Ye Olde Language of Fantasy

I’ve started listening to the first book in Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn trilogy, Sanderson being a conspicuous gap in my coverage of modern fantasy. I noticed early on his use of the word “ashmount” to describe what I assume are volcanoes, and that observation prompted me to write this piece on the use of vocabulary and language in fantasy fiction.

When I wrote my first fantasy novel, The Ventifact Colossus, I made a decision to write in a more modern, casual style than is typical of the genre. Some of my readers found this a refreshing positive, while others suffered the occasional jolt from unexpected words or phrases. One reader in particular, self-described as an “elderly English grammar fanatic,”  took exception to words like “passel,” “skedaddle,” “bushwhacked,” “passive-aggressive,” and “scarf” (used as a verb).  She wrote: “Who would use such expressions in that setting, especially the ones that refer to something cultural? No only don’t they fit, they’re not even from the same modern era.”

The Ventifact Colossus is set in the fantasy kingdom of Charagan, and obviously no one there is literally speaking English, nor do they have any of Earth’s cultural background. One of the unwritten rules of secondary-world fantasy (i.e. that doesn’t take place on Earth) is to avoid words that are derived from blatant cultural sources. I agree with that as a general rule, but it’s a fuzzier line than it may seem at first.

Since no one is speaking English in the world of Charagan, every single word I use is at cultural odds with its origins. I suspect readers would not disapprove of me using words like “celerity” or “amicable,” even though there were no Holy Roman or Greek empires in the annals of Chargish history.  Whence then came the roots for modern English words with Latin and Greek origins?  Should I avoid words like “autograph” and “astronomy?” “Latitude” and “famous?” “Martial law?”

I consider myself, in a linguistic sense, to be a translator of words with no grounding in English, but meant for a reader who is intimately familiar with English. To object to the word “skedaddle” is to maintain there was no word in my fictional world for which “skedaddle” was the best translation. Well, I say that there was. It’s my world! And given that I’m translating Chargish into English, I’m not bothered that “skedaddle” and “passive-aggressive” come from different eras, any more than with the temporal divide between “scoot” (mid 18th-century) and “amble” (Latin).

The rules for how to use language in a secondary-world setting are extremely vague, blurry, and (in my opinion) wide open to an author’s interpretation and style. For vocabulary specifically, I personally draw the line at explicit foreign expressions (that have not entered the English mainstream) and references. For instance, none of my characters will say “When in Rome…” or “je ne sais quoi.”  And I avoid direct anachronisms. I will not use words like “computer” or “helicopter,” along with expressions like “reboot” or “drained his battery.”  And I’m on board with not referring to listless foot-soldiers as “cannon fodder” in a world with no cannons.

Did I go too far in places when writing The Ventifact Colossus?  In hindsight, yes, a couple of times. I think I may have strayed across the line with “shanghaied” and “ritzy.” But beyond that I have no regrets for my word choices.

All of this is not to say that language, and specific words therein, cannot be used to powerful effect. I find word-choice a highly useful tool for characterization in particular. One of my characters is a hyper-intelligent, book-learned wizard, and so uses words like “hypothesize” and “elucidate” that none of the other characters would ever consider. (And in one scene, one of the less-educated protagonists specifically fails to understand some of the words used by said wizard.)  Fantasy characters, like the people of 21st-century Earth, use words and language quite differently from one another.

Now, clearly there are well-established conventions for style and word choice in the fantasy genre. There is a certain formality lent to fantasy works by the stately, old-style language that most fantasy authors use. And that slang- and modern-idiom-free prose has a side-effect (or maybe it’s the primary intended effect?) of making all the characters sound serious. Even the irreverent, wise-cracking ones. Is that a good thing?  A necessary thing?

In my work-in-progress, The Crosser’s Maze, the most irreverent character, Dranko, says the following after hearing a litany of horrifying dangers he and his friends might encounter while traversing a jungle:

“You know what all that sounds like?” Dranko interrupted. “That sounds like a bunch of stuff we’re going to fly over.”

“Bunch of stuff.”  I’m fairly certain most fantasy authors these days would forbear from using that particular phrase. And yes, that kind of slangy, casual utterance does sand the pearly sheen of Ye Phantasy Literature off of my prose. But I am merely a translator into modern English, and if Dranko had grown up speaking English, that’s absolutely the sort of thing he’d say.

Am I inviting opprobrium by stretching those conventions? Maybe. But I also think it helps my book(s) stand out from the crowd. It’s part of what shapes my “voice,” the style in which I naturally tell stories.  And if there’s one piece of universal advice out there in Author Land, it’s “write in your own voice.”

So, was Brandon Sanderson consciously avoiding the word “volcano” because of its Roman origin? I have no idea. Though I am early into his book, he has not (yet) given anything else an exotic name to avoid culture-mining. But he’s not wrong if that’s his reasoning; every fantasy author will find a place to draw their line—or more accurately, will evaluate every word near that line and decide on which side it lies. And they’ll be evaluating subjectively. I think there’s no other way to do it.

Have any thoughts about this?  Remember this blog has a comments feature; go use it to write a bunch of stuff!

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Showing, Telling, Filtering, Grounding

“Show, don’t tell.”

If you’re a writer or have ever taken a writing class, you’ve heard this advice, probably many times over.  Readers want drama, not dry explanations. Give them something they can visualize!  Don’t say “Joe became angry.”  Say “Joe slammed his fist down on the table. His face turned an alarming shade of red, his lip trembled, and the veins of his forehead visibly throbbed.”

Is it generally good advice? Yes.

Is it universally good advice?  Of course not.

A writer has to weigh many priorities while crafting scenes, and sometimes there are higher priorities than “paint a complete picture for the reader.”  The most obvious of these is brevity.  You can Google “show not tell” and find hundreds of before-and-after examples like the one I used above.  In 98% of those cases, while the “showing” version is undoubtedly superior taken in a vacuum, it is also longer. Often much longer.  And there will be times in your story when you need a short bit of telling more than three long sentences of showing.

“Jane’s face brightened when Tom entered the room.”   Yes, we could describe Jane’s facial expressions and body language in loving detail in place of the word “brightened.”  We could describe Tom’s gait, his speed, and whether the door swung in or out.  We could show with fifty  words what this sentence tells us efficiently with eight, but at what cost to pacing? Without knowing the context, I would not suggest that this sentence needs to be fixed – or at least not suggest how it should be fixed.

Another case where telling can be superior to showing is when a writer wants the reader to understand a complex thought process.  If Jane is smiling at Tom but inside she’s furious, and Tom has no idea, this is effectively impossible to show – because anything the reader can “see,” so could Tom.  One of the advantages of written stories over (say) movies is that an author can give you a direct look inside a character’s head (without one of those goofy voice-overs, at least).  Often what’s most interesting, most meaningful about a scene is how a character’s thoughts and emotions are juxtaposed with the surrounding action.  And if I may stray further into the realm of the subjective for a moment, I find it annoying when an author relies on hiding the motives of a POV character in order to create drama or suspense.  (This doesn’t apply to non POV characters, of course, or any character in 3rd-person omniscient storytelling.)

I find this topic on my mind quite often as I write my current series of books, and specifically as I consider a specific subset of telling called filtering.  I was introduced to the concept of filtering by friend and published author Edward Aubry, and soon realized it was a sin I was committing on every page of my books. Simply put, a filter word is one that comes between the reader and the direct observations of a POV character.

Here’s the simplest example I can think of. Imagine a chapter told from the POV of the character Dave.   He hears the doorbell ring.  I could write that as ““Dave heard the doorbell ring,” but it’s better to cut out the middle man.  “The doorbell rang.”  The reader doesn’t need to be told that Dave heard it; we’re in Dave’s head. There’s no one else it could be.

Likewise:  “Dave decided to open the door.”  Unless the decision making process itself is important to the scene, it’s better to write “Dave opened the door.”  Other common filter words: realized, wondered, seemed, looked, noticed.  There are plenty of them, and it’s best to get rid of them when they’re not needed. After Ed pointed out this pitfall to me, I excised literally hundreds of examples of it from my working draft of The Ventifact Colossus.) It sounds straightforward, right?

Well, no. Not always.

In my current series, I’m writing an ensemble cast of protagonists that spend most of their time in a group. Think Fellowship of the Ring. But unlike Tolkien, I’m also writing each chapter in the strict POV of a single character in that group. (That means I never write about something that the POV character cannot directly experience or infer.) One of my biggest challenges is maintaining strong POVs despite the large group, particularly in scenes when the characters are having group discussions.  If I’m writing in Aravia’s POV while all seven characters sit around a campfire chatting, many lines of dialogue can pass without Aravia’s POV being asserted.  Yes, I could interject a reaction between every line of dialogue, but that, it turns out, is pretty awful to read.  But the alternative is that readers can slowly drift away from the POV.  Just because it’s Aravia’s chapter doesn’t mean a half-page can go by without her saying something or reacting to someone else.  Sometimes it’s important that she witnesses interactions between multiple other characters…and that’s where I end up wrestling with filter words.

For example, imagine that the seven heroes are hiding out in a barn, discussing a plan. Aravia is the POV character, but at the moment she’s watching as Ernie and Morningstar argue.  Several lines go by of just those two talking:

Aravia sat and stroked her cat, content for the moment to let others argue their course of action.

Morningstar stood and glowered. “We have to try it.”

“No,” said Ernie. “We don’t.  The prisoner will be injured . Probably killed.”

“It doesn’t matter if he  gets hurt!” Morningstar was forgetting to keep her voice down. “If we fail at this, a hundred people will die.”

Ernie was defiant. “You don’t know that.”

Morningstar crossed her arms. “If you have a better idea, tell us. We have five minutes before it becomes moot. The moon is almost down.”

Ernie stammered something unintelligible. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

“That’s right,” said Morningstar. “I agree it’s a dangerous plan, but it’s our only plan.”

Anyone with a brain could see this was a terrible idea; there were too many variables, too many unknowns.

Now freeze. This is an Aravia chapter, so that last observation is hers.  It has to be hers. But the reader has just spent 15-20 seconds watching (through Aravia’s eyes) two other characters bickering.  I didn’t want to interrupt that argument with Aravia’s internal play-by-play—that would have diffused the tension of the scene—but by the time I get to that final line, the POV is no longer in clear focus.  The line as written is confusing. Who’s thinking that again? Ernie?

Instead I’d be inclined to write:  “Aravia could see clearly this was a terrible idea…”   In this case the filtering serves the additional purpose of re-grounding the reader in Aravia’s POV.

Is my inclination correct? My writer friends could perhaps find more elegant solutions. I invite any readers to comment; I’m always in the market for writing advice!

UPDATING TO ADD:  Kevin Kulp has indeed suggested a non-filtering solution:

“Aravia frowned. Anyone with a brain could see…”  Solves the regrounding with no filtering!


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Book Review – Robin Hobb’s Farseer and Tawny Man Trilogies

Assassin.jpgToday I finished a book.

I do this occasionally and usually with little fanfare, but this was a special one. The book was Robin Hobb’s “Fool’s Fate,” and in completing it I ended a 4500 page journey through one of the greatest collected works of modern fantasy.  Those would be the three books in Hobb’s  Farseer Trilogy as well as her subsequent Tawny Man trilogy.  The trilogies together chronicle the life of royal bastard FitzChivalry Farseer, a man who must surely be one of the most long-suffering protagonists in the annals of fantasy fiction. (There is a third trilogy that jumps the story 10 years and continues with mostly the same characters, but I haven’t read it, and I need a break. I love these books but they’re emotionally exhausting!)

I don’t think I exaggerate when I describe Hobb as one of the greats.  Google for lists of “best fantasy” or “greatest fantasy series” and the like, and these books appear on all of them, often near the top.  But it would help a prospective reader to understand exactly what they’re getting before they pick up Assassin’s Apprentice.

Hobb’s Farseer books are at the far end of the character-driven scale. As fantasy literature goes, they are extremely light on traditional action sequences.  This is not to say they don’t have engaging plots that will drive a reader forward on their own, but the stories themselves are not the main event.  The characters are complex, highly varied, fascinating, sympathetic, and deeply flawed in realistic ways.  (Also the villain of the first trilogy is every bit as hateful as any of the most loathed villains of the genre.)

The books tend to fall into a spiraling pattern, where the first-person narrator FitzChivalry Farseer interacts with a dozen other characters in turn, each time expanding on and developing those relationships. The result is a bogglingly-deep understanding of, and familiarity with, all the major players in the story. Every major pairwise relationship is deeply explored, and every sentence is fraught with relevance to one of these relationships.

The writing itself is also top-notch.  No, that’s not strong enough. The writing is exquisite.  It is flowing and poetic without ostentation, and serves to make even simple observations and mundane events a joy to read. Hobb is a master of language, and knows exactly how to use it in service to the exact kind of story she’s telling.

Fair warning: Robin Hobb is a “food-and-clothing” writer. You will be treated, often, to detailed descriptions of what the characters are eating and wearing.  Were I getting these details from a mediocre writer (or even one merely good), I’m sure I’d find them tedious, but Hobb’s use of language is so deft, I enjoyed reading about every ruffle of lace and fruit tart.

The books are undoubtedly slow in places.  You can pick up the first book in the second trilogy (Fool’s Errand) and read an outline of the main plot on the back cover, but you will then discover it takes something like 200 pages before that plot begins in earnest. And I think the last book in the first trilogy (Assassin’s Quest) drags a bit in the second half.  But for me these are the most minor of quibbles.  I still enjoyed those 200 pages, which consisted of in-depth re-introduction to the major characters and how they related to one another.

Finally, these books are not uplifting. Terrible things happen to the main character, and his choices – both wise and unwise – tend to lead to misunderstandings and heartache.  You will read and be desperate for FitzChivalry to catch a break, but that seldom happens.  That said, these are not books of the “Grimdark” school of fantasy.  Deaths are neither brutal nor frequent, and nothing ever feels gratuitous, so there will be no confusing these books with Martin or Abercrombie.  But there is a gauzy layer of inevitable tragedy draped over everything that happens; the books are engrossing but not joyful.  (And one particular death scene is absolutely heart-wrenching.)

Were I rating these books on any common scale, I’d give them all the stars.

(Addendum: There is yet another trilogy – the Liveship Traders – that falls chronologically between the two trilogies I’ve been talking about.  The Liveship Traders is only tangentially related to the Farseer books, but the latter contains a few minor spoilers for the former, in case you are a completist about these sorts of things.)

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“How’s Your Book Doing?”

On a regular basis I am asked some variant of the question, “How is your book doing?”  Here, let me answer that.  Warning: numbers!

Today is May 14, 2016. The Ventifact Colossus has been out for just over four months.  In that time it has sold 513.91 copies. If you’re reading this blog, chances are you bought one of those. Thanks!

Now you may be saying to yourself, “Dorian made that up; how can he have sold 91% of a book?”  The answer to that is Kindle Unlimited.  KU is a service Amazon offers that’s like Netflix streaming for books. You pay a monthly fee, and in return you can download as many books as you like, provided those books are (like mine) included in the KU program.

The way authors get paid for that is by pages read. The Ventifact Colossus is 626 “Kindle Edition Normalized Pages” long, and the payout is (with some month-to-month variance) about $.004 per KENP.  So, when someone reads my whole book as a KU download, I make about the same amount of profit as I do from a traditional e-book sale.

So far, readers have read 46,267 pages of the book through Kindle Unlimited downloads, which is about 73.91 “complete reads.”

Of my 513.91 sales, the breakdown is as follows:

  • 107 copies of the print book
  • 165 copies of the e-book at full price ($3.99)
  • 168 copies of the e-book at discounted price ($0.99)
  • 91 copy-equivalents read on Kindle Unlimited

TVC was also downloaded 4,691 times during my free giveaway, but as useful as that was, I don’t count those downloads as sales.

Those 107 print copies are actually quite a few more than I was expecting, as a percentage of the total.  Most of those were sold early, many to friends who wanted a solid physical book written by someone they knew.  More numbers:

First two weeks:  70 print books,  106 full price e-books (including KU reads)

Sixteen weeks since then: 37 print books, 134 full price e-books (including KU reads)

Since May 1:  1 print book, 36 e-books.

That last one is more indicative of the ratio I was expecting.

As for the question “Is 513 sales a good number?” I don’t have a good answer to that.  Maybe? It’s impossible to discover how many copies self-published books typically sell.  I’ve read estimates that most self-published books don’t top 100 copies sold over their lifetimes, and that the average is in the 200-500 range, but none of those estimates are sourced in traceable data.  All I can say is that The Ventifact Colossus falls somewhere between “abject failure” and “Hugh Howey.”

As for the question “are readers enjoying the book,” I’d say that so far signs are positive. My Amazon and Goodreads scores are quite respectable, and include some blush-worthy praise from people I’m sure I’ve never met.  Where there has been disappointment, some readers have lamented that the book is too “G-rated” for their tastes.  (I would say PG/PG-13, but they have a point. I am intentionally writing the series such that parents should feel okay letting a 12-year-old read it, even though I am also trying to interest and capture an adult audience. It’s a fine line, and I don’t pretend to be walking that tightrope without an occasional wobble.)

A couple readers also seem irked that the end of the book is a cliffhanger.  I don’t think it is; as my friend Ed opined, there’s a difference between a cliffhanger and foreshadowing.  I would hope that readers would notice the “Book One of…” at the top of the cover, and realize that not every mystery and subplot would be neatly wrapped up by the end.

It is a near certainty that my average review scores will go down significantly, now that 4,000+ people out in Internet Land have downloaded the book.  But that will be fine; having more reviews is better, even if they’re not all glowing.  A score of 4.4 over 200 reviews helps a book much more than a score of 4.9 over 11. For better or worse, many readers want to feel as though they’re getting in on something big.

While I’m here, a quick update on Book 2, “The Crosser’s Maze.”  I still feel as though I’m on pace to finish the first draft in July or August, which means a release sometime early in 2017.  I’m 110k words in, and I’m guessing the draft will come in around 150k words.  (For reference, The Ventifact Colossus was about 127k words.)

Feel free to leave comments or questions!









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Losing My Marbles

You are probably familiar with Randall Munroe of XKCD fame.  One of his most famous strips is this:

(image © Randall Munroe)

I am usually good about not falling into this trap, but sometimes the bait is too tempting, and I blow an hour or two futilely trying to educate someone – usually with a smile on my virtual face, since I’m a honey-not-vinegar kind of guy.

Yesterday I stuck my foot directly into the bear trap, and (unsurprisingly) it snapped shut. In my defense there was a mathematical riddle just sitting there on the tension plate. What, I was supposed to leave it there?

The riddle was posted innocently to a D&D Facebook group.  It’s an old riddle, long-since solved, but the solution is not intuitive, and there are plenty of smart people out there who insist upon a wrong solution.  Here it is:

“You have three bags, each containing two gems. The first bag contains two blue gems, the second bag contains two red gems, and the third bag contains one blue gem and one red gem.

You pick a random bag and take out one gem.

It is a blue gem.

With what certainty would you guess that the remaining gem from the same bag is also blue?”

That’s it verbatim as it appeared in the Facebook thread. I think traditionally the riddle uses marbles, but this is a D&D group, so we’re probably looking at citrines or tourmalines or something.

The obvious (but wrong) answer is 50% likely.

The less obvious (but correct) answer is 66% likely.

The way to think about it actually quite simple:

  1. You have three bags with two gems each, which means when you pick a single gem, there are six possible ways that you can do it:

a. Draw one of the red gems from the bag with two red gems

b. Draw the other red gem from the bag with two red gems

c. Draw the blue gem from the bag that has one of each color

d. Draw the red gem from the bag that has one of each color

e. Draw one of the blue gems from the bag with two blue gems

f. Draw the other blue gem from the bag that has two blue gems

  1. In the riddle, we know you’ve picked out a blue gem, which means that a, b, and d didn’t happen.
  2. That means there are possible choices you DID make, each with the same likelihood: c, e, and f.
  3. If your draw was e or f, then the remaining gem from your bag is blue. If your draw was c, the remaining gem is red.  Therefore, Q.E.D., there is a 66% likelihood that, given your first gem was blue, that the other gem in the bag is also blue.

I explained this in about four different ways. I even re-taught myself Python so I could write a simple script to simulate the problem.  Sure enough: 66%.  And yet there’s one fellow on this thread who has made a personal crusade out of his certainty that the answer is 50%. (I’ll leave him anonymous; I harbor no ill will towards him.)  He has gone so far as to post YouTube videos showing how the puzzle can be “solved” with (I kid you not) collapsing quantum states of the gem bags. And, no, he’s not trolling the discussion. I’ve been around the block enough times to recognize a bridge under-dweller, and this guy is legit.

He has not convinced me, of course, that 50% is the correct answer.  Because it’s not. What he has convinced me of is that no power on this world or any other will convince him he’s wrong.

The funny thing is, I’m sure he’s thinking the exact same thing about me.


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A Million Words

If you search the Internet on the topic, you will discover the notion, ascribed variously to John D. McDonald, Ray Bradbury, David Eddings, and others, that a writer’s first million words are garbage.  Eddings phrases the idea thusly:

“My advice to the young writer is likely to be unpalatable in an age of instant successes and meteoric falls. I tell the neophyte: Write a million words—the absolute best you can write, then throw it all away and bravely turn your back on what you have written. At that point, you’re ready to begin.”

It seems staggering to consider: a million words! That’s 8-10 full length novels! Were Eddings and others telling us we had to write ten crappy novels before we’d have the chops to write something decent?

Well, no. Not exactly.

Imagine that you’re interested in writing, and decide to start keeping track at fifteen. There will be 7300 days in the next 20 years, which is an average of about 140 words per day. That’s about as many as this blog post contained before I started the current paragraph.

Now consider everything you’ve ever written. Elementary school book reports. Diary entries. Essays for social studies classes, for high school history tests, for college applications. Letters to your grandmother. Letters to the editor. Your grad school dissertation. E-mails to your kids’ teachers. It all counts! I submit that for someone for whom writing is not specifically a chore, the natural course of life will carry one a good ways toward the magical million word threshold.

I don’t remember everything I’ve written in the last 40 years – heck, I’m lucky to remember things that happened in years that started with “1” – but I can, I think, recall all the major milestones of my writing life.

When I was seven years old, our 2nd-grade teacher, Ms. Lovingood, required us to write THREE eight-page research papers over the course of the year. Remember, this was in the days when the Intertubes weren’t even a gleam in Al Gore’s eye. My parents had to drive me to the local library, I think in a horse-drawn carriage, but my memory of past centuries is hazy. Our topics for these essays were a country, a composer, and an Indian tribe. (I chose Austria, Beethoven and the Nez Perce, respectively.) This was pure trauma at the time, but Ms. Lovingood knew what she was doing. We shed tears, gnashed our teeth, wailed about the unfairness of it all…and by the third grade we were never again fazed by any kind of writing assignment.

In third grade, I wrote a short story that earned me an extremely concerned letter to my parents from my teacher. The story was a humorous piece about two grown-up friends who were always landing in trouble. In each of their escapades, one of the men would repeatedly and accidentally rescue the other by sheer drunken luck. Literally. One guy was always drunk, and stumbled into a series of life-saving coincidences. Mrs. Cantrell’s summary was something of the sort: “Extremely well written for a third grader, and appallingly inappropriate. I think we should have a talk about Dorian’s home life.”

In tenth grade I wrote my first (piece of a) fantasy novel. Our class had an entirely open-ended writing assignment that we had a couple of months to work on, so I decided to write as much of a fantasy story as I could. Neither of the main characters was drunk, but my two protagonists – a burly fighter and a scrawny wizard – still found themselves in one seemingly un-survivable scrape after another. I typed the whole thing on an ACTUAL WORD PROCESSOR, which in 1985 was a great big deal, and painstakingly printed the final copy out from my Apple IIe via a dot-matrix printer. I was intensely proud of it, and was hoping for all sorts of flabbergasted praise from my English teacher. Alas, Mrs. Hedges was notoriously lazy, and the sum total of her marks upon my hundred pages of lovingly-crafted prose was “99/100. Good job” on the cover page. I’m fairly certain she didn’t read it; I think she figured I was a decent writer for a 10th grader, and dear God that was a lot of pages of schlocky fantasy, so 99/100 sounded about right.

In my senior year of high school I wrote an excessive number of short stories, hoping to win my high school’s writing prize using a scattershot strategy. (Surely if I submitted enough pieces, one would win just by chance!) The longest of these was a first-person present tense non-fiction account of what it had been like acting in my first play. I had never written anything like it before, but I was inspired by a piece my father had written that had been published in a local newspaper. Like most things I wrote before I turned 30, I imagined it a work of startling genius while I was writing it, but on review it stands the test of time in much the same way Bernie Sanders would stand up to Ronda Rousey.

In college I majored in creative writing, and my senior thesis was an (again unfinished) fantasy novel about a college student who accidentally acquires unwanted magical powers. It was blatantly autobiographic, cringingly self-indulgent, and marginally better-written than my high school story had been.

A few years ago I was invited to write an interactive novella for the excellent choose-your-own-adventure publisher Choice of Games. Over about 15 months I wrote Choice of the Star Captain, a humorous science fiction romp, of which I was (and still am) quite proud. It was a combined writing and light coding exercise, but despite that my career had been in game design, I think I naturally emphasized the “writing” part over the “game” part.

A year after that I wrote a 40k word non-fiction humor book centered around a few years of Facebook posts about my kids. I called it Status Update Parent, and maybe someday I’ll polish it up and publish it, but for now it’ll have to wait in line behind my fantasy novels.

Finally – and this is where the most sizable chunk of my million words comes from – I wrote a fictionalized account of a long-running D&D campaign which I ran for about fifteen years. Those campaign journals would wind up as the foundation for The Ventifact Colossus (and soon-ish, its sequels), as my novels are based heavily on the characters and events from the game.

When I go back and look at everything from Star Captain onward, I can see the quality of my writing finally shedding most of the skin of mediocrity that had covered it lo those twenty-odd years. I can watch myself discover my voice at last, and learn how to narrate, describe and entertain all at the same time. Of course, even a million words isn’t sufficient to perfect one’s art; no single lifetime is that long. But for me, at least, the words of David Eddings were absolutely spot on. I don’t know precisely how many words it took for me to turn the proverbial corner, but a million is certainly in the ballpark.

Total elapsed time between first deciding I wanted to write novels, and actually publishing one:  36 years.

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Upon Further Review

I was chatting with my friend Ed the other day on the topic of reviews. Having just self-published a novel, it’s been a topic much on my mind. At some point in the discussion, we swapped links of the most scornful reviews of our previous works.

A couple of years back I published an interactive novella, Choice of the Star Captain, through the publisher Choice of Games. The app was generally well received – across multiple platforms and review sites, it averaged something like 4.4 stars out of 5 on well over a hundred reviews, and that included a bunch of people who rated it a “1” because they couldn’t get the app to load. Point is, there was decent evidence that I had not, in fact, produced the worst interactive story ever written.

But there was one review… hoo boy. The reviewer would have given me negative stars had that been a choice. His review was lengthy, detailed, and uncompromisingly scathing. I felt as though I must have accidentally kicked his dog and set his pants on fire sometime in the past. It was pure, lovingly-crafted vitriol. Not only had I written the worst interactive story experience in mankind’s history, I had single-handedly set back the evolution of the written word by several years all by myself.

That review also served the valuable purpose of severing most of my emotional ties to strangers’ views of my work. As tempting as it can be to make a personal investment into others’ opinions, it’s ultimately a losing proposition. For every great work out there, someone is going to hate it. For instance, here are some quotes from reviews of Pulitzer-prize-winning Anthony Doerr’s wonderful book All the Light We Cannot See:

“It felt like reading a cookbook. I didn’t feel that invested in the characters, which was probably a good thing since the plot sputtered out and died.”

“Tedious as a catalogue but without the point.”

“This is the most unsatisfying, lazy book I have read in years.”

I think of these reviews, leveled at what I consider one of the best books I have ever read, and use them as armor against what I know is coming. And what’s coming, inevitably, are similar reviews about my own book. Right now, even as I type, two people I don’t know have marked The Ventifact Colossus as “reading this now” on Goodreads. It’s entirely possible that one or both of them will grace the review page with sharp-edged complaints about the book. If it’s not one of them, it will be someone else down the line. Heck, there’s a decent chance that a less-than-pleasing review will come from someone reading this blog entry, right now. And when it happens?

To use my 10-year-old’s current favorite phrase: “meh.”

In fact, as Ed pointed out, bad reviews are about as valuable as good ones as long as they don’t make up too big a percentage. (It starts to look suspicious when all the reviews are 5-star love-fests.) If you read the book and think it merited 2 or 3 stars, please, still go ahead and write up a review. I promise not to take it personally. What I *will* do is mine it for ideas and improvements I can take away and carry to my next book.

All of this is not to say that I won’t feel happy when I read the reviews of people who liked the book. I certainly will; I am a human being, after all. But the book is out of my hands now. I’ve put it in its little wicker basket and sent it down a river full of churning rapids and hungry piranhas. It’s bound to get a little beaten-up and chewed-on over the course of its life.

But I can live with that.

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