A Spectrum of Worlds

A Darker Shade of Magic by V. E. Schwab
Written by V. E. Schwab


To most writers, it’s a backdrop, to some even an afterthought, but to me, it’s always been a character. Setting is one of the very first—if not THE first—thing that comes to me when I’m writing a book. It’s not that I don’t care about the other pieces—the people and the plot and what have you—it’s that for me, as a writer and a reader, setting IS one of the most important aspects, and it’s always integral to the plot.

Sometimes, its importance is obvious, as in Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere, in which a second London lurks under the surface of the first, or Andy Weir’s The Martian, set entirely on the surface of Mars. It might be a time as well as a place, as in Kate Atkinson’s Life After Life, in which Ursula is continuously reliving the years leading up to World War II. Other times, it’s built into the fabric of the story in other ways, like Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven, set across a Canadian expanse after an apocalyptic disease. Or perhaps it creates a framework for the plot, as with Paula Hawkins’s The Girl on the Train. Whatever the form it takes, and whatever the framework is fantasy, thriller, dystopian, historical, the fact remains that a good setting is a living, breathing element, a character all its own.

My newest book, A Darker Shade of Magic, houses not one but FOUR versions of London (Grey, Red, White, and Black), and each one takes a different shape: Grey the mundane world, Red the magical empire, White the wasteland, and Black the source of all power.

In essence, A Darker Shade of Magic—or ADSoM for short—gave me a chance to turn my setting into not only a character, but an entire supporting cast. Through the four iterations of London, bound together by only a name, I was able to explore not only time, but also space, and the ways that different actions shape the world in which they happen. The color terms and relative absence/presence of magic are not the only things that set the Londons apart. Though each ones occupies the same geographical footprint, with the Thames (or the Isle, or the Siljt) at its heart, each city was inspired by a different part of the world, a different aesthetic, a different breed of empire. The worlds sit, layered like pages of paper in a book.

Grey London, which you could call the template, is based on the world as we know it, modeled on early 19th century England, with its smoke-clogged streets and its ailing mad king. If there was magic once, it has been forgotten.

The crown jewel of the worlds, Red London, features a plush, eastern motif, full of spires and night markets, spices and luxury. Here magic thrives, woven into every part of life, respected by some, worshiped by others, and used by all.

Its neighbor, White London, a world once more powerful than Red, is now slowing dying, starved out by the magic it tries to control. It has the arctic air of the far north, ruled a pair of wolf-like twins, Astrid and Athos.

And Black London, well, no one knows. The site of a magical catastrophe, and sealed off from the other worlds, it’s the city known only through bedtime stories and nursery rhymes. Until now.

The characters are as much a product of their setting as anything else. The main characters, Kell and Lila, come from different Londons. Kell, a magician with the rare ability to move between worlds, belongs to the elite and fantastical Red London, while Lila has grown up as a street rat-turned thief in the magic-less Grey world. To them we add the Danes, the rulers of White London, desperate to hold on to power, and their servant, Holland, bound not by will, but by magic.

I’m a firm believer that when crafting a story, the world—or worlds—in which it’s set must come before the characters. It must shape them. For what are people, if not the product of their environments? A setting is wasted when it simply exists to fill the space behind the action. Similarly, when the characters and the world in which they live are bound by nothing more than convenience.

The characters of ADSoM are diverse, and so are the settings they occupy. When you step into the book, you step into several worlds, each one different, but all connected, as tangled with each other as the kings and queens, magicians, smugglers, and thieves who roam them. They are a strange cast, my Londons, but I can’t wait for you to meet them all.

Buy A Darker Shade of Magic today:
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Follow V. E. Schwab on Twitter at @veschwab, on Facebook, or visit the magical Londons online.

Dolls Aren’t Just For Children

The Doll Collection edited by Ellen Datlow
Written by Ellen Datlow

Dolls, perhaps more than any other object, demonstrate just how thin the line between love and fear, comfort and horror, can be. They are objects of love and sources of reassurance for children, coveted prizes for collectors, sources of terror and horror in numerous movies, television shows, books, and stories. Dolls fire our collective imagination, for better and—too often, for worse. From life-size dolls the same height as the little girls who carry them, to dolls whose long hair can “grow” even longer, to Barbie and her fashionable sisters, dolls do double duty as child’s play and the focus of adult art and adult fear.

—The Doll Collection, Introduction

I’m a doll lover. I admit it. I collect whole dolls and parts of dolls: heads and arms and legs Datlow_VoodooDolland torsos. Voodoo dolls (I used to go down to New Orleans every few years and each time would discover different styles); three-faced dolls, the kind whose faces change from sleeping to smiling to crying with a twist of a little gadget at the top of the head; kewpie dolls, the adorable creatures invented by Rose O’Neill; Japanese kokeshi dolls, made of wood with painted faces and bodies. A changeable Little Red Riding Hood/wolf/grandma doll given to me by a friend. A two headed Chernobyl kitty made for me by that same person, inspired by my account of the tour I took to the infamous nuclear accident site in Ukraine, and given to me by my class, the summer I taught Clarion West. The next time I taught, several years later, my students each made me a doll on a stick modeled after themselves. My love of dolls is no secret. Anyone who enters my apartment can witness that interest.

Why do I collect weird dolls? No idea. I’ve recently found photographs of me as a young child with a doll I was given by my grandparents. She’s pretty normal. I remember owning a knock off of the popular “Ginny” doll of the 1950s. Again, nothing weird about her. My mom wouldn’t buy me or my sister Barbie dolls—she thought they were too mature for kids, but also they and their clothing were expensive.

So I never owned a Barbie doll—until an enterprising friend created a three-faced Barbie Datlow_VampireBarbiefor me: Piranha Barbie (with a mouth made of a wicked-looking sea shell), Vampire Barbie (a couple of very pointy canine teeth) , and the dog-faced girl (not adapted from a Barbie, but instead a baby doll). I’ve also been privileged to visit Japan’s largest private collection of Barbie Dolls, owned by a Tokyo businessman.

I personally am not creeped-out by most dolls (except perhaps the very disturbing, lifelike dolls created by Japanese artist Katan Amano), but I know many people who are. Why might that be? Dolls often reside in “the uncanny valley” a phrase that refers to a theory developed by robotics professor Masahiro Mori in 1970: it posits that objects with features that are human-like, that look and move almost, but not quite, like actual human beings, elicit visceral feelings of revulsion in many people. The “valley” in question refers to the change in our comfort with these objects—our comfort level increases as the objects look more human, until, suddenly, they look simultaneously too human and not quite human enough, and our comfort level drops off sharply, only to rise again on the other side of the valley when something appears and moves exactly like a human being.

Pre-order The Doll Collection today:
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Follow Ellen on Twitter at @EllenDatlow, on Facebook, or visit her website.

It’s Not a Costume, It’s My Day Job

The Eterna Files by Leanna Renee Hieber
Written by Leanna Renee Hieber

I’m asked often if my being a professional actress helps me as a writer. It entirely does, in more ways than I likely understand about my own process at any one given moment. Being an actress is a holistic aspect of how I see the world and operate as an artistic professional.

One of the most often complimented aspects of my work is my ability to create atmosphere and ‘set the stage’ for my novels. This is most certainly due to a life on the boards. My penchant for diving deep into character, reveling in the intricacies of dialogue and inner monologue, comes from professional theatre and playwrighting training, novel writing coming to me as a professional venture after I’d established myself in the former.

I set my books in the late 19th century because it’s the era that birthed the entirety of our understanding of modernity and is thusly somewhat recognizable to us and yet, the Victorians are rife with conflict and hypocrisy that it is a source of dramatic tension and conflict in and of itself.

Leanna Renee Hieber as Lucy in Dracula

Leanna as Lucy in Dracula for the Cincinnati Shakespeare Company, photo: Rich Sofranko

One of the most important factors in differentiating the daily life of a modern character from that of any historical character is their clothing. This is especially important for women, whose fashion has changed far more radically and comprehensively than basic men’s clothing through the years. We wear, on average far fewer layers (and pounds) of clothing in the 21st century than the 19th.

Another important gift the theatre gave my historical novels is a tactile reality and personal experience ‘existing’ in other time periods with which I can paint details. How we move in our clothes and interact with our world is something we take for granted, but as a writer, I can’t; not if I’m writing strong, empowered women who, while they may chafe against the restrictive society roles and mores around them, still remain influenced by and bound to the fashion of the age. Knowing what it is like to move, sit, prepare food, lift, climb stairs, walk, trot, run, seize, weep, and collapse in a restrictive corset, bodice, bustle, petticoat, hat, layers, gloves, and other accessories—all of which I’ve been personally subjected to in various historical plays and presentations I’ve acted in—is vitally important to taking the reader physically as well as visually and emotionally through what my characters are experiencing.


Photo: C. Johnstone

I write fantasy, so I hardly operate off the ‘write what you know’ principle, but knowing from personal experience some of those intimate details—like the precise unease of chafing corset bones against your skin—helps me consider my heroic ladies of The Eterna Files that much more impressive in all the crazed antics I set them to.

Overcoming restrictions is a big theme in my work. That a restrictive society further enclosed its women in cages of undergarments and elaborate systems of outerwear is too important a factor of world-building not to have at the core, and I hope it sets a vital tone for how readers can feel my work as well as read it.

Pre-order The Eterna Files today:
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Follow Leanna on Twitter at @Leannarenee, on Facebook, or visit her website.

Looking at the World Finn Fancy Style

Finn Fancy Necromancy by Randy Henderson
Written by Randy Henderson

I’d visited Port Townsend often before writing my book, but this time Finn had offered me a tour of its truly magical side.

Finn’s family home, like a surprising number of the houses in this small seaside town, was a massive Victorian affair that might have belonged to the Addams Family, with a yard of tangled plants and gnarled trees. A child would almost certainly find tunnels and caves in that growth, a secret fort, perhaps even a path to fairy land. And the garden — if I didn’t know better, I’d think a Cthulhu cult had moved in and were trying to breed tomatoes and roses together to create a plant of ultimate chaos, destruction, and evil red yumminess.

How could I not have been inspired by such a place?

Finn stepped out onto the porch, his day’s work in the family necromancy business done, his eyes bloodshot and watery.

“Greetings, program,” I said. “You okay?”

“Imagine the sweetest-smelling perfume,” he replied. “Something candy-like. Now, pour a bottle of that into your eyes. That’s the joy of fairy embalming. Why? Because you wrote it that way, you sadistic nerf herder.”

I am your father,” I said, and made the Darth Vader wheeze.

“Lucky me,” he replied, and pushed past me.

We hiked toward town, but I was surprised when we turned north and headed uphill rather than down. Down was the way to the main waterfront street lined with funky shops, museums and restaurants, including the best ice cream shop and pizza restaurant this side of Italy, a giant store full of New Age magic supplies, and even a shop specifically dedicated to writers.

“I thought you were going to show me the secret passages,” I said, referring to the Shanghai tunnels rumored to still run hidden beneath the town, remnants of the 1800s when the town was a major shipping port.

“Too dangerous right now,” Finn replied. “They’re used mostly by feyblood creatures, and you did a good job of getting them riled up. It’s almost like you’re trying to build us up to a war or something?”

I avoided his questioning look and quickened my pace, whistling the chorus to “Blasphemous Rumors” by Depeche Mode.

Finn caught up with me, and as we passed the enormous, castle-like fortress of the Jefferson County Courthouse, he described the history of the town. Its many grand Victorian buildings spoke to the dreams of the town’s early builders, that this was going to be one of the biggest port cities in Washington. Unfortunately, the Great Depression, a lack of railroad connections, and a nasty infestation of gremlins killed that dream. But when most mundanes abandoned the town, the area’s rich and important magical history made it a natural home for humans and creatures of a magical nature.

Eventually, mundanes rediscovered the charm of Port Townsend and started to move or retire there, “fixing up” the area and changing it from a small town full of mill-workers, sailors and ex-hippy artists, to a town focused around tourism and the arts.

“In some ways,” Finn said, “I imagine you could compare the clash of cultures and classes in this town to that of us magicals versus the mundanes, or even humans against the feyblood creatures.” He eyed me sideways. “Though again, I hope you aren’t building us toward some kind of culture war?”

“What’d you say?” I asked. “You want some Culture Club?” I began to sing “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me.”

Finn sighed and took the lead again as I continued singing. We wandered our way eventually to Fort Worden.

Fort Worden is awesome. I love this place more than a brownie loves brownies, more than a Smurf loves to Smurf.

Fort Worden State Park was once a US Army base protecting access to the Puget Sound from any potential invaders in the Pacific, with enormous canons mounted on concrete bunkers. The bunkers remain, ghostly gray structures with mossy walls and rusting steel doors, and labyrinthine tunnels running beneath—a fantasy playground.

It was easy to imagine that those tiny arched holes throughout the bunkers might be doorways used by gnomes; or that the grass-filled stone circles might be man-made fairy rings; or, if inscribed with glowing runes, that the gun placements might be used for some purpose more devastating than even the thousand-pound guns they once held. It was easy to imagine that walking those narrow passages beneath the bunkers might eventually lead you somewhere other than simply out.

And those bunkers are spaced out along bluffs and hillsides covered in a forest of cedar and madrona, filled with hidey-holes and natural tree forts that just begged me to imagine what magical beings truly lived there.

We ended the visit on a bluff overlooking the rocky coastline and lighthouse far below.

“Thanks for the tour,” I said. “It’s always a good exercise to look at the world like a child might. I’ve gotten some great ideas for the sequels.”

“Ah, bat’s breath,” Finn said. “Look, if you’re really writing sequels, can you please just do me one favor?”

“What’s that?”

He blushed a bit as he said, “Maybe not make me so awkward with the ladies?”

I turned and walked back toward town, whistling Simply Red’s “If You Don’t Know Me By Now.”

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Follow Randy on Twitter at @randyauthor, on Facebook, or visit his website.

Death of Dystopia

The Glass Arrow by Kristen Simmons
Written by Kristen Simmons

As a writer of dystopian fiction, I’m often asked about the state of the genre—where I see it heading, and if the market is oversaturated.

The problem as I see it is this: dystopian stories (and I’m speaking primarily about young adult dystopian fiction here) hit a wave of popularity several years ago when Katniss volunteered as tribute. This wasn’t the first in the genre (or rather, subgenre, as dystopian stems from science fiction), and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. But the widespread interest in that story seemed to broaden the definition of the genre, specifically in young adult literature, to include a wide range of themes, including, perhaps most notably, an emphasis on romance and an introduction of diverse protagonists. Young adult literature often has a focus on the raw expression of youth—emotions experienced for the first time clashing with the developmental identity crisis involved in figuring out where one fits in the world. Add to that the pressure of choosing a faction (Divergent), an oppressive government (Legend), or the walls literally closing in (Mazerunner) and you’ve got something pretty intense. I see why people are attracted to it. I am.

Let me interrupt this broadcast for a small confession. I am the first to claim my own ignorance on the subject. The Article 5 series is classified as dystopian. My next book—The Glass Arrow—is as well. Did I sit down intent on writing within those specifications? Nope. I wrote the story that came into my head, and was just lucky enough that someone wanted to read it. This means that everything I’ve said thus far could be completely out in left field. Or, I could be like a great many writers who do the same thing: Write the story, and let the people who are good at marketing do their jobs.

So what is the current state of dystopia? And where is it heading? Honestly, I think it’s doing all right. Yes, there has been a huge focus on it in recent years. Yes, there is a strong-voiced contingency who shout Fahrenheit 451! 1984! Brave New World! (I am the one shouting The Handmaid’s Tale and The Road, just for the record.)

Young adult dystopian fiction incorporates a melting pot of issues, topics, and voices, but if you strip it down to its roots, you’ll likely find the following major headings:

  • Problems with the government (too little or too much or much too much),
  • Economic or class issues (no money or an overwhelming divide between classes), and
  • Oppression in some form (in my new book, The Glass Arrow, women are oppressed.)

I’m not a historian, but I think the human race has bumped up against these issues before. I know every single time I turn on the news I see them. Do I think these things will be problems in the future? Yes. Is that bleak? Maybe a little. But I hope we’ll persevere. And that, my friends, is what dystopian literature is all about. Not the ugliness of our world, but the beauty of our resilience. Not the way we despair, but the fight that drives us to survive despite the circumstances.

The Glass Arrow continues on the path forged by The Handmaid’s Tale. It’s a story about female persecution, where women are reduced to their ability to conceive. Aya, the protagonist, is caught, hiding in the mountains, by a hunting party of wealthy men from the city. Like other young adult stories, the pace is quick, the stakes are high, and there is an element of romance, focusing, like in Offred’s story, on the conceptualization of Aya’s identity as a woman in a highly discriminatory world. I cannot live up to Atwood’s greatness, but I’ll tell you this: Aya doesn’t let the bastards grind her down. It is my intention, after all, that this story be about hope.

Writers write about life and truth, despite setting, despite origin, despite genre. We magnify reality through a fictional lens. So do I feel the genre is on its way out? Not really. Even if the name changes, the concepts will still exist, and somewhere, someone will write about them.

Pre-order The Glass Arrow today:
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Follow Kristen on Twitter at @kris10writes, on Facebook, or visit her website.

Knee Deep in Mud for Art’s Sake

Pacific Fire by Greg van Eekhout
By Greg van Eekhout

I almost died writing Pacific Fire. Not to be whiny or anything. But I almost died.

For the second book in the California Bones trilogy, I needed some new, weird, Californian settings, and the Salton Sea fit the bill. Formed in 1905 when engineers accidentally flooded 343 square miles of Southern California desert, the Salton Sea is an eerie slow-motion disaster. From a distance, it shimmers a lovely blue against the craggy brown foothills surrounding it. Up close, it looks like a vast toxic spill, or, as Joel K. Bourne Jr. described it in National Geographic, a lake of dark beer that smells like sulfur and rot. Bombay Beach is strewn with dead fish, and the white sand is actually the pulverized remains of older dead fish.

Salvation MountainReal estate developers in the 1950’s promised buyers a desert paradise, like Palm Springs, only with water. What’s left today are die-hards who like cheap housing and distance between them and the rest of the world. They hang on in the few communities that dot the coast, a few houses and trailers amid the rotting timbers, exposed foundations, and boom boxes and CRT computer monitors abandoned in place. There’s Slab City, an RV campsite and squatters’ colony built on the site of a decommissioned World War II Marine base. And there’s Salvation Mountain, a devotional art installation/residence painted on the side of a mountain by the late Leonard Knight.

The Salton Sea is a weird place, and a wonderful place, and an example of the amazingly wrong and foolish things Californians do when they try to plant paradise in the desert. It had to be in my book, and I had to go there. So, one morning my wife and I set out from our home in San Diego and drove the few hours from one sea to another.

Our first stop was the mud pots in Niland, a field where geothermic activity pushes hot water up through mud to form bubbling, belching, mini-volcanoes. There were a few families tromping around and peering inside the craters, and it all seemed pretty fun and safe. I mean, there were little kids sliding down the sides of the volcanoes, so how dangerous could it be? The fact that my wife thought it prudent to stay back near the car to guard it against…I don’t know, threats…meant nothing to me. I grabbed my gear, by which I mean my phone so I could take pictures, and ventured into the field.

Niland Mud PotsThe mud is actually quite beautiful: smooth and creamy gray, you can soak in it at a Palm Springs spa. I got pretty intimate with the mud. So, there I was, exploring and snapping photos, minding my own business, when I said to myself, “This footing seems a bit unstable, so better watch where I

oh god I’m sinking into the mud it is all the way up to my thigh and I can’t use my hands to get out because I am holding my expensive new phone and it is only one week old!”

That’s what I said. A nearby dad said, “See, that’s why I told you kids not to walk there.” And a nearby kid said, “He’s gonna be dirty.” And then I said, “I hate all people and things.”

Salton Sea MudSomehow, eventually, with no help from anyone, I managed to extricate myself, though I came pretty close to never being seen again by anyone except mole people. I spent the rest of the day exploring the Salton Sea with a full-leg cast of encrusted mud that one could have signed with a Sharpie if one felt so inclined. My wife managed to save my new phone by digging out mud with her Swiss Army knife, but to this day I have to attach the charger with a rubber band.

Well. That’s pretty much it. I admit I didn’t really almost die, but I was humiliated and uncomfortable, and, really, anyone would agree that’s worse than death. I guess my characters in Pacific Fire might not agree, because some of them actually die, but that’s what they get for being in one of my books.


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Gods, Philosophers, and Robots

The Just City by Jo Walton
By Jo Walton

One of the odd things about explaining what The Just City is about is people’s reactions. The Just City is a fantasy novel about a group of classicists and philosophers from across all of time setting up Plato’s Republic on Atlantis, with the help of some Greek gods, ten thousand Greek-speaking ten-year-olds they bought in the slave markets of antiquity, and some construction robots from our near future. What could possibly go wrong?

Now I get two different immediate reactions to this. The first is from people who say “That’s insane, and I want it now!” The second is from people who say they know nothing about Plato or philosophy in a kind of apologetic way, as if anything that touches on these subjects in any way would require background reading and be kind of boring. When I said I’d written a book (Among Others) about growing up in South Wales and going to boarding school in England, with fairies, absolutely nobody said “I don’t know anything about South Wales” (or fairies, or boarding school) and I don’t think it’s because they had any more background knowledge of those things, I think it’s because there’s an odd kind of cringe before things that are “high culture” and which, without knowing anything about them, many people think are superior and many people secretly think are boring. And lots of people haven’t read Plato—which seems weird to me as I have been reading Plato since I was a kid (which is why I don’t share that cultural cringe) and totally immersed in Plato for the last eighteen months. But there are lots of things I am like that about. Proust, for example. Everyone says how great Proust is, but nobody says it is fun, and I’ve never even tried to read Proust, and even now thinking about it, I shrink away a little bit and think I’d be bored.

So if Plato is, for you, what Proust is for me, first, I think Plato is fun and readable and a weird mixture of brilliantly insightful and totally insane. And The Republic is supposedly a blueprint for a utopia, but it’s really apparent to anyone reading it that it would not work in practice because human nature. And yet… Plato wrote about gender equality two thousand and four hundred years ago. He wrote about striving for excellence, and justice. And The Republic is weirdly specific about some things and just as weirdly vague about others. For the characters caught up in it, it starts to seem completely normal, but a large part of philosophy is of course about questioning everything.

What I’ve written in The Just City is a utopia. No, a dystopia. No, wait, no… no, it’s not an ambiguous heterotopia either. But it’s about a designed society, and about human nature, and consent, and questioning. It’s about two women (and one god) growing up.

I had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope you’ll have fun reading it.


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Three Ekphrastic Dialogues; or NO DUAL WIELDING UNTIL BOOK THREE

The Providence of Fire by Brian Staveley
By Brian Staveley

Setting: Book One of the Epic Trilogy

In the first scene the WRITER is bright-eyed, fresh-faced, and recently showered, perhaps even wearing a jaunty blazer. The CHARACTER looks confused, wary, even a little frightened.

Character: Hey! Who are you?
Writer: I’m the writer. I made up your world. I made you up.
C: That’s impossible.
W: Amazing, right? But it’s true. That beard you have–I put it there. That mysterious dude over there–the one in the black cloak; I made him up. That suspicious ancient ruin; I made that up, too.
C: Whoa. Why don’t I…know more stuff? Why don’t I have a better sword? Why can’t I do anything awesome?
W: Like what?
C: I don’t know. Call down a rain of fire on my foes. Maybe I could defeat a dozen knights single-handed?
W: Nice try, kid. This is book one. You can’t be too cool yet. Gotta leave room to grow.
C: Can I at least shave this stupid beard? It itches.
W: Nope.
C: You’re an asshole.
W: Good! You have spirit! You’re starting to get a life of your own!
C: If I have a life of my own, why can’t I shave my…hey! HEY! What the hell just happened?
W: Your house burned down. That guy in the black cloak did it.
C: You made him do it.
W: Sorry. Needed an inciting incident.
C: Well who the hell is he?
W: No way. This is book one. You don’t get to know that. I might not even know that.
C: I think I hate you.
W: Just don’t lose that spirit.

Setting: Book Two of the Epic Trilogy

The WRITER looks more disheveled than last time–slightly twitchy, slightly confused. The CHARACTER has a larger sword now. His hand rests comfortably on the pommel.

Character: I shaved my beard.
Writer: No! That’s not until…Fuck it. Fine. I’ve got other problems to deal with.
C: Also, that asshole in the black cloak. The one who burned down my house. He’s Algar Ka, the Dread Lord.
W: What? No. He’s not. He is most definitely not.
C: He totally is. It’s obvious. Should I kill him?
W: Of course you shouldn’t kill him! Are you insane? This is only book two. You’re not even supposed to know who he is yet.
C: Well I know who he is. He’s right there, and he’s not looking. I’m going to stick him with the sword.
W: NO! What do you think we’re going to do in book three? Eat lasagna and watch cartoons for six hundred pages?
C: Here goes…Wait. What just happened?
W: He’s gone.
C: What do you mean, gone?
W: Whisked away by a greater power.
C: By which you mean you. [Shakes head] Fine. Can I do something else awesome? Maybe I’ll defeat those lizard men over there.
W: Fine, fight the damn lizard men, but you can’t be too awesome.
C: Check out this double-sword flip attack…
W: NO. No dual-wielding in book two. No flips in book two. Did you forget that there’s a whole other book after this? Can you please make this fight look difficult? It would actually be ideal if it looked perfectly commensurate with your growing confidence and abilities.
C: Sounds contrived.
W: DO NOT SAY CONTRIVED. Ginny said contrived.
C: Who’s Ginny?
W: I don’t know. Someone on Twitter. She didn’t like book one.
C: Whatever. Contrived. I said it. This is contrived…Ouch! What the hell was that?
W: Lizard man spear. In your leg.
C: The lizard men don’t have spears, you asshole.
W: That one did. Anyway, it’s book two. You needed to suffer a setback. There you go. Setback. Now go get the mysterious cloaked guy.
C: You mean Algar…
W: [Singing loudly] MYSTERY! MYSTERIOUS!
C: I know who he is…
W: Shut up and get him.
C: Where is he?
W: [Whistles innocently] Other end of the continent.
C: The other end of the…why?
W: This is book two. You need to do some walking. Everybody walks a lot in book two.
C: I really hate you.

Setting: Book Three of the Epic Fantasy Trilogy

The WRITER looks crazed, even a little demented. Hair is unwashed. Clothes are unwashed. There is a coffee pot filled with stale pizza crusts next to the computer monitor. The CHARACTER, on the other hand, has never looked better. The leg is healed, leaving a nasty scar that does nothing to slow him down. His stare is so hard it might have been hammered out on an anvil.

C: Ah, the Golden Western Sea. Almost as impressive as the Mountains of Night.
W: What? You saw the Mountains of Night?
C: [Patiently] Yes. Chapter twenty-two of Book Two. I defeated the Ice Demons there?
W: Right. Shit! [Scribbles madly on a notecard while muttering] He already saw the Ice Demons? That means none of this works. This whole chapter doesn’t work!
C: Hey, there’s an evil army over there.
W: What? Who are they?
C: You let them loose in Book Two. Said something about needing to set-up the big, set-piece battle.
W: Holy hell, I did. But….
C: Don’t worry, I’m on it.
W: You’re going to attack the army alone?
C: Sure–I got the blessing of the goddess. Plus this orcish gizmo that fits on here, like this. Plus, double battle-axes.
C: It’s book three.
W: What?
C: I said, it’s book three. I can dual wield now. I can do all the stuff now.
W: [Reverently, to self] It’s book three. We can do all the stuff.
C: There. I routed that evil army. Wait, what is that?
W: [Cackling madly] ANOTHER EVIL ARMY! It’s book three!
C: [Sighs. Annihilates second evil army.] Now what?
W: Kiss your love interest!
C: Did that in book two.
W: Right. Right! Have sex with your love interest! Here–have a whole chapter, just for that.
C: Cool….
W: Now fight these guys!
C: I’m still….
W: Now fight those guys!
C: Fine….
W: Destroy that fortress.
C: Don’t you think there’s been enough violence?
C: Good point. Done. You want me to get Algar Ka now?
C: I think you need to take a break.
C: I’m unleashing the ancient powers.
C: Done.
W: [Reeling.] Done?
C: It’s done. I did it. I won.
W: We won.
C: Well, you went sorta crazy while I did the work, but yes. Now I want to eat lasagna and snuggle my love interest. You should get some sleep.
W: Sleep? [Shakes head slowly, in a daze.] No sleep. I need to start on the PREQUEL.
C: I hate you.


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What We’re Reading This Holiday Season

We all have it—the book you bought ages ago, that you’ve been meaning to read forever. But for some reason, you haven’t gotten around to it. Either you haven’t been in quite the right mood, or you know you’re going to need a real stretch of uninterrupted reading time. Now that the holidays are almost here, you know exactly what you’re going to do with your free time: sit down and finally read that book.

For our last newsletter of 2014, we thought we’d share our list with you. So here are a selection of Tor staffers talking about the books they’ll be reading over the holidays:
Wizard of Earthsea
Mordicai Knode, Sales Coordinator: Last year I finally filled a massive gap in my reading: Ursula K. Le Guin. I read The Dispossessed early in December and it, frankly, stunned me with just how amazing it was. I spent the rest of the month and into the next reading every one of her “Hainish Cycle” of science-fiction books. All treasures. This vacation I’m going to flip the coin to the other side and read her fantasy. Wizard of Earthsea and the rest, that’s my binge reading plan for the holidays. I’m very excited about it.

Becky Yeager, Advertising and Promotions Coordinator: I can’t wait to read Saga: Volume 4 by Brian Vaughan and illustrated by Fiona Staples. I spend months dodging spoilers because I prefer to read the collected volumes rather than suffering through the single issues. (Those who can endure cliffhanger after cliffhanger are braver souls than I.)

Ancillary Justice
Cassie Ammerman, Digital Marketing Manager: I’m almost ashamed to admit this, because I’ve recommended this book to a few people. I start reading it multiple times, but I never actually finished it. I’ve always had a good excuse—I forgot to pack it for my trip to Europe; I had to put it down to read a book for work; I wasn’t in the mood for science fiction right then (okay, so that’s not really a good excuse, but it’s an excuse). So, this holiday season, I’m going to sit down and read Ancillary Justice, by Ann Leckie. I’m going to finish it this time, and then I’m going to pick up Ancillary Sword and read that too!

Patty Garcia, Director of Publicity: I received an ARC and a finished copy of Martian by Andy Weir and it’s still on the top of my to-read pile. I am definitely going to dig in over the break. And like Cassie, I also hope to get my mitts on Ancillary Justice. Can’t. Wait.

EnchantressMelissa Ann Singer, Senior Editor: I had the great good fortune to be raised by parents who read science fiction and fantasy and comics…and the further good fortune that the children’s librarian at my local public library loved SF/F and was on a mission to fill the children’s department (and the teen department, which she basically created around 1970) with a wide range of science fiction and fantasy. Through her, I discovered Lloyd Alexander and John Christopher and Ursula K. Le Guin and Suzette Haden Elgin and many more. A few weeks ago, at a used book sale, my heart skipped a beat at the sight of a copy of Enchantress From the Stars by Sylvia Louise Engdahl, with cover art by the Dillons. This was not the edition I read (which had a white cover, iirc), but I can’t have been more than 10 or 11 years old the first time I read that book, and seeing it in a box—where it was the only SF/F title—gave me a pang. So I bought it (for a whole dollar), and it’s sitting on my coffee table at home. While I read it several times in my early teens, I haven’t read it since, and part of me is afraid that it won’t have the magic I remember. But I’m going to read it again anyway, hoping to recapture the sense of wonder I felt back then, when I was a fairly newly-minted SF/F fan and had so much to discover.

Leah Withers, Publicist: I’ll be reading Tolkien’s The Silmarillion because there’s nothing like cold snowy days to curl up and dig into orc wars and elf legends!

It Happened on WashingtonStuart J. Miller, Senior Sales & Publisher Administration Manager: For the last several months I’ve been on a reading fixation consisting of books about New York City local history. Awaiting my attention for this holiday season is this wonderful book published by Johns Hopkins University Press titled It Happened on Washington Square by Emily Kies Folpe. It is a narrative history of the last 125 years of events in Greenwich Village in the vicinity of Washington Square Park. It covers art, literature, social history and government.

When I’m done with that…or perhaps before reading that, I plan to jump into another New York centric book about the conception and ultimate building of the gorgeous new High Line Pedestrian Walkway and mall in lower Manhattan. This book, entitled High Line: The Inside Story of New York’s Park in the Sky by Joshua David, is stuffed with photos and memorabilia about the famous Hy Line elevated railroad that delivered goods and produce to a growing New York from the 1930s right up until 1980 when the rail line was completely abandoned. The whole line was scheduled to be demolished within several years from then, but was saved by a group of preservationists. I’ve got my engineer’s cap all ready to don when I read this!

Whitney Ross, Editor: I absolutely loved Illona Andrew’s short story “Of Swine and Roses,” and am thrilled that there is a new book set in that world. I’ll definitely be reading Burn for Me over Thanksgiving—if I can wait that long! Others on my list include Kelley Armstrong’s newest Cainsville novel, Visions, Patrick Rothfuss’s Kingkiller novella The Slow Regard of Silent Things, and finally reading The Lies of Locke Lamora. I’ve heard such good things!

web_brown-m-luttrell-psalter-facsimilePatrick Nielsen Hayden, Executive Editor: The Luttrell Psalter is a medieval illuminated manuscript created between 1320 and 1345 by an unknown group of scribes and artists under the sponsorship of Sir Geoffrey Luttrell of Lincolnshire (1276-1345). Its over 300 leaves have survived to the modern era in a state of excellent preservation, and it’s one of the prize manuscripts on display at the British Library. It’s of particular interest to modern people because its pages are replete not only with images of everyday fourteenth-century rural life—animals, daily work, festivals, and so forth—but also with fantastic monsters and beasts, many of them extravagant and even downright comical. At times the Psalter’s sensibility seems impossibly modern, like a brilliant graphic novel that just happens to have been set down on vellum nearly seven hundred years ago. To see what I mean, just type “Luttrell Psalter” into Google Images, and prepare to be amazed. So anyway, the book I’m looking forward to finishing is Mirror in Parchment: The Luttrell Psalter and the Making of Medieval England by Michael Camille, a chewy, detailed study of the Psalter that sets its imagery into the context of the gentry and feudal life of its day. With, naturally, hundreds of illustrations.

Miriam Weinberg, Assistant Editor: While I love being an editor, I do long for the days of uninhibited reading, where I could be the first to devour new novels, instead of looking at beloved acquired ARCs/hardcovers languishing wherever I stashed them. So, for this holiday season, I plan to dive back into my pile and gorge myself (you don’t even know if I’m referring to pies or books, now). For the post-Christmas week, I’m hoping to finally read The Paying Guests (I love Sarah Waters and I delight in reading thick gothics/historical literary fiction while it snows outside), and I’ll probably pack City of Stairs or Dreams of Gods and Monsters, and load my e-reader with submissions! I’m also hoping to read The Laughing Monsters, Ways of Going Home, and Lila, all latest releases from non-SFF authors to whom I’m partial.


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Learning the Language of Noir

Something More Than Night by Ian Tregillis
By Ian Tregillis

“The law was something to be manipulated for profit and power. The streets were dark with something more than night.” —Raymond Chandler, Trouble is My Business

Something More Than Night was simultaneously the hardest and the easiest book I’ve written. I’ve never had more fun as a writer.

The seed rattled through the dark dusty corners of my mind for almost two decades before it took root. I wanted to tell a story set inside a medieval depiction of Heaven, populated by the strange and terrifying creatures of the angelic choir. Cherubim, Seraphim, Thrones, Dominions, and the rest: a menagerie pulled from a madman’s bestiary.

The idea needed water and sunlight. For years, it received neither. Until I speculated that one of the characters might speak in the antique argot of a noir detective. Bayliss, my fallen angel, was born.

But if he was to walk down those mean streets among dames, loogans, molls, and jaspers, I’d have to become fluent. Not only with the genre’s delicious language, but also its conventions. So I spent a year studying the works of writers such as James M. Cain, Dashiell Hammett, and, of course, Raymond Chandler.

At first I feared I’d burdened myself with a tedious research assignment. Instead, it was a joy—and it led me to discover one of my favorite writers. Raymond Chandler truly was one of the great American writers of the 20th century. His Philip Marlowe novels transcended the genre. Marlowe’s descriptions of the world around him are always perfect, yet unique as a fingerprint. (My favorite appears in The Long Goodbye: “The girl gave him a look which ought to have stuck four inches from his back.” Wow!)

To get a handle on the complicated, colorful language of the genre, I read widely—pencil in hand—noting every unfamiliar word. In the course of mastering Bayliss’s patter, I built a noir slang glossary containing over 750 definitions. (I’ve posted the glossary on my website.) Hard work, but the book would have been impossible to write otherwise.

In contrast, plotting the book was a snap. Chandler himself plotted stories like a toddler sticking Lego blocks together. He had a set number of plot blocks, and for each book he’d just grab a random handful and cram them together. Thus the recurring events and themes in Marlowe’s adventures: “Marlowe Finds A Dead Body.” “Marlowe Meets A Woman With A Secret.” “Marlowe Gets Grilled By The Bulls.” “Mistaken Identity.” (Certain blocks, such as the old standby, “Marlowe Gets Knocked Out,” occasionally appear more than once.) So while mastering the language was a formidable task, mastering the plot conventions was not. I merely followed the formula established by my betters.

The Marlowe novels are steeped in their time; they touch racism and anti-Semitism. Plus they’re unremittingly sexist from end to end, with paper-thin characterizations that relegate every female character into one of only three narrow categories. (Which happens to be true of much of the genre.)

Refuting that tedious genre convention became the heart of the novel. If I was going to put a “dame” in the story—and a noir pastiche practically demands it—she’d be an actual human being. So I paired Bayliss with Molly Pruett: a modern woman with no patience for his shtick or the angels’ belligerence. She doesn’t fret quietly and wait for rescue, nor is she a conniving sexpot with a heart of ice. She’s something else entirely. She’s smart, strong, and bold.

But, then again, she is the hero.


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