, then you’ll do it, regardless of its popularity. You’ll do it because that novel has to be excised from your brain before it drives you mad.

I’ve said that some of this negativity stems from jealousy. Some writers have vehemently denied this. Okay, fine. Then stop whining, and start writing. Stop reading her material if it bothers you that much. She’s living her dream, just like so many of us wish we could.

Does books like Fifty Shades water down literature, and make it easier for less than sterling works to get published? Nope. Listen, badly written books have been getting published, and making millions, for years. This is nothing new (Dan Brown or Stephanie Meyer, anyone?). It’s like claiming that people will soon no longer communicate in coherent sentences due to texting or Twitter. It’s a dumb assumption, and one typically stated by self-styled intelligentsia.

I could name several books I’ve read over the years that I thought were rather poor. Some infuriated me with their weak prose and weaker plot, at the time. Now, I simply stop reading such books if I’m not hooked within the first thirty pages. And that’s being generous. Now I have an idea of what agents and editors experience when they have to sift through poor material. There’s always plenty of other books to read, you know.

Writing isn’t a pissing contest. Your only competition is yourself. Rather than waste time comparing your work to E.L. James’s (favorably or unfavorably), rather than mock her fans and post memes about how bad her prose is, imagine how much writing you could have gotten done. How many good books you could have read. Instead of posting a one-star review of her work and writing up a gleeful takedown of everything you hate about her book, write a good review for someone’s novel that you did enjoy. Negativity gets you nowhere. It’s not healthy, it’s not mature, and it certainly isn’t going to hurt James’s sales. I doubt if she gives a rat’s ass what people think, and if I had sold 100 million books, I wouldn’t give a damn, either. Neither would you.

Now go read some kickass fiction that leaves you speechless. Write some of your own. That’s what you should be talking about.
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A Little Gravity in My Sci-Fi

6/29/2015

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Gravity is a constant in spacefaring science fiction. From low-G worlds to floating Klingon blood, it’s usually taken for granted. But how often do we really consider its effects on the imaginary, interstellar civilizations authors create?

In real life, we’re accustomed to astronauts floating in zero-G, probes receiving a gravity assist from planets as they journey to their destination, and the effects of weightlessness on human physiology. Science fiction writers, like myself, portray these phenomena in our stories to further immerse readers in the narrative. They have become typical set dressing, much like castles and knights are clichés of epic fantasy. There’s nothing wrong with that, but what about the real, long-term effects of gravity?

This invisible force has had immeasurable effects on not only our planet and the surrounding universe, but our very species. Everything from bone structure, the colors we can see, our shape—and possibly, even how we age. Could gravity be the deciding factor in our future among the stars?

We already have some sort of destiny beyond the Earth. Our space probes, such as Voyager I & II, are proof of that, for they will likely outlast our species by billions of years. But gravity will play a larger role in that future, other than being a slight obstacle in escaping Earth orbit. It will determine where we can live. Where we can survive.

But science fiction has touched on that. Here are some areas it doesn’t typically address:

Sentient intelligence: Does gravity have a long-term, evolutionary effect on our brains? Does it inhibit or encourage the complex arrangement of neurons and chemicals that grant us the processing power to think? Or to feel? If humans had evolved on a planet with a different gravity—say, three times that of Earth—would we think differently? Or can intelligence, as we know it, even evolve under different conditions? I’m sure it can, but until we know for certain, it does pose a fascinating question: could we interact with, or even understand, a species that evolved in a vastly different gravity? I’m talking about aliens that evolved under, say, six times our normal gravity. How would that change possible communication, beyond the physiological constraints?

Childbirth: Since no child has been carried to term and birthed in a zero gravity environment (or any other alternate gravity, for that matter), what effects will it have when that happens? I’m guessing less bones mass, perhaps weaker muscles. Maybe not in a crippling way, but I doubt that such an environment would have no effect on the fetus. Will these children be a link between our past and our future? Birthed by a lifeform from a certain gravity, with its genetic makeup, but influenced by a gravity at odds with how those very genes evolved? Would there be birth defects if the child were born on a high-G world, with such powerful forces tugging on every second of its development in the fetus? Over time, could another species evolve from us, one that could survive alternate gravities? This isn’t referring to just zero-G, I’m also including Mars’s gravity. Though about one third of Earth’s, would its gravity reshape future colonists over several generations?

Sensory limits: Our own gravity, and our sun, influence our eyesight. Right now, we can only see a small fraction of the electromagnetic spectrum. We can only hear within a certain aural range. Would this be the same for a human born and reared on another planet? A world with different gravity than Earth’s, and one with a hotter, brighter star? Or even a dimmer, colder star? If a colony survived on such a world for, say, a thousand years, how different would their offspring be from those born on Earth? I’d imagine there’d be some differences. And I mean beyond the assumed ones (generations birthed on a low-G world would be slighter, etc.). I’m referring to how they’d interact with their environment. Would their eyes discern different colors than ours, for example? What about their other senses?

Technology: This is something, off the top of my head, that I haven’t seen in science fiction—a disparity in technologies due to different native gravities. And I don’t mean that one civilization has a super-duper ray gun and one doesn’t. I mean, could we even utilize another species’ tech if they developed it for use in another gravity? Imagine trying to wield a gun fabricated by a high-G species. Or piloting a starship, where its process for creating artificial gravity during flight aggravates or even kills another species that wasn’t that vessel’s intended occupants. I think more than just physiology and philosophy would be at work here, in making an object alien to human understanding. I’d imagine that everything would be different. Gravity could have a hand in that.

Economics: Gravity, as we currently understand it, is a universal, irrevocable force. One that we manipulate, and even escape at times, but we still cannot control it. In most interstellar science fiction, FTL travel is common, and artificial gravity aboard starships and space stations is the norm. But gravitational forces would still make such endeavors expensive. What if there were extra tariffs placed on goods from a low-G world, because they’re likelier to break? What if there were taxes incurred whenever one traveled to a high-G planet, due to the extra fuel and danger that such a landing/takeoff would involve? In very advanced civilizations, gravity could become a commodity, where the rich reside in comfortable living spaces attuned to their native gravity, while the poor dwell in gravity that is harmful to them. Think of the health costs in an intergalactic society. Is it really worth it to colonize a high gravity world? Would space travelers have to pay more for medical services, because their extra needs (bone reinforcement, reversing muscular atrophy, accelerated pulmonary conditions) puts a strain on society? 


If a science fiction writer has already touched on these issues, then I still have a lot of reading to do. Though I tried to inject the side-effects of gravity into my novel INHERIT THE STARS, I didn’t touch on all of these issues. The story didn’t call for them, and that’s true for many other authors. It’s not always a sign of lazy writing—my novel isn’t Hard SF, after all. But I would like to see more of these concerns expressed in science fiction. I have some ideas gestating on this, since I’m fascinated by gravity’s effects on us. Through my fiction, I intend to explore more of those effects.

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Review Etiquette

6/5/2015

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Reviewing another author’s work and posting it to Goodreads or Amazon can be tricky. If you leave an honest but low-star review, you risk making an enemy (the writer in question). If you leave a positive, high-star review, you might come off as a sycophant. But you shouldn’t have to worry about posting your honest opinion, either. So what’s the best review etiquette?

Mine is simple: I only post reviews for titles I really like.

Books that I find mediocre, boring, or even terrible, I merely leave an average to low-star rating without writing a review. This way, I remain honest, but provide a boost for authors whose work impressed me. Those writers who didn’t, well, there is always someone willing to post negative comments. There’s no shortage of that on the web, and I’d rather not contribute. Plus, if I found the book that bad, I don’t waste time writing comments—I’ve already paid money for it, and spent time reading it, so why use more resources on something I didn’t enjoy?

When I do write review comments, I have three rules: don’t give away spoilers, say positive things about the book, and describe particular aspects of the work that stuck out to me.

Why no spoilers? Because I loathe them. If I’m writing a review at all, that means I liked the book. So why would I want to rob prospective readers—readers who might be influenced by my review to buy said book—of the story’s secrets, or its ending, when I was able to enjoy these things myself? So I hint at what may come in the story, but that’s it. I try to write my own blurb for the book, actually. That’s more or less what most web reviews are—and blurbs don’t have spoilers.

Positive comments highlight the reasons I’m writing a review in the first place. Remember, I only do this for books I rate 4 or 5 stars. So if there are a few issues I had with a novel, they aren’t worth mentioning. This is a title that left me satisfied, was though-provoking, and left me emotionally moved. So I’m not going to bother with nits.

And finally, I always point out names, situations, or details from the book—information I can only get from actually reading it, instead of copying other reviews. This way the author will know I really did read the work from beginning to end. As an author myself, it’s always gratifying when a reader recalls a character name, a scene, or a snippet of dialogue from my own work. It shows that they read it, and enjoyed it enough to remember details afterward. I do this as a compliment to the writer.

I don’t go into literary analysis or in-depth critiques. I leave that to the professional critics, the ones who write reviews for a living. See, I don’t write reviews for a living. I write fiction. Leave the analysis to the experts and to those who think they are experts. Plus most people who is scan over a book’s reviews aren’t looking for a scholarly deconstruction that touches on theme or symbolism—they want to know if the title is worth their time, effort, and money. There are always plenty of other books out there to read, after all.

A final word: if I bothered to leave a 4 or 5 star rating, and I wrote review comments, that means your book captured my imagination. It held my attention from beginning to end. It’s a title I’d recommend to fellow readers and authors. It is a book I’m proud to display on the shelf next to my other favorite books. And I keep what I consider great books for life (I still have titles I read when I was ten years old, and I’m near forty). So that means I’ll be passing your book on to my children, the next generation. That may be the best endorsement of all.

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Writing Science Fiction in an Anti-Science Era

3/26/2015

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As a speculative fiction author, I can imagine (as Han Solo would say) quite a bit. But I never would have imagined that in the 21st century our society would still suffer from so much bigotry and ignorance. Human nature, right? I disagree. Plenty of progress has been made in the human arena during a very short span of time. Much of that progress owes a debt to science. The very computer I’m typing this on, the device you’re using to read this blog, and the networks necessary to carry it from me to you wouldn’t exist without it. Science has aided human endeavor since civilization began. It has expanded our knowledge, saved lives, made dreams possible. Placing a human being on the Moon, resuscitating patients, uncovering dinosaur bones millions of years old—its pros far outweigh any cons. The irony of people decrying something they use every day, that benefits them in infinitesimal ways, would be comical were it not for the consequences.

So why are so many people anti-science these days?

Everyone from climate-change deniers, evolutionary skeptics, creationists, to the anti-vaccine crowd, has really pushed their agendas in the last decade. Far more than ever before, and with surprising success. At the roots of this success is a dash of religious fundamentalism, resistance to change, a poor educational system, and just plain ignorance—but deep down, it’s driven by fear. Fear of progress.

Fear of the future, which is the greatest unknown, even to science. It is that unknown that we science fiction writers delve into. Not only to tell a good story, but to wrest something out of the void and thus learn more about ourselves.

When I was a child, science was a wondrous thing. It fueled my imagination, and revealed answers no holy book or moronic politician ever could. Fundamental concepts and evidence weren’t questioned, at least not by educated people. Best of all, science never claimed to be able to explain everything. Such objective, pragmatic reasoning has stuck with me all my life. Now it influences my writing.

But how does one sell books about interstellar voyages, centered on hope and progress, when the zeitgeist is bloated with anti-science doom and gloom?

Though I’m not loading my stories with any pro-science subtext,  my work isn’t filled with idiots who love to pilot starships but deny the existence of gravity, either. That’s how these people present themselves. That’s no different than someone polluting the Earth with fossil fuels but refusing to accept human-made climate change—in the face of overwhelming scientific evidence. No different than trying so say dinosaurs coexisted with humans just to make paleontology fit Bronze Age mythology. There’s a real disconnect between reason and responsibility here. At the heart of that is something greater than fear: greed.

So we have ignorance, fear, and greed. Strong themes in any genre, but science fiction has always been the literature of ideas. It has allowed us to imagine better worlds, and warned us of terrifying ones. Science fiction has shown us where these urges have been overcome—such as Gene Roddenberry’s original Star Trek—as well as settings where they are amplified—such as George Orwell’s 1984. But fiction is fiction, right? Escapism, food for thought, whatever you want to glean from it—fiction isn’t made to change the world; its primary purpose is to entertain. I’m not using my stories as a platform to advocate anything. I never will.

But I will inundate them with characters who fight against ignorance, fear, and greed. Within, and without. Stories that show what ignorance, fear, and greed can do—and what heroes and heroines can do to stop it by using their brains more often than violence. Books that reach into that void to discover, to learn, and ultimately, to share. We are still a young species, with so much potential. If my fiction inspires even a single reader to look beyond our primitive instincts and seek something better, then I’ll consider myself fortunate.

I for one will continue writing what I want. To hell with these anti-science morons. But science alone won’t save us; neither will science fiction stories. Maybe, though, by showing readers what is possible when science uplifts the best that humanity has to offer, us sci-fi authors can make a small difference.
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Lessons in Self-Editing

2/26/2015

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After turning in the latest revisions to my editor, I have come to an important conclusion in my writing career: I am guilty of self-indulgent overwriting. I never thought my work suffered from this, but like always, it takes someone else to see what the creator cannot. No longer will I turn a blind eye to my bloated novels—it is indeed time to kill those darlings, like Stephen King says.

The manuscript in question, INHERIT THE STARS (coming out this November through Ace/Roc) was accepted by the publisher at 128,000 words. At the time I thought the scope and breadth of my story justified such a length. This was my space opera, my Stars Wars meets Dune meets 2001, dammit, and I wanted to make sure the reader knew every little friggin’ detail.

But what readers want is a story. World building is secondary. Again, I tried to justify the extra information because this is the first installment in a series, and hey, I needed to establish the setting’s details, right?

Um, no. What readers still want is a story.

It started with each successive draft I’d revise—every time, I ended up with a higher word count. But I felt good about the story, the characters. I doted on the little moments, added a little extra detail to that planet, or increased the drama by adding more stakes. The sad part is that I was doing this with every novel I revised. I now realize I’d gotten too close to these stories. I was like a mason building extra towers onto a castle—that already had plenty of towers.

When my editor mentioned that the manuscript for INHERIT THE STARS was too long, I was afraid of how much she’d want to cut. Now, I knew the publisher would expect some editing, but I assumed it wouldn’t include any huge changes. Still, I grew anxious, fearing they’d want a stripped-down 100K novel. So I got started on the revision, using my editor’s advice, but right before I received her line-edits.

The process was so easy, I almost didn’t believe it. I sliced out sentences, sometimes whole paragraphs. Passages jumped out at me that didn’t need to be there, that slowed the narrative down. I trimmed down on all the excess body language and background minutiae. When I got my editor’s line-edits and looked over them, I realized I was cutting the very same things she thought could go. But, I was also trimming more than she suggested. She said her edits were but a guideline, and since I could feel the story getting tighter, I forged ahead without worrying about cutting too much.

Upon completion, the manuscript was over 17,000 words shorter—but the plot remained the same. No character had been excised; no subplots eliminated. I finally understood that I didn’t need all the extra description, my characters didn’t need to be spoiled with extra internal monologue, and my story certainly didn’t need to be clogged with obscure references and names most people couldn’t pronounce.

For the first time I had REALLY edited a novel. And damn, it felt good.

This was a major learning experience, which I’m going to apply to my other overweight novels. And I’m excited to do so, because I know each one will be the better for it. I’m just glad I was able to see these problems for myself at last. A year ago, I might have disagreed with my editor. Now, I know my craft has improved, and that I’m more willing to compromise.

I find this is just as important as the book contract itself. Because, unless I grow, there might not be any more contracts.

And because, in the end, all that matters is the story.
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