Month: January 2020

Characters

How to Depict Women Warriors

Bruce Byfield

The most common argument against women warriors is that men are heavier and have more efficient muscles. Often, the existing differences are exaggerated to make the case stronger — for example, I heard one man insist that women had 30% of men’s muscular strength, when the usual figure in studies is around 70%. However, if you want a believable tough woman, that single statistic is far from a rebuttal. There are plenty of ways to have women warriors in your story without sacrificing plausibility.

To start with, that figure I quoted is a statistical average. Your character can always be an exception, like George R.R. Martin’s Brienne of Tarth, who is an unusually tall and stocky woman. Such a woman might have XXY chromosomes, or a high level of testosterone, but height and fitness might be all that is needed to account for her greater than usual strength. Nor is there any need to make her plain or give her body issues, the way that Martin does or to make assumptions about her sexual orientation– plenty of athletic women of all preferences have a traditionally feminine side.

Alternatively, you can take advantage of the fact that muscular strength is not the only factor that makes a fighter. In World War I, the English briefly raised Bantam Battalions, consisting of men under five feet two inches, who were considered too small for regular units. The Bantams consisted largely of miners and other hard laborers, whose lives had made them tough and fit. Some had the habit of successfully challenging ordinary sized men who under-estimated them. The Bantams did not last long because of the difficulty of finding enough recruits, but the fact that they were absorbed into regular units after being disbanded suggests that their ability to fight was not an issue. The example of the Bantams suggests that many women could also hold their own in combat without being unusually large.

So what other factors make a fighter? Training, speed, agility, endurance, and the ability to endure pain are at least equally important, especially in combination. In all these areas, women could equal or excel men. If you consider the rigors of childbirth, women might even be argued to be superior in endurance and withstanding pain. Moreover, if you have ever wrestled or fought in the Society for Creative Anachronism, you will also know that bluff and the willingness to fight are also important: quite simply, if you look or act fierce, then in many cases, you will have already defeated your opponent before the fight begins. A woman might also distract men by jeering at their machismo to give her an advantage.

Probably the most important consideration is tactics. The average person of either sex is not going to stand toe to toe with a 120 kilogram man for any length of time. That is why sports like wrestling or boxing are divided into weight categories — otherwise fights would not be fair. The smaller opponent would be battered to death. So, instead of a sword, your character might be better off carrying a spear or a halberd — anything that would keep superior strength at a distance. At all costs, they need to avoid a clinch, and keep moving. In general, time will be on the smaller person’s side, because they expend less energy in moving than someone taller and heavier, a fact that is reflected in the occasional calls for weight categories for marathons.

In general, I see two basic tactics: either hold back and take an opponent apart a piece at a time, or attack first, disconcerting the enemy, and getting in the first blow. What average women cannot do is fight on the enemy’s terms. They must fight on their own terms, and be smart about it.

However, in some senses, the argument against female fighters is moot. It focuses on hand to hand combat, which is only a part of warfare in many eras. In early or pre-gunpowder eras, what mattered was often the ability to remain in formation, which is entirely a matter of training. At the battle of Waterloo, for example, British regiments resisted charge after charge of cavalry by remaining in squares and holding off attacks with bayonets — and a horse is by far heavier than the biggest man, and neither cares to fling themselves on a length of steel. What matters is less physical strength thn holding the formation.

The counter-arguments also ignore irregular or light tactics, which can be as far from hand to hand combat as you can get while still be on the battlefield. Such troops skirmish, snipe, ambush, and, if mounted, scout. They also provide support for massed formations so that they can’t be out-flanked. Bernard Cornwell’s Sharpe books and TV episodes depicts them very accurately, and even acknowledge that the Spanish guerillas in the Peninsular War against Napoleon included women. In many ways, skirmishing is ideal for women, since their smaller average size might help them to take cover and move silently, and be less weight for a horse to carry over long distances. In fact, historically, light units were the opposite of the grenadiers, the heavy set shock troops, and were recruited for their intelligence and independence rather than brute strength.

If none of these suggestions are convincing to you, consider modern armies, where women often serve in support capacities. Being a clerk or cook might not sound exciting, but reversals of situations are common in a campaign, and someone who appears to be safely behind the lines can find themselves suddenly in the middle of the action, as happened during the Battle of the Bulge at the end of World War 2. Imagine, for example, a woman who is a quartermaster who suddenly finds herself the senior officer in her area. Or perhaps your character could be in charge of a seige engine or cannon behind the lines, and find herself facing a flanking attack.

So ignore the chauvunists who say women have no place in combat. You can have tough women if you want them, and still be believable. Just don’t make them exactly like the men of impoverished imaginations. And in doing so, you may discover new stories to be told.

Uncategorized

Our Words Are Not Your Spice Rack

thelocaldialect

Last Tuesday, the release of American Dirt, a book about the Mexican immigrant experience written by a white American woman, sparked major controversy. While the chief criticism seemed to be the white author’s inaccurate and ultimately irresponsible treatment of a subject and people which she knew of only secondhand, one of the many issues raised was the book’s handling of Spanish language words. The English speaking author apparently filled the book with Spanish words, italicizing them to help clue in the audience, presumably made up mostly of English language speakers, that what they were reading was in fact a foreign language. A parody hashtag #mylatinanovel even popped up, in which Latinx writers peppered their tweets with with Spanish words, sometimes hilariously spoofing the writer’s use of Spanish words. I found the discussion of foreign language words — whether to italicize them or not, whether to use them at all, or not, timely. I’d recently had a similar discussion with my critique partner, Bruce, in which I’d explained why, although most of my novels are set outside of the English speaking world, I avoid foreign language words in my writing.

I’m not monolingual. In fact, I speak five different languages, with varying degrees of ability, from entirely fluent (Mandarin Chinese) to advanced beginner (Swedish). You might think, with the many languages at my disposal, my writing would be positively full of non-English words. However, I’m actually a big advocate of the old “less is more” adage when it comes to foreign language words in English language works. In fact, my objection to foreign language words in English language works stems from the same reasoning that objects to the italicizing of foreign language words. The argument against italicization of non-English words holds that the practice is othering — that by italicizing the words, the writer centers English as the norm, and the foreign language words as something other than the norm.

While italicizing the words others the words themselves, the very use of the words, particularly by people who do not speak the language in question, is often nothing more than a form of orientalism, of othering in and of itself. The use of foreign language words is often meant as a flashing neon sign that this world is Not Like Ours. “They’re part of my worldbuilding,” a writer said to me recently. Without those words, the argument goes, how is the reader to know that this is a foreign land? I’ve heard the argument applied equally to fantasy, historical fiction, and contemporary, and my objection applies equally to all three. The writer that uses foreign language words as a signal, as a dash of “exotic” flavor, has failed in worldbuilding, but succeeded in centering the Anglophone world as the norm.

When foreign language words are used for easily translatable concepts, such as units of measure, or foods, universal concepts and yes, even familial relationships, the result is often the implicit message that this culture is so foreign, so different, so other, that their words impart a different meaning. An abuela is somehow different from a grandmother, a laoshi different from a teacher. It’s a signal to the reader that in this foreign place, the very words and concepts that we consider ordinary, are strange and different in this new place. When we think of the Japanese word “sensei” we conjure up a different image from the one we conjure when we think of the word “teacher,” even though a sensei is also a person who stands in front of a class and hands out tests and grades homework. And yet, the word has been used in such a way that most non-Japanese speakers certainly think that a sensei is something deeper than a teacher, something more profound. Are there certain sensei – student relationships that are more like a master to an apprentice, a deeper and more meaningful kind of partnership? Certainly. Just as there are teachers in the English speaking world who serve as mentors to their students. The only reason to use sensei instead of teacher is to signal that Japan is an exotic, foreign place, a place that transcends everyday concepts, a place that defies understanding. In Japan they don’t have teachers, they have senseis. These kinds of usage tell the readers that foreign places are inherently incomprehensible and untranslateable, forever other, forever just slightly out of reach.

There is an important distinction to be made, between legitimate code switching and throwing foreign language words in for a bit of spice. Code switching, or the process of switching back and forth between two different languages or dialects depending upon social context. If your characters code-switch in dialogue, this might indeed be a legitimate expression of their multilingualism, but still, writers need to be aware of what situations usually bring about code-switching. My two children call their father “baba,” but when they are speaking about him to other people, they refer to him as “dad.” In China, when I speak with in English with other English speaking people, there were some Chinese words we routinely used no matter what language the conversation itself used, like “kuaidi” for the courier services that delivered goods purchased online. If I were speaking with someone who did not speak Chinese, however, I wouldn’t use the word kuaidi because a non Chinese speaker wouldn’t understand it. Instead, I’d probably use the word “courier,” even though it isn’t a word commonly used in American English. Context matters, and ultimately, so does identity. If you speak a second or third language fluently you understand instinctively which situations might call for which language. If you are monolingual, your assumptions about when and why people code switch are likely to be incorrect. People who speak multiple languages fluently should feel free to use those languages however they like. Monolinguals, however, need to proceed with caution.

In my own writing,  I often (not always — there are some exceptions) choose translation over including non-English words. I translate words that do not exist in English, and ones that do. I want my reader to understand my world, not exoticize it. For instance, in one of my novels, I mention a food that is called, in Chinese, “chou doufu.” The words mean, literally, “stinky bean curd.” This concept doesn’t exist in the English speaking world, and I could have called this snack chou doufu in my novel, in order to add a slice of “authenticity,” but in fact, I wanted my readers to understand what chou doufu is, so I called it “stinky bean curd.”

If I want to worldbuild, I can do it through description and detail, rather than using words like spices, sprinkling them here and there to liven up a bland manuscript. Most importantly, my worldbuilding is not centered around the idea that my world is inherently foreign or other. After all, the world I often write in, although not the world I live in now, is the world that was my home for nearly two decades. It was never other to me, just as it isn’t other for the millions of people who live there. I do not need to emphasize for my readers that my world is foreign, on the contrary, I need to write it so that my reader understands that even though the setting is unfamiliar, it is not incomprehensible.

Characters

Developing Secondary Characters

Bruce Byfield

Recently, my critique partner Jessica described secondary characters as one of the strengths of my writing. To say the least, I was gleefully pleased. I’ve never been one of those who considers secondary characters plot devices, existing only to move the story along and be quickly forgot. Rather, I treat them as chances for some color and world-building. They may begin in the needs of the plot, but, with this approach, they become a cast I can economically draw on later in the story if the need arises.

With all my characters, both primary and secondary, I begin by asking what the first thing is that strangers would notice. This question is usually enough to make even very minor characters stand out. For example, at one point, my main characters take shelter with a peddlar. Perhaps he has a regular route around outlying villages, but more likely he walks the city streets, since he has a baby. At any rate, what stands out is the way he dresses. He wears a tunics and trews made of strips of the cloth that can be ordered from him. Around his neck hang tiny mirrors. Pins and needles are stuck in his cuffs, and his tunic has dozens of pockets for spices, candies, and other small items. From his hat dangles ribbons and gits of embroidery. In effect, he is a walking advertisement for his wares; you can’t help but see him coming. Nor are you likely to forget him, since he is a cheery sort in his work clothes and is always singing.

Another minor character is the priest of a popular cult. One of his duties is to sacrifice a goat in the morning and evening, and distribute the meat, bone, and blood to the poor. Instead of simply going about his duties, he turns them into a show, carving the meat on a spit like a waiter in a South American restaurant, tossing slices into the air and flipping them into the hands of the next in line. He is an artist and a performer, memorable despite his brief appearance.

More important characters are developed in greater detail. For example, at one point, my main character is in a village where few people speak his language. I needed someone he could talk to, and he needed a smith, so I chose to be economical and combined those two needs into a single character.

But how did this smith get there? I decided he was a prisoner in the last war. The village is barely at the stage of working copper, so, recognizing the value of his knowledge, the locals broke his knees to keep him from running away, much as happened to Wayland Smith in Norse mythology. Naturally, that makes him unfriendly and resentful, although still glad to show off his skill. He is not as talented as Wayland, so he cannot escape by making himself wings, but, he is resourceful, and has rigged up bars all over his smithy so he can get around by swinging on them — an image I had on the bus as I watched people swaying towards the exit, clinging to the safety poles.

Moreover, as a smith he has magical power over metals, so one of his few friends is his professional colleague and fellow outcast the shaman, who is capable of being male or female at will. The two of them have the occasional night together, which means the smith is bi, or at least highly adaptable. At one point, they arrange a liaison:

Shaman: Male or female?

Smith: Surprise me.

In this way, my secondary characters are built up logically, made memorable and fitted into my background and plot. Some might say I do extra work, but if readers enjoy the characters, I consider the extra effort worthwhile. Moreover, later in the story, I have a set of characters that I can re-use, saving me time and reducing the size of the cast while binding the narrative together. For instance, after his initial appearance, I use the smith to help show the range of reactions in the village to the sudden appearance of a magical healing device — he hopes against all advice that his knees can be healed. Take care of all your characters, even the minor ones, and I believe that they will take care of you.

Uncategorized

No True Scotsman: Arguments from Purity

thelocaldialect

The anecdote that gave the “No True Scotsman” fallacy its name goes something like this: I make the claim that no Scotsman would ever put sugar in their tea. My friend says “I’m a Scotsman, and I put sugar in my tea.” I then counter by saying “well, no true Scotsman would put sugar in his tea.” The fallacy is in the variable definition of what constitutes a Scotsman, basically a “true” Scotsman being only someone who I deem appropriately Scottish. The fallacy applies to all sorts of arguments that base their premise on purity. “No true American would ever support Communism,” or “no true Black person would ever vote for Trump,” or even, more recently, “no true trans person would ever write a story based upon the attack helicopter meme.”

Aside from the inherent logic in arguing from purity — after all, who gets to decide what constitutes a true Scotsman —  there is something dangerous in the way that the fallacy is used to discount and diminish marginalized voices that do not adhere to the acceptable and expected parameters for those voices. While cis het white folks seem to exist in a great variety of forms — allies and enemies, harmful and helpful, and everything in between, marginalized peoples are often held to a higher standard, and are not allowed to step outside of accepted lines. Notice the vitriolic reaction when Angie Thomas, author of bestsellers The Hate U Give and On The Come Up tweeted in support of a white author Sarah Dressen. Dressen had expressed sadness when her books were rejected for a college reading list for being too juvenile and feminine, citing a quote from a young college student as the source of her ire. Thomas, a Black woman, was expected to support the young college student, person in the exchange who had less power as opposed to Dressen, the “powerful” famous writer. Although many white authors also tweeted in support of Dressen, Thomas and other writers of color in particular were called out because it seemed they, of all people, was not expected to side with power. “No true Black woman writer would support a fellow writer instead of a college student,” the message seemed to be.

The No True Scotsman fallacy reared its head again recently in response to the short story published in the speculative fiction publication Clarksworld, entitled “I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter.”  The story, author, and publication received substantial backlash, and it was assumed, when the story first appeared online, that the author was certainly a cisgender heterosexual white person. Many even assumed that the author’s name, Isabel Fall, must be a pen name, for only a man would write something so blatantly offensive. “I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter” played upon the right-wing meme that has oft been used to denigrate non-binary and gender-queer individuals. The author, in response to the “no LGBTQ person would ever write such a story” sentiment of her attackers, felt the need to out herself as a trans woman. The attacks then followed the No True Scotsman fallacy almost to the letter, simply replacing trans woman with Scotsman. Despite the fact that many trans people felt the story resonated with them, and enjoyed the story for the satire that it was meant to be, many felt like the author’s use of right-wing terminology in her story was disloyal and hurtful. A true trans person would never write something that might hurt members of her trans community … right? The author eventually asked Clarksworld to remove her story, a move which reveals the extent to which the controversy personally affected her.

The question then became, are trans writers, Black writers, Asian writers, any marginalized writers, not allowed to take the risks that cis het white people regularly take in their writing? When a white person writes something potentially Harmful (capital H intended), the reaction of the industry is often to close ranks and support the person’s brave effort to do something controversial with their writing. Consider, for instance, when Laurie Forest wrote the controversial The Black Witch, Kirkus gave it a starred review and later even addressed the haters directly, reaffirming its support of the author and the book. The third book in the series will be published later this month. Marginalized people, on the other hand, are often proverbially cast out of the protective circle of the progressive community. In the case of Isabel Fall, even after she revealed herself as a trans women, many still denied her intentions, questioning whether or not she might be a rightist plant. Ethnic Chinese writer Amelie Wen-Zhao actually pulled her own book from publication after Twitter users named her book anti-Black. The author herself claimed that she drew upon her own experience of human trafficking in East Asia, and was not meant as a commentary on chattel slavery (the book was later published, but which much less fanfare and little buzz).  Online Progressive spaces invoke the No True Scottsman fallacy with alarming frequency, but rarely is it invoked equally. Marginalized people must, it seems, be perfect representatives for their group, at all times. They must align with the right people, have the right thoughts, and write the right words. Satire, anger, messy, off the wall, edgy, boundary pushing, and especially in-group critiques — these are dangerous for a marginalized writer, whereas a white writer like me might be celebrated for the same.

While it is true that this is due almost entirely to the way cis het white people view marginalized individuals — as ambassadors for their groups. Marginalized peoples must be wary, at all times, of perpetuating negative stereotypes or Harmful perceptions of their group. Ultimately however, requiring ideological purity from marginalized people simply perpetuates the othering idea of a monoculture, the myth of sameness. After all, even positive stereotypes do harm because they deny the fact that marginalized people have myriad voices, experiences, and truths. Sometimes those voices might make us uncomfortable. They might challenge what we think we know about a group, or about ourselves. We do not have to agree with those voices, but we neither should we suppress them, for they serve as a reminder of the diversity of thought that is inherent in all communities. All Scotsmen, as it turns out, are true Scotsmen.

Critiquing, Uncategorized

What to Look for in a Critique Partner

Bruce Byfield

Writing is a lonely passion. You spend hours alone, and sooner or later, you want someone to read your efforts. No wonder, then, that, online forums are crowded with aspiring writers desperately seeking feedback. Any feedback. There are even sites where you can find someone to exchange manuscripts with, the literary equivalent of dating sites. The trouble is, to find a suitable critique partner, you usually need to go through several. I went through six myself, each of various degrees of satisfaction — but my writing is all the better for it.

Some writers look for beta readers, a term borrowed from software development via fan fiction. However, for me, that term implies a one-way, perhaps one-time relationship involving a finished work, and reminds me uncomfortably of Brave New World, where betas are inferior people. I much prefer the the term “critique partner,” which is less one-sided and can start as soon as you have a finished passage to show.

So what should you look for in a critique partner? Here’s what I learned:

To start with, despite your eagerness, don’t accept just anyone. You may not be compatible on even a basic emotional level, which may make working together hard. Get to know a potential partner first, before you begin to swap stories. If you want more than a general reaction, you need someone in sympathy with your work. Usually — although not always — that means another writer. In addition, you are likely to get only general feedback from someone who neither reads nor writes your genre. That is particularly so in fantasy or science fiction, which has traditions like world-building that mainstream books simply don’t have. Without an understanding of your genre, a critiquer is likely to be of limited use.

A first critique can reveal other limitations as well. Someone who only corrects typos and grammar is not a critiquer — they’re copy editors. What they give you may be useful, but probably you want something more. Similarly, someone who keeps telling you how they would write the story, or who the main character should be without being asked is not going to be much help, either. I had one potential partner who insisted that militias named for animals must be were-creatures — which led to jokes about were-salmon swimming up river to spawn on the night of the full moon, but was otherwise useless to me. Someone who tells you what works, or what might work better is one thing, but someone who wants to continually rewrite your story is not working in the spirit of critiquing.

Even more importantly, do you respect their work? It can be difficult, if not impossible, to take advice from someone you don’t respect. Ideally, critiquing partners should have a mutual respect, even enthusiasm, for each other’s work. That doesn’t mean they can’t criticize each other deeply, but someone who points out only the flaws and never what works, is likely to quickly become an annoyance. Partners needs a mutual sympathy. Otherwise, how can the two of you have an interest in making each other’s work as strong as possible?

In addition to mutual sympathy, successful critiquers also require a deep honesty. With any luck, a critiquer will also be diplomatic, and point out faults discretely to make them more acceptable, but the key requirement is complete frankness about what works and how to fix what doesn’t. That means a family member or an existing friend generally makes a poor partner — probably they want to encourage you and to avoid hurting your feelings. By contrast, a useful critiquer makes honesty the higher priority. They should also be willing to talk out their comments in general. Such conversations, I find, are where I learn the most about writing. The conversations tend to turn into brainstorming, and both you and your critiquer can end up learning something.

All these points matter, but the most important one is that critique partners should at about the same stage in the work in progress and knowledge of writing. Otherwise, the relationship is more of a teacher-student one, which is useful in itself, but a subject for another blog. The entire strength of a successful critiquing relationship is in its give and take, which is next to impossible if the expertise is too one-sided. If necessary, partners can even look for outside expertise, and learn together.

For example, I have worked with Jessica, my chief critique partner, for eleven months now. We both have teaching experience, and we both have sold numerous pieces of non-fiction. Both of us are writing fantasies underpinned by a knowledge of history and of the genre, and are currently somewhere over two-thirds finished. The problem that one of us has is often one that the other has had, or has at least been thinking about, so comments are almost always relevant. I know that my work has improved my work immensely thanks to her dead-on observations. In addition, we have become online friends, and between Christmas and New Years, I flew down to New Orleans to hobnob with her husband, children, and cousins. We plan on meeting again some time. Meanwhile, we have joined with a third writer, who is about on the same level as we are, who is on the way to being another online friend.

Nor are we the only one who have found that critique partners can become friends. One writer online told me that her critique partner felt like a sister, and I have hints of a similar closeness from others. But that shouldn’t be too surprising, when the relationship involves people sharing their dreams and helping each other to reach them. You may have to swipe right dozens of times to find critique partners, but when you do, the search is worth the effort.

Uncategorized

Making Bitter into Sweet: Learning to Take Criticism

thelocaldialect

Putting ourselves out there as writers is hard. The eternal dilemma of most writers is that what we write is often personal, private, and close to the heart, and yet, the very nature of writing is that it meant to be read by others, and we cannot keep it to ourselves forever.  We write alone, but we can’t become accomplished writers without the help of others. But, when we’ve poured our souls into a story, when it comes time to offer it up for critique, it can feel a bit like opening ourselves up for a knife through the heart.

By now you’re probably thinking yeah yeah, I know. If I don’t get critiques I’ll never get better. And that is true, of course, but reader, you have probably heard this before, and it probably hasn’t helped, otherwise you wouldn’t be stewing over that negative comment or getting teary-eyed because someone said your characters were flat. So instead, I’m not going to tell you that you need to take criticism, I’m going to tell you how to take criticism.

Criticism is never easy to receive, but in my nearly forty years on this earth, I’ve heard a lot of it. New writers, or those who have only recently started showing their work to others, take heart in this: criticism becomes easier to take the more you hear it. My own critique partner, Bruce, told me, “When I first started selling articles, I could brood for days on a negative comment. Now, an hour later, and I’ve forgotten it.” Taking that first step is always the hardest, but it gets easier and easier with time. I used to be deathly afraid of flying, not a good fear for someone who lived overseas to have. So, I researched how to get over this fear, and overwhelmingly, the advice was this: fly. So fly I did, and while, I still feel that prickle of fear at takeoff, I get over it quickly enough, and I book flights without a second thought, whereas before I would routinely take the train to avoid flying. Opening yourself up for critiquing is a bit the same. Once you start, the easier it becomes. Now, I actually look forward to posting new work for my critique partners, and while I might feel that tiny prickle of anxiety, it is overridden by the knowledge that my work has gotten better because I took their advice.

Here is the second secret to taking criticism: you don’t have to take it. Remember, your writing is your own, and if you don’t agree with the critique, then you thank the giver and move on. Now, this is said with the caveat that you certainly should not disregard every bit of criticism given, not if you actually want to improve your writing, and the caveat too, that if you hear a certain critique from multiple sources, its probably a valid critique. However, even valid critiques are critiques that you can disregard if they don’t sit right with you as the writer. Ultimately you have the final say. Remember this though: sometimes the hardest criticisms to hear are the ones that your work needs the most. Sometimes we don’t want to hear certain critiques because we know that fixing those issues will be a monumental task. For instance, I knew deep down that my main character was lacking something, but I avoided the issue, telling myself I would resolve the issue in revision. It was only through a conversation with my critique partner Bruce, that I realized exactly what was lacking. The result meant a rather large rewrite, but the new version is undoubtedly superior to the first. If you find yourself particularly resistant to a certain criticism, ask yourself why. What is it about this critique that makes it hurt so much?

Which leads me to this: everyone gets bad reviews, because no one’s writing is perfect. Next time you’re feeling down over a harsh critique, go to Goodreads or Amazon and look at the one star reviews for your favorite book. Believe me, there will be at least a few, and those are fully formed books that have been through editing and revision and probably a few rewrites as well before assuming their final form. No one writes a perfect first draft, and even final drafts will have their detractors. It doesn’t mean the detractors are wrong, but it means that for every hater, there’s bound to be a fan. Find your fans, and make them your critiquers. My critique partners are two of my biggest fans. They love my book, and that’s why they want me to make it better. They want to see it succeed. The best critiques will come from people who genuinely enjoy your work, not people who are reading it out of a sense of duty. Critiques are easier to take too when you’re absolutely certain that they’re coming from a place of love. I know how much my critique partners believe in my work, which is why I don’t flinch when they give me notes.

And here too, is the upside of learning to take criticism well: writing is a lonely process, and it is only made lonelier if you isolate yourself and refuse to share your work with others. While being critiqued can be scary, and tough critiques can hurt, ultimately, if you find good partners, you will gain your biggest cheerleaders. You will gain people who can share with you the ups and downs of the writing process, with whom you can share ideas, who are more than willing to listen to your late night “so hear me out, but what if I …” conjectures. While these sorts of people are hard to find, they’ll be the first people you tell when you finally sign with an agent or land that publication deal, and they’ll be the people you thank first in your acknowledgements, because you know the book wouldn’t be half the book it is without their help. Criticism is hard to take, sure, but the people who take the time to give it, to give honest, thoughtful, and constructive criticism, are giving you a valuable gift. Learn to take it gratefully and graciously, just as you would any gift given with love, even the ones you plan to return the next day.

General Writing

Writing Infodumps without Slowing the Story

Bruce Byfield

I reject the word “infodump” categorically — that’s a smartass word out of the cyberpunks’ workshop culture, them thinking that they knew how fiction works, as if it were a tinker toy they could disassemble and label superciliously, as if they knew what they were doing. Not true in any way. I reject “expository lump” also, which is another way of saying it. All these are attacks on the idea that fiction can have any kind of writing included in it. It’s an attempt to say “fiction can only be stage business” which is a stupid position.”

  • Kim Stanley Robinson

Sooner or later, a story has to give some background on the characters or the setting. That is especially true in fantasy and science fiction, both of which often have to sketch in an invented background. However, even in a mainstream story, at some point you need to describe characters or give some of their history. For this reason, “infodump” and “expository lump” are thrown around far too freely. As I reflected on Robinson’s comment at thirty thousand feet, my eyes closed against the vague claustrophobia of economy class, I concluded that he was right. Infodumps are an unavoidable part of writing. The question is not whether you should have them in your fiction, but whether they are done poorly or well.

Poor examples of infodumps are easy to find. They are common in novices’ writing, identifiable by the way they stop the story from advancing. Here’s an improvised example:

“We’re surrounded,” Tyler said. He was young giant, blonde haired and with outsized hands. He wore black jeans and wore a sleeveless shirt that might have been called a wife-beater on a man with a less cheery grin. The son of Appalachian coal miners, he spoke with a slow accent that many took for a slowness of mind until they heard his ideas.

“Better break out the guns,” Antoine replied. He was a small man, whose skin showed his Mexican ancestry. Wiry, he was quick with his feet and hands, and his tongue as well. He had met Tyler one night in the student pub, when his fast-talking had kept Tyler out of a fight with a woman’s jealous boy-friend.

This is a parody, but only barely. I have seen dozens of similar passages that interrupt the action to give background. They are the written equivalent of a stage actor who steps out of character to talk directly to the audience about their character.

However the usual correction is no better. Told to mix the background with the general narrative, many beginning writers come up with something like:

His white-skinned hand wiped his ash-blonde hair out of his sea-blue eyes.

This strategy slows the story just as much as my first example, but by overloading the sentence with adjectives. Yet another doomed strategy is go to painful length to have a viewpoint character see themselves in a mirror or a reflection. All these mis-steps are often caused by a writer wanting to have done with the necessary exposition as soon as possible. After reading Robinson’s comment, I have reserved “infodump” and “expository lump” for passages like them.

So how do you fit necessary description or background into a story? One technique is to start each chapter with an excerpt from a fictional document, as John Brunner did in his classic, “The Sheep Look Up.” Removed from the action, such excerpts become more acceptable, especially when kept short. Similar excerpts can be added within the narrative itself as a character reads or hears them. In The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien frequently uses poems in this way, offering only snippets in moments of actions, such as the poetry that Theoden quotes before the Riders of Rohan break the siege of Minas Tirith, and long ones only in scenes where nothing much is happening, such as a quiet night in Rivendell.

However, the easiest way to weave information into a narrative is to take advantage of your viewpoint character. If a character has a background that includes the information you need to convey, all you need to do is put them in a position in which they would naturally think of it. For example:

Gareth leaped for the door, but he was too late. The door clicked shut, and he was trapped in precisely the part of the castle he had been warned not to go. In his childhood, he had heard stories of headless and hungry ghosts who haunted this wing, and now he looked around, half-expecting to see them.

In this passage, instead of halting the narrative, the background information is also used to give the character’s reaction to the setting, and add some tension. You could even make the information part of the character’s thoughts:

Gareth leaped for the door, but it had already clicked shut. Trapped, he thought, and in precisely the part of the castle I have been warned against. I wonder if the headless and hungry ghosts I heard about as a child are still around?

Or if you wanted to describe the character a bit:

Gareth had always prided himself on his speed, but his leap for the door was too late.

You might be able, too, to combine both the descriptive detail and reaction, although probably that would be too busy. Often, dialogue can convey information:

“I leaped, but the door had already clicked shut,” Gareth said.

“What do you do?” Linette said.

“Tried not to think of headless and hungry ghosts,” Gareth said ruefully. “Remember those tales we were told as children? I remember all of them.”

Any of these strategies would work, depending on what you want to do. Still, as a general rule, if a passage has more than one purpose, the chances are that it will convey information without any slowing of the story.

When integrated, background needn’t slow down the narrative at all. At times, as in Tolkien’s descriptions of Rivendell or Lothlorien, the description can even become an attraction in its own right. The next time you see background added to a story, don’t rush to condemn it. Rather, ask how well it integrates with the narrative. The question is not whether anyone can avoid such elements, but how well they serve your story.

Diversity, Uncategorized

Cutting Ties: Abandoning Our Problematic Favorites

thelocaldialect

When recent controversy revealed that J.K. Rowling was, to put it mildly, not an ally of the LGBTQ+ community, I didn’t have much personal stake in the question of whether or not to support the fandom. While I am definitely an ally, I am not a Harry Potter fan. J.K. Rowling outing herself as TERF (trans-exclusionary radical feminist for those unfamiliar with the lingo), while disappointing, did not shatter any of my childhood illusions, did not make a wasteland out of a beloved fandom. I was too old for peak Potter mania by a good decade, and my own children a bit too young. I do not have my Hogwart’s house listed in my Twitter bio, and while I’ve seen the movies, I’ve never read the books.

However, J.K. Rowling is hardly the only problematic figure to produce beloved content. My first experiences with the phenomena were with the works of Woody Allen and Robert Heinlein. An aspiring filmaker in my teenage years, I watched Annie Hall enough times to memorize many of the lines. Later, I learned of the abuse allegations against him, and that he’d married his stepdaughter. I still think Annie Hall is a great movie, but I won’t spend money on Allen’s films any longer either (and yes, I’m aware he was never convicted of anything, but I tend to err on the side of abuse victims personally). I loved Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land as a fourteen year old sci-fi nerd, and it was only much later, when I read Heinlein’s other work, that I realized the strange incestuous themes running through many of his books, his objectification of women. I was lucky enough never to have been a fan of Orson Scott Card, but many of my generation experienced that disillusionment as well. Marion Zimmer Bradley’s feminist take on King Arthur’s court was my mother’s favorite book at one time, until even she turned out to be a horrible person.

The point being, every generation has it’s let-downs, our idols and heroes who turn out to be rather less than what we imagined. And when our heroes let us down, we’re left with the question of what to do, not with the heroes themselves, who most agree are no longer deserving of our devotion, but with the content that they created. Does the fact that Stranger in a Strange Land came from a man with a perhaps rather sexually twisted mind change the fact that I loved it as a fourteen year old? No. I can’t go back in time and stop fourteen year old me from loving it. Does it sully the memory, at least a bit? Perhaps. As much as I enjoyed the book at fourteen, I won’t hand a copy to my own child, which is a bit sad. My father introduced Stranger to me, and it would have been nice to have something of a literary legacy to hand down to my own children, but alas, that’s not meant to be.

Some suggest that we can continue to engage with the content, independent of the creator. For the Harry Potter fandom, which has taken on something a life of its own, with thousands of fan-created works, a theme park, spin-offs, and fans who consider Hogwarts houses as accurate as Myers-Briggs personality tests, perhaps the creation has indeed surpassed the creator. The sentiment seems to be this: don’t let good memories be overtaken by the bad, and don’t let fans who are new to the fandom be exposed only to bad takes, only to hateful rhetoric. If J.K. Rowling is a TERF, then the only way for fans to get trans positive Harry Potter content is for those fans to create it themselves. If trans and ally fans abandon the fandom, the argument goes, they’ll be leaving the fandom to TERFS and rightists, and perhaps exposing young fans to harmful messages with no correction.

The argument makes a certain kind of sense, and has an added benefit in that no one has to give up their beloved childhood memories, the beloved Hogwarts universe, the beloved Harry Potter community. Just pretend J.K. Rowling didn’t invent it, pretend Harry Potter exists in a vacuum, and continued engagement with the Harry Potter world will be just fine. The problem I have, however, is that ultimately, when Harry Potter continues to thrive, J.K. Rowling continues to thrive. J.K. Rowling has become rich beyond most authors’ wildest imaginings off the back of her creation. Whether we do it deliberately or not, engaging with her intellectual property means giving her a continued platform. As long as there is a thriving Harry Potter fandom, J.K. Rowling continues to make money.

I don’t think anyone needs to burn their Harry Potter books, mind. I still have my ragged copy of Stranger in a Strange Land on a bookshelf somewhere, and I still think Annie Hall is a great movie. I believe that we can acknowledge that sometimes highly problematic people create really good stuff. It’s an uncomfortable reality, that their problematic nature does not automatically make their creations bad. What it does mean, however, is that no matter how great their art is, just as we boycott Chic-fil-A even though their chicken sandwiches are mighty tasty, we do not financially support and give a platform to people who promote hateful politics and policies. Sometimes, the harder a thing is to give up, the more meaningful the sacrifice. Ultimately, if we want a wizarding world that is LGBTQ positive, we should lend our support to original creators, trans creators and allies, who can give us that. Instead of trying to turn the intellectual property of an anti-ally into something that it isn’t, why not give that voice, that platform, to trans creators themselves?

Ultimately, we enjoy what we enjoy, and enjoyment isn’t always a matter of choice. What we do have a choice in is how we spend our money, who we support, and whose voices we lift up. It is absolutely alright to still enjoy the Harry Potter books despite J.K. Rowling’s TERFiness. It is okay to like Woody Allen’s films, to have a soft spot for Stranger in a Strange Land. What is less okay is to continue to promote those creators (well, the living ones), to contribute to their wealth, to amplify the voices of people who do not contribute to the world in a positive way. Some people might suggest a massive boycott campaign, but quietly withdrawing support may be even better. After all, the worst fate of all, for those who once courted notoriety, might be to slip quietly into obscurity, unremembered and unloved.