World Building

No matter what genre of story you are writing, it needs a place to be.  A world.  An environment.  A milieu (I realise that I'm being a little pretentious using that word, but I can't help it). This can be as simple as a small room, to as complex as a galaxy spanning empire.  Irrespective of the style, you still have to put the story somewhere.  A story, unless you are really talented and creative, won't do very well in a formless void.

Some genre's, like historical fiction, already have world pre-made in which they exist.  This doesn't mean there is less work involved than a complete fantasy world, however.  In historical fiction, you need to research the time period you are writing in in order to maintain authenticity.  In a fantasy/sci-fi setting, you may not have to do as much research, but you have to create every aspect of the world(s) you are working in.  Otherwise, you might run into inconsistencies that will really annoy your readers.

If you want an example of inconsistencies in a science fiction setting, pick up a copy of The Nitpicker's Guide for Classic Trekkers by by Phil Farrand.  In it, he breaks down the original series and points out all the inconsistencies in the science and universe of Star Trek.  Of course, this just covers the television series.  One can only imagine what has happened with the book series.  Unless you are working with a group of authors on a massive world, like Star Trek, Star Wars, or the Forgotten Realms, your world is your own.  You won't be able to blame inconsistencies on other writers.

Before you panic and think that you have to spend hours world building, it isn't necessary to create your entire world before you can start writing.  However, it's probably a good idea to have some idea of the environment your characters are going to live in before you start writing.  Some of it you can create as you write, while some you'll have to preset.  Of course, things can change as you write, so don't feel that what you have set at the beginning is set in stone.

'Till next time.

Albatross!

One of my favorite words is "Albatross".  The first time I heard it was a Monty Python skit where I guy was trying to sell an albatross.  He was walking around with this gigantic "dead" bird yelling, "Albatross!  Allll-batross!"  He sold it to another person who then turned around and tried it sell it himself.  It was one of those things that just stuck in my head.  Every time I encounter writing that I think is ungainly and isn't going anywhere, I think of that skit.

I've used that term to describe an essay that my sister was writing for college.  It was huge, ungainly, and I could tell that she wasn't really interested in writing it.  She took a step back and ended up re-writing a majority of the essay, which turned out to be quite good.  Well, up to this point, I never used that term to describe something I had written.  That was, until I started going through all the feedback I had on Goobasaurus Dex.

It isn't that the people in my reading circle don't like it; it is just that there seems to be a consensus that it isn't where it needs to be.  The feeling of an albatross hanging from my neck is my own.  I feel that it is turning into something huge and ungainly and I need to take a step back and re-evaluate where I want to go and what I want to do with it.  Some radical changes need to be made and it may end up being more than just a simple picture book.  As I told a friend, I felt that maybe I was trying to cram it into a format that it wasn't meant to be.  That would explain why I felt it was turning into an Albatross.

So, the next thing I need to do is take a step back, leave it on the back burner, and let my back brain chew on it while I focus on something else.  I did a little of that with my second story, "Sir Grumpsalot".  With that one, I ended up deleting over half of it and rewriting the ending.  I ended up with a much better story as a result.  Goobasaurus Dex may take more time to figure out than Sir Grumpsalot did.  We'll see.  I've got another story to focus on that I'm really excited about, plus an upcoming creative writing class to focus on.

The story in question is called "The Forgotten Arch" and I am planning on submitting it to a competition through Lulu.com for National Writing Month (which is November).  I have till the end of the month to upload it to their service and enter it.  I don't expect to win anything, but you never know.  I've had a lot of good feedback from everyone in my reading circle so I'm positive that I am going in the right direction.  The last time Lulu.com did a competition for National Writing Month, it was for full length novels and they had 30,000 submissions.  Whether I win anything or not, the important thing is that I am taking the chance.

So, some negatives on one front, but positives on another.

Till next time.

Sometimes You Can't Avoid a Story

Before I started blogging, I was using Google Docs to organize my thoughts and ideas. I still use it. It's very useful. Now that I'm blogging, I can use it for the more formal writing that blogging can't handle. As with all things, it has its purpose.

It was during a flash of inspiration that the following story came to me. It wasn't that I wanted to write it, I had to write it. The story wouldn't go away and the more I thought about ignoring it, the more my mind started to develop it. I titled the story "Rage". It is by no means autobiographical in nature, but it does come from a very dark place. My father's rage was a focal point of my life growing up and there were many times that I felt the fear that young Martin (the protagonist) feels.

I don't know if I could ever write this story beyond what I have done. The glimpses that I have had of it scare me. It is not a happy story. So, without further adieu, here is "Rage".

Martin’s father slowly stood up. His face twisted with rage, his fists clenched and white knuckled. Martin stared into his father’s eyes and saw only hate. Martin carefully backed up, terror etched across his face. He had to get out. If he didn't, he was sure his father would kill him. It was that knowledge that kept him moving.

Without warning his father leapt, his lips pulled back in a snarl. Martin dodged quickly to his left and down the hall. Pain exploded through Martin’s head as his father’s fist grazed the back of his scalp. He stumbled down the hall; his eyes blurry with tears, the outside door his only salvation. If he could get to the door, he could escape. His father wouldn't follow him out into the light. Then they would know what he was.

Just as he reached the door, he felt his father’s hand close on the back of his jacket. His father barked with triumph. Panic roared through Martin. He deftly slipped from his jacket and burst into the cool October afternoon. Without a pause, he jumped the steps to the concrete walkway. Pain lanced through his ankle as he landed. He tucked into a roll that carried him out the front gate. He was free!

Martin lay on the ground for a moment, gasping from the exertion, his heart racing with fear. He gingerly stood up and faced the open doorway where his father hid in the shadows. Even from the safety of the street, Martin could feel his father’s unrelenting malignance. For a second, Martin thought his father would brave the light of day and show the world his darkness. Instead, he closed the door. His body shaking with adrenaline, Martin slowly turned and limped up the street.