Story

Can an action story have too much action?

/ T W Iain / Leave a comment

I’m currently reading, and enjoying, Joshua James’ Lucky’s Marines series. Lost of action, snarky dialogue, a story-line with loads of twists, and intriguing tech. It’s the kind of stuff I love to read for pure entertainment.

But I had an issue with the first story, Lucky Universe. The start is strong and intriguing‌—‌a marine coming out of some kind of deep-freeze sleep state in time for an imminent mission, with his internal AI updating him on the situation. Then we’re off, into the mission. Of course, it doesn’t go as planned, and the characters are thrown from one fight to another, from one action sequence to the next. Each time they think they’ve escaped, there’s a new problem for them to encounter (which usually involves lots of shooting and fighting).

The book’s solid action. There’s no let-up.

And that’s my problem with it.

There’s a technique in writing/storytelling that’s often referred to as ‘scene and sequel’. This states that after an action scene, there needs to be a ‘sequel’, a moment where the characters (and the reader) can catch their breath. After a barrage of stuff happening, there needs to be a time to process it.

This doesn’t have to be a long-winded debrief from a mission. It could even take place while action rages all around‌—‌imagine a couple of characters escaping an advancing army and holing up in an abandoned building. There’s still the risk of them being found, and they’ll have to rejoin the battle sooner or later, but for the moment they can pause, reflect on their situation. It might be for a few hours in story-time, it might only be a minute or so.

The action doesn’t have to be fights and battles, either. In a drama, the action will be events unfolding, and character actions that deepen the plot. But after each surprising, dramatic event (or after a few of them), the characters need to take stock, if only for a moment. This might be through internal contemplation, or it might be through dialogue. But without these moments, the story runs the risk of being too full-on.

It’s similar to a well-constructed roller-coaster. If you like coasters, you’re drawn to the twists and turns, to the drops and the inversions. But all coasters have their quieter moments. There’s the crawl to the top of the first hill, building the tension. There could well be slower sections, giving a false sense of security, tricking the rider into believing their near the end, before plunging them into the next ‘event’.

Roller-coasters and action stories are designed to be ‘breath-taking’, to literally leave the rider or reader short of breath. In a well-crafted action sequence, the reader might even hold their breath. But this isn’t sustainable. There have to be moments to breathe‌—‌for the reader, for the characters, and for the story.

Lucky Universe, for me, didn’t have nearly enough of these moments. While I appreciated the action itself, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to read another eight books like this.

Thankfully, from the second book onward, the action is interspersed with calmer moments. These are often when the characters are travelling to the next battle (so there’s still tension in these ‘sequels’), but at least there’s time to slow down. And this helps the plot‌—‌in the midst of action, it’s far too easy to lose track of what’s happening, so the quieter moments can help explain what’s going on.

Scene and sequel. It’s something to remember in my own writing‌—‌break up the action with quieter moments. Full-on action can leave the reader disorientated, but having moments of relative calm helps give the reader a more memorable ride.

Weaving a story – Neal Asher’s ‘Gridlinked’

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Gridlinked is the first Neal Asher book I’ve read (even though I’ve been aware of his name for some time now, and have had the book sitting on my kindle for a couple of years). It’s a great read. Asher combines a detailed, realistic world with a plot that is in turns mystery, thriller and suspense. And it’s the development of this story that was, for me, the stand-out feature of this book.

At the start, this felt like a standard thriller-style book. We kick off with a disaster in space, and it’s fairly clear that this will be the root of the investigation to follow. We then move to the end of Cormac’s previous mission, where he’s forced to kill a terrorist. This shows us his strength, both physically and emotionally‌—‌he doesn’t flinch from violence‌—‌as well as hinting at personal problems that might play out later in the story. But the death has ramifications too‌—‌the dead terrorist’s brother wants revenge.

Asher gives us point-of-view scenes of the brother, Pelter, as he plans the murder of Cormac. And this is where the book becomes more of a suspense story. The pace slows, but the tension increases. As Cormac continues his investigation, we (the reader) are aware of the coming danger from Pelter, can see Cormac walking into possible traps. Yes, there are still action set-pieces, but it isn’t a full-on adrenaline rush now (although the pace does increase when Cormac’s and Pelter’s paths converge).

Asher has more twists lined up as more side-characters take on larger roles. There’s Stanton, one of Pelter’s close companions. Through Stanton’s point-of-view scenes we learn that he’s growing uncertain about Pelter, and wants to escape by killing the terrorist and taking his money. There’s Jarvellis, smuggler and love interest to Stanton, a character who initially appears fairly inconsequential, but who (through her relationship with Stanton) becomes a farm more major player as events unfold.

Then there’s Dragon, an alien creature/biological machine. Dragon has influence over both main strands of the story (Cormac’s investigation and Pelter’s vengeance mission), but we get no point-of-view scenes from Dragon. The creatures is manipulative, and can’t be trusted. Now, along with the known dangers to Cormac (mainly in the form of Pelter), we have an unknown quantity. It adds another layer of tension, another mystery to confound things. It means that we can no longer accurately anticipate what’s going to happen.

If this is sounding complicated, it isn’t. At least, not the way Asher weaves these strands together.

I don’t know anything about Asher’s writing process, whether he plans first or writes what comes to mind and then pieces the story together, but there’s clearly been a lot of work gone into the editing of this story. There are diversions that initially feel unnecessary (yet are still interesting), but their importance becomes clear later on. Asher keeps facts hidden until just the right moment, when they will have the greatest impact.

It’s a reminder that convoluted stories are painstaking works, that the puzzles need to be worked out in detail, that the order of events is of vital importance. Creating a story like this can’t be a case of starting at point A and writing through to the end. Even if Asher did plan the story out before writing his first draft, I’m sure he moved things around, added scenes, scrapped others.

Gridlinked, when looked at through the lens of story structure, is a reminder that actual writing is only a part of the creation of an effective story.

Always have variety in scenes? Agatha Christie and repetition.

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Repetition leads to boredom. Even high-adrenaline action can become draining if we don’t have time to slow down occasionally.

One common piece of writing advice is to mix up scene types. If one scene has two characters talking in an office, the next scene should have more action. If one scene concentrates on a single character, the next should focus on a group. Scenes should move between different, varying locations.

Then there is ‘scene and sequel’‌—‌after a burst of action, the next scene should involve the characters processing what they’ve just been through. There should be a mixture of movement and dialogue, of open reflection and private musing.

In short, readers appreciate variety.

So how come Agatha Christie, in Murder On The Orient Express, has over half the book consisting of Poirot asking characters questions in the dining car of a train?

Cover of Agatha Christie's Murder On The Orient Express

After the set-up and crime, we’re presented with a whole series of chapters all titled ‘The Evidence Of…’, followed by a character’s name or title. In these, Poirot asks each character similar questions to ones he’s asked others. Even when the action moves to various other carriages and rooms in the second half of the book, it soon returns to Poirot’s interviews in the dining car.

Despite this repetition‌—‌of setting and of action‌—‌the story keeps moving forward. As I read the book, I never felt bored. In fact, I was eager to hear how the next character would respond to Poirot, and how they’d answer his repeated questions.

How does Christie pull this off?

There are a couple of considerations here. The first is genre. Murder On The Orient Express is a mystery, and mysteries are puzzles. The enjoyment in these books comes from trying to solve the case before the detective does‌—‌and when we fail to do this, there’s the enjoyment of finally seeing how all the pieces fit together anyway. In order to solve the puzzle, we as readers need information. We need to learn as much about the case as we can. So as Poirot asks similar questions to each character, we’re looking at their responses, trying to decipher their unsaid meanings, trying to see what others have missed. We live these scenes through the detective, wanting to beat them at their own game.

The second consideration is this‌—‌mysteries like this are about people, not fast-paced action. We don’t read a Poirot story to experience a high-speed chase, or to have the sedate Belgian detective fight for his life. Yes, there’s action in Murder On The Orient Express, but it’s ‘soft’ action, very downplayed. The train grinds to a halt because of snow. There’s a murder, but it happens off-page‌—‌we only see the aftermath. There might be conflict between the characters, but rather than show fights Christie will give hints‌—‌subtle clues that Poirot (and the observant reader) will pick up on.

The ‘action’ is small stuff‌—‌a stumble when answering a question, a glance to one side before answering another. And by keeping so much of each scene the same (or similar), Christie allows readers to focus (if they can) on these tiny clues, just as Poirot does. The repetition highlights differences. And it is these differences that keep the reader engaged.

Christie knows exactly what she’s doing. The mystery is a ‘closed-room’ one, so the limited settings pull us tighter into the real story‌—‌who the characters are, their motives and their actions. The variety here isn’t in action or setting. It’s more intimate than that. Too much variety in setting and action would drown out the important stuff.

And Christie pulls it off like the master she was. As with all skilled storytellers, she knows the rules of writing and‌—‌more importantly‌—‌knows exactly how and when to apply them.

Play safe or take risks? John Scalzi’s Old Man’s War series

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There are, very roughly, two types of series. First, there’s the on-going arc, where the end of one story feeds into the start of the next and it’s necessary to experience the individual books in order. Examples of this would be The Hunger Games or The Wheel Of Time. Then there’s the ‘adventure of the week’ series, where a character (or cast of characters) take part in a new adventure in each story. Lots of mystery and detective series have this format‌—‌think Inspector Morse, Miss Marple, Jack Reacher. Series like these don’t need to be experienced in order, because each story is a stand-alone.

Of course, there are variations. An ‘adventure of the week’ series might include character arcs and story arcs that slowly develop over several stories (an example might be The X-FIles). An on-going arc series might include side-stories that exist as their own thing (think of the relationship between Rogue One and Solo, and the rest of the Star Wars films).

But in any series, there is usually some kind of continuity, in character, story and style.

Style? Yes. It’s important. Expectations set in one book shouldn’t be cast aside in the next.

Let’s take Star Wars as an example. The first film is full of action. If the sequel had focused on political machinations within the rebellion, with action played out predominantly off-screen, fans of the first would feel betrayed. Another example‌—‌imagine how readers would feel if a new Jack Reacher book turned out to be a slapstick farce, or had Reacher battling aliens. Or what if a new Hercule Poirot story portrayed him as an action hero fighting terrorists?

For a series to satisfy fans, it can’t afford to stray too far from the promises and expectations set in the opening.

Of course, there are always story-tellers who take risks. Think of the Alien franchise‌—‌the original film was a claustrophobic horror, whereas the second was a military action film. But there were enough similarities‌—‌enough continuity‌—‌for fans of the first to accept and enjoy the second.

I was reminded of this when reading John Scalzi’s Old Man’s War series. If I understand things correctly, this started off as a stand-alone book (Old Man’s War), became a trilogy, and then grew into a six-book series. What I find fascinating is how Scalzi makes each book different yet still managed to tell an over-riding story.

The first book is a military adventure, following the 75-year-old John Perry as he is given a new body and becomes a soldier for the Colonial Defense Force. But the second book, The Ghost Brigades, is a mystery story, and only mentions Perry a couple of times. It still follows on from events in the first book, and is still written in a similar style, but there are many differences between the two books.

Scalzi took a big risk here. If readers of the first book wanted more of Perry, they’d be disappointed. A fan of the military aspects of Old Man’s War could feel let down by the change of focus in The Ghost Brigades.

And in the third book, The Last Colony, Scalzi changes things up again. Perry returns as the main character, but now he’s leading a new colony, and the story focuses on the politics involved in his new role. Again, same story universe, different type of story.

But it works. There’s an over-riding arc to this trilogy, a through-story that binds them together.

Scalzi, from his notes at the end of the third book, intended to stop the series at this point. But he received questions about certain aspects of The Last Colony, and he wrote a fourth book. This is Zoe’s Tale. Again, he took a fresh approach. Zoe’s Tale is a retelling of The Last Colony, but from the point of view of Perry’s adopted daughter.

While I admire Scalzi for pushing himself here, I have to admit that this book didn’t work for me. Reading it straight after The Last Colony, the repetition of events bored me. Yes, there are a couple of new sequences, both important to the overall story, but that only covers about fifty pages. I also wasn’t convinced by his portrayal of the teenage girl.

This is only my personal opinion. Reviews suggest that others love Zoe’s Tale. But it was with trepidation that I started on the next book, The Human Division.

And I think this might be my favourite of the series.

Once again, Scalzi takes a different approach. By now, the overarching story has grown from that initial old man’s tale, and it now encompasses many planets and hundreds of alien species. The story is epic. But rather than write an ‘epic’, Scalzi focuses in on tiny details.

He does this by using short stories. Yes, the fifth book in the series is a collection of shorts. But they’re all tightly connected. They’re chronological, and they fit together like a jigsaw.

Scalzi could have combined all these stories into a single multi-faceted narrative, but I don’t think it would have worked. Some of the slighter arcs would have become lost. And the sheer fun in some of these tales would have been lost if they’d been mixed in with all the serious stuff.

The final book, The End Of All Things, uses a similar idea, but this time the book consists of four connected novellas. And it works very well‌—‌the novellas are long enough to sink into, and when taken together they give a fitting conclusion to the larger story.

Could Scalzi have written Old Man’s War as a straight-forward narrative? Possibly. Would it have been better or worse that way? I don’t know. Even in his serious moments, there’s a playfulness about Scalzi’s writing, and the changes in story style throughout this series are another aspect of that playfulness. He’s one of those authors whose willingness to try new things is a part of the appeal. Fans pick up a new book unsure what to expect. If it’s too similar to something he’s done before, they’re likely to be disappointed.

Which means this approach to writing a series wouldn’t work for every author. But it works for Scalzi. And it serves as an example that writers don’t have to stick to what is expected. Yes, experimentation doesn’t always work‌—‌but when it does, it gives something far more memorable than anything ‘safe’.

Works well on screen, but not in print

/ T W Iain / Leave a comment

It’s a classic shot in horror films‌—‌the main character walks away, and the camera pans over to the figure hiding in the shadows. Then there’s the mirror the next victim doesn’t look in, and so they miss the face in the glass. There’s a storm outside, but our heroes never see the hideous face at the window in the next flash of lightning. Or the monitor system that shows nothing untoward‌—‌until the main character looks away.

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I’m sure you’ve seen other variations, in many films and TV shows. The observer unseen by the hero, the monster only we, the viewer, are aware of. It heightens the tension, gets us screaming at the screen, increases our pulse.

It’s a classic visual storytelling technique.

Note that I say visual technique. Like many film techniques, it doesn’t necessarily translate to the written word.

This has been brought to my attention in a couple of horror books I’ve read recently. One had a supposedly dead crew-member move in the image on a monitor‌—‌but only when two other characters had looked away. And the other had many scenes where characters were unable to see the ghosts following them, or even the ones standing right in front of them.

Both these books had engaging stories, and I enjoyed them‌—‌except for these moments that pulled me out of the books. Rather than increasing the sensation of fear they were supposed to evoke, they had me rolling my eyes.

But why? If the technique can be effective in film, why doesn’t it translate well to the page?

I can think of two main reasons.

The first involves point-of-view.

Most books stick to a single point-of-view throughout. Some go with first person, where everything is described as if being narrated by the protagonist (I spun around as something screeched outside, but all I could see in the glass was my own startled reflection.) Others use third person (He spun around to stare at his reflection.)

It gets more involved, of course. There are different degrees of third person pov (point-of-view). There’s the ‘god-like’ style, where the narrator knows everything, and doesn’t shy away from telling the reader. (When he spun around, he saw only his reflection, not the creature on the other side of the glass, the same one that had already tasted blood and wanted more of it.) This takes particular skill to pull off, because it automatically distances the reader from the characters.

An alternative, somewhere between this wide-angle third person pov and the intimate first person pov, is close (or limited) third person, where the narrator/writer describes what is happening, but limits that to the experiences of a particular character. This is probably the most popular point-of-view in modern books. The example of third-person above would fit here, but could be extended to include the character’s thoughts and feelings (He spun around to stare at his reflection, and the hollow pit in his stomach grew. For a moment he didn’t recognise his own features.)

Those examples aren’t brilliant writing, but you get the idea.

So what does this have to do with the ‘unseen observer’ film technique?

If a book is written in close third, then the only things that can be described are what the point of view character experiences (sees, hears, and so on). If something happens that they’re not aware of, it can’t be described. So if they close a door as they leave a room, unaware of the dark creature lurking in the door’s shadow, then the reader can’t know about this either.

So in close third, the reader shouldn’t see the face in the shadows, or the ghosts that are invisible to the point-of-view character. And when these things are described, it breaks point-of-view.

Does this matter? Isn’t this just a technicality? Maybe. But even if readers don’t know about point-of-view, they may well feel that something’s not quite right. The book just doesn’t hit home for them, although there’s nothing they can put their finger on.

There’s certain implied contracts between writer and reader. This includes promises the writer makes at the start of a story, but it also includes the style of story-telling. Changing point-of-view, unless done with great skill, breaks this contract‌—‌and so breaks the ‘reality’ of the story.

I said there were two reasons these ‘unseen observer’ passages didn’t work for me, and the second is harder to explain. Please bear with me.

Many (maybe most) writers think visually. We’re used to seeing the world around us, and are so accustomed to visual storytelling (in films and TV) that this should come as no surprise. So when we create stories, we often see them as mini-movies playing out in our imaginations. Even the dialogue is accompanied by facial expressions and other movements (which is why a straight transcription of imagined dialogue often fails to live up to the ‘reality’ in our heads.)

I’m pretty sure the writers of those two books (the ones with the passages that pulled me from the story) imagined these reveals in visual terms‌—‌the camera slowly zooming in to the monitor once the characters turned away, or maybe a slow dissolve to reveal the ghosts the characters couldn’t see. And then, they put words down to describe this scene, as accurately as they could.

I’m sure, when they read their words, they felt the same excited dread that they’d experienced when imagining these scenes‌—‌but how much of that was because of the words they’d put down, and how much was a trigger of that initial sensation?

It’s tricky, writing well. A line of dialogue can sound wonderfully sarcastic in our minds, but without the drawling voice it can come across as merely bitter on the page. An intense fight scene can become a series of abrupt sentences that don’t quite gel. That wonderful jump scare from our imaginations can become over-laboured, or over too fast to have the right impact.

When I read these problematic passages, I could imagine the writer working at them‌—‌when I should have been feeling scared for the characters. And imagining how the books were written naturally pulled me out of the stories.

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I’m not saying either book was bad. I’m pretty sure I’ll read more by both writers‌—‌they can construct decent stories, and can write well. Both books have many great reviews, too.

But no writing is perfect. There are always things that could have been improved. And that’s why I wanted to spend time thinking about these moments of distraction‌—‌the more I discover and analyse problems in books, the better my own writing should be.

Of course, I also need to figure out what works well in stories. This is harder, because excellent writing is invisible‌—‌I’m so engrossed in the story that I barely register that there’s words on the page. With the best writing, I’m there with the characters, in their heads, feeling what they feel. And when something scared them, it will scare me too.

Story or writing?

/ T W Iain / 2 Comments

There are two parts to any written story‌—‌the story itself (plot, characters, and so on) and the writing (word choice, sentence construction, and so on). In an ideal book, both would work equally well. Exquisite (but not distractingly ‘showy’) writing would bring to life a well-constructed story, with realistic characters and vivid settings.

But there’s no such thing as a perfect book. It’s one of the reasons writers keep on writing‌—‌each book presents an opportunity to close the gap on perfection, to elevate the writing and storytelling from mediocre to good, from good to great.

I was thinking on this recently, after a couple of interesting reads.

[Note: there might be spoilers ahead!]

TheWall_JLanchesterThe first of these books was The Wall by John Lanchester. I’ve enjoyed other books by Lanchester (such as Mr Phillips and Fragrant Harbour), although I can’t recall much about them now. He’s definitely a writer in the ‘literary’ camp. But this new book of his was also billed as a Dystopian story, and I was intrigued to read his take on that genre.

The Wall follows a new Defender on the Wall, a defensive structure that encases the country. His job is to watch out for Others who might attempt to gain access. Any Other breaking into the country means a Defender being sent out to sea‌—‌one in, one out.

The style of writing is fairly simple, perfectly suiting the protagonist’s character as he enters this strange new world. It also suits the monotony of his job‌—‌standing in the cold, staring into the darkness, with nothing happening. But there are interludes‌—‌a trip home, where he realises how he’s changed, and a holiday with his new friends from the Wall. And, of course, there’s an attack. Despite fighting hard (and even shooting a traitor), the main character is sent to sea, with a couple of others from the Wall (three in, three out).

He has some adventures out at sea. And‌…‌that’s it.

The story is little more than things that happen, one after the other. For most of these events, the main character is little more than an observer, or a passive participant. The story ends in what seems to be an arbitrary place. There’s no real resolution, no clear story arc.

And yet, I still enjoyed the book. I enjoyed seeing these scenes through the eyes of this character.

In short, I liked the writing in The Wall, but the story left me cold.

TheTrusted_MMedhatThe second book was The Trusted by Michelle Medhat. I heard her talk about this book (and the whole series) on a podcast, and it sounded intriguing enough for me to buy straight away. A fast-paced thriller, political intrigue, near-future tech, and a smattering of aliens‌—‌sounded perfect.

It started well, but I found myself becoming distracted by the writing itself. Nothing major, just little things‌—‌clunky exposition in dialogue, apparent shifts in point of view within scenes, too much tell. It felt more like a description of a movie than a book.

But I still finished the book. Despite my disappointment in the writing, I wanted to find out what happened next‌—‌to the point that I’m considering buying the next book in the series.

Two books I enjoyed, despite both leaving me in part underwhelmed. One engaged me through the writing, the other through the story.

But which do I prefer‌—‌writing or story?

I think it depends on a few factors.

Average writing won’t bother me if the story’s good, but if the writing is too amateur I can be turned off even if the plot is ingenious. Well crafted prose can be a joy in itself, but without a resemblance of a story to hang the language on I can soon become fatigued.

It also depends on my mood. If I’m tired, or if there is too much else going on, I want escapism in my reading. This could be why The Trusted worked for me at the moment. But at other times I want stimulation, and I’ll better appreciate those books that require more effort in the reading, books where the pleasure is derived from sinking into the language itself.

This does mean that when I don’t particularly enjoy a book, it isn’t necessarily down to the book itself. It could simply be the wrong book for me at that time. There are books I loved in my late-teens that I now find tedious, and other books I struggled with when I was younger but that I now consider worthy classics.

Is writing more important than story? Is story more important than writing? I don’t think it matters. Everyone has their own preferences, and these can change at any time. The aim is to enjoy reading, in whatever form that enjoyment takes‌—‌carried along by the story, emotionally attached to the characters, awed by the dexterity of language, pleasingly immersed in each scene.

And if one book doesn’t quite hit everything we want, there’s only one thing to do‌—‌keep reading more books.

So there’s only one thing to do‌—‌keep reading.

In praise of the novella

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Much as I enjoy reading novels, there are times when I want something else. Maybe I want to read a complete story in one sitting, or I’m just not in the right frame of mind to follow a novel over different sessions. Sometimes, when I finish a novel, I need something as a kind of mental palate-cleanser before diving into the next one.

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It’s times like these I’ll turn to short stories and novellas.

There are other lengths of story, of course. Flash fiction can sometimes be told in a single sentence. Vignettes are usually short, too, but are more a single scene than a complete story. Novelettes sit between short stories and novellas. But for most readers there are novels, novellas and short stories.

I like to think of the different story lengths in terms of TV shows and films. A novel is akin to watching a limited-run series, those shows that play out over a few episodes (and, by extension, a series of novels can be compared to a show that runs over more than one season). A short story is like a short film or a half-hour TV show, easy to consume while taking a quick break, sometimes pure entertainment, sometimes thought-provoking and deep.

Novellas are closer to films, taking a couple of hours to devour. They give a satisfying story, complex enough to keep us engaged but not so complicated that it feels rushed. Where a novel often has sub-plots or a number of side-quests for the protagonist, a novella often concentrates on a single story arc.

It’s no surprise that many films are based on novellas. Take Stephen King adaptations, for example‌—‌The Shawshank Redemption, Stand By Me, Maximum Overdrive, The Lawnmower Man and The Running Man all started life as novellas. Then there are classics like A Christmas Carol, Of Mice And Men, Animal Farm, The Stepford Wives, The Time Machine, The Strange Case Of Dr Jekyll And Mr Hyde, I Am Legend, The War Of The Worlds, Minority Report, and so many more. Stories to be devoured in one sitting, an escape from our daily reality for a couple of hours. No need to break off to sleep or eat or work, no need to remember what’s already happened when you pick the book up again.

Novellas fell out of favour for a while, mainly for financial reasons‌—‌there’s very little cost difference between producing a novel and a novella, but people would feel cheated paying £10 or $15 for a little over 100 pages. The classics continued to be produced because there was already an audience for those stories, but newer authors had to do with anthologies. Again, Stephen King is a good example, with novellas collections such as Different Seasons, Four Past Midnight and Full Dark, No Stars.

But ebooks have changed this. Producing ebook files is very cheap, so novellas and short stories can be priced more realistically. The e-reader (or smartphone) doesn’t change size with what is being read, so a novella feels no different to an epic novel. And with free-flowing text, there are no fixed pages‌—‌the story continues for as long as it needs.

It’s also worth considering attention span. A potential reader might not have the concentration required for a novel, but with novellas they can still enjoy reading complete stories.

And novellas can work as great introductions to new writers‌—‌they show the writer’s individual style, and if they can pull off a successful story arc in a novella, there’s a good chance they can manage the same in a longer novel too.

Novellas also provide a great opportunity for expanding a series. With novels concentrating on the main story arc, novellas can tell side-stories or explore events from characters’ past.

Gilden-Fire_StephenDonaldsonI first became aware of this idea when I stumbled upon Gilden Fire by Stephen Donaldson. Having recently read his original Thomas Covenant trilogy, I was intrigued by this slim volume. In the introduction, Donaldson explained that Gilden Fire was originally going to be a chapter in The Illearth War. But while he was pleased with the writing, the story in the chapter didn’t involve the main character himself. Donaldson thought it would break the flow of the book, and so it was cut. It was only later that he revised it and released it as its own story.

In indie-publishing circles it’s quite common for a series to have a prologue novella, often available for a low price or as an exclusive offer for joining a mailing list (something commonly referred to as a ‘reader magnet’). But writers (especially those publishing independently) have told stories over a series of novellas.

Hugh Howey did this with Beacon 32, eventually combining the five shorter works into a single novel. The Sterling & Stone team (Sean Platt, David W Wright and Johnny Truant) experimented with similar ideas in their serialised fiction, releasing novella-length episodes that built to form complete seasons. Their most popular is probably Tomorrow’s Gone, but I have to say I preferred their nine-novella series Unicorn Western and Truant’s Fat Vampire series.

So, novellas are incredibly versatile. They can provide a short, complete story experience. They can expand a series for avid readers. They can also create their own series. They might not have the same standing as novels, or the literary cache of short stories, but the humble novella has a lot to offer.

In times like these, why read?

/ T W Iain / Leave a comment

These are strange, confusing, scary times. We’re being asked to change the way we live our lives, with no clear notion of when normality will return (if ever). Stories abound in the media, both mainstream and social, and it can be hard to separate myth from fact.

And it’s the ideal time to read a book.

That might sound flippant, but I believe reading can help us all, in many different ways

Escapism & distraction

octopus-1235006_1280There’s little we can do about the current situation, beyond following whatever those in charge are suggesting (or ordering). But that doesn’t stop us worrying. It’s natural, in any strange situation, to hunt for a solution, even when there is nothing within our own reach. And this can increase our anxiety‌—‌which leads to all sorts of health issues, both mental and physical.

So we need to step away. We need to let our minds escape from what we can’t control. We need entertainment.

Reading has a few advantages over other forms of entertainment. Reading a novel takes many hours, often over many sessions. And between these sessions, a good story will still be running through our minds‌—‌we’ll be anticipating the characters’ next moves, or trying to solve the plot’s mystery.

Reading isn’t a passive activity, at least not as far as the brain’s concerned. The logical parts of our mind deal with deciphering the words, of making sense of the text. And then these words stimulate our creative, imaginative minds. From a few sparse sentences, our imagination conjures up believable characters and settings. The mention of sounds and smells in a book can trigger those parts of the brain associated with hearing and smell.

Reading can give us a whole-mind work-out. This keeps us occupied, helps distract us from things we have no control over, and ultimately is beneficial for our mental health.

These are immediate benefits of reading. There are benefits from long-term reading, too.

Instruction

knowledge-4171793_640Throughout history, stories have been used to educate. The tale of a successful hunt helps others develop and refine their own hunting skills. The sad story of a villager who ate the wrong kind of berry acts as a warning. The stories we read to our children help them make sense of the world.

Some of this instruction is practical‌—‌approach an animal you’re hunting from down-wind, be careful what kind of berries you eat, if you’re nasty to others they won’t be your friends‌—‌but stories also help us think. Characters face tough situations, and a well-written book will draw us into their internal dilemmas. As we read, a part of our mind is working out what we’d do in the same situation (or, more usually, what we’d like to do). As the character in the story uncovers more information, we adapt our thoughts, amending our personal solutions.

This make-believe decision making can help in real life. If we’re used to thinking things through, we’re less likely to panic. We know that we need to take a step back before we react.

Empathy

book-2135815_640It’s often said that to truly understand someone, you need to walk in their shoes‌—‌and stories are a powerful way of doing this. Vicariously, we can live through the pressures of a high-powered job, or the daily grind of raising a family on a meagre wage. We can experience being lost in an alien environment, or living amongst those different to ourselves, or coping in a world where our beliefs are not shared by the majority. We can get a glimmer of understanding into why someone may turn to crime, or shut themselves off emotionally from others, or desperately seek acceptance.

The empathy we can develop through reading can help is in real life. The better we understand how everyone sees the world through their own eyes, filtered through their personal experiences, the less likely we are to make snap judgements. And then we’re in the middle of confusing, worrying situations, the last thing we need is finger-pointing and rash decisions. When people are struggling, a little empathy can go a long way.

Reading is good for us. It gives us a break from our troubles, it exercises our minds, it helps us solve problems, and it develops our empathy. So stay safe, stay calm, and continue reading.

Why ‘Alien’ works

/ T W Iain / Leave a comment

One of my favourite films is Alien, but only now do I appreciate how well constructed the story is. When I started working on my sci-fi/horror series Shadows, Alien was a major influence, and I’ve learnt a great deal from considering just why the story of Alien works so well.

Alien_poster

It’s easy to relate to the setting and characters

Yes, the film’s set on a spacecraft, but the setting is also surprisingly mundane‌—‌it’s a working vessel, populated by a crew who are simply doing their job. For some of them, the job’s clearly important (the captain, Dallas, takes his role seriously). But others, like Parker and Brett, are the kind of workers who turn up because they have to. It’s easy to imagine these two sloping off somewhere for a sneaky break when nobody’s watching.

Alien_2And, as with any bunch of co-workers forced together, there are tensions. Some of them get on well with others, but there’s a lot of animosity just beneath the surface. Just like any other work environment.

It’s also worth noting that the Nostromo isn’t some sleek, high-tech craft like the Enterprise, or a fast fighting vessel like the Millennium Falcon. It’s scruffy, dirty and in need of repair. It’s a floating factory‌—‌and once again, this is the kind of environment that many can relate to.

Nobody is safe

Most stories focus on a hero, and in films this role is normally played by a big-name actor. We can usually be pretty secure in guessing that this character will survive, with the lesser characters (played by actors we don’t recognise) becoming fodder for the monster.

But Alien turns this on its head. John Hurt was one of the bigger names attached to the film, and he’s the first to die. With him gone, maybe we assume Dallas will survive. After all, the film starts with him alone on the Nostromo, before the rest of the crew wake. He’s the captain, and Tom Skerritt was another fairly well-known actor at the time.

When Dallas dies, it’s a shock, and it leaves things wide-open for who will eventually survive (although as the crew dwindle further, Ripley does step up to be the hero). With with lack of certainty, tension increases.

Horror can come at any time

The alien bursting from Kane’s stomach is probably Alien’s most memorable scene, but it’s worth noting the setting. This moment of gut-wrenching (sorry!) horror comes not in a dark corner of the craft, or on an alien planet. No, it occurs while the crew share a meal. They’re eating and joking. It’s a bonding moment, something we’re all familiar with‌—‌right up to the moment Kane’s stomach starts to bulge.

Alien_1And this tells us that nowhere is safe. Even if characters are together, in brightly-lit familiar rooms, they’re still in danger. We don’t need to peer into the darkness looking for monsters, because they could leap out of anywhere, at any time.

We’re in the dark with the crew

We never get to see the alien in its entirety until the very end of the film. In part this was down to film-making restraints at the time, but it makes the film so much more effective‌—‌we never quite know what’s after the crew.

Jaws pulled off a similar trick, in refusing to show the shark until the second half of the film. We see the victim through the shark’s eyes, and we see the effects of the attacks (the swimmer being dragged under, the blood soaking the water). But we don’t see the shark itself.

What we can’t see is far more scary than what’s in front of our eyes. Our imagination fills in the blanks with our own worst nightmares.

There are things we have no control over

Its worth taking a closer look at Dallas’ death.

Alien_4The rest of the crew are following his progress through the ducts. They have audio communication, but the only visual is on a map, with a marker to indicate his position. And then a second marker appears, indicating the alien’s position‌—‌and it’s closing in on Dallas. They yell for him to get out, but as the alien approaches there’s nothing they can do to prevent the inevitable.

In that moment, the crew are helpless witnesses, with no control over the outcome. Just like us, watching events unfold on a screen, unable to alter events.

We’re helpless, just like the crew.

Time is running out / the false ending

As the alien takes out the crew one by one, Ripley sees only one way to destroy the creature‌—‌self-destruct the Nostromo while it’s still aboard.

This give a tense race against the clock. As alarms blare and Mother counts down to self-destruct, Ripley rushes to the shuttle while trying to save Jones the cat and avoid the alien.

Alien_3But she makes it. From the shuttle, she sees the Nostromo explode‌—‌and then realises she’s not alone on the shuttle. The alien is with her.

The tension and fear jump up a notch now. There’s nowhere for Ripley to run.

It’s a wonderful ending to a beautifully constructed story.

This list isn’t exclusive, and I know there are many great moments and ideas I’ve left out. But even this limited look at Alien shows why the story is so effective at pulling us in and keeping us engaged right to the end.

None of these things are original, of course. But the creative minds behind Alien used them to great effect, giving us a film that still works, over forty years after it hit the screens.

How Neil Peart is pushing my reading into new areas

/ T W Iain / Leave a comment

 

The musicians I grew up listening to are getting older, and many are no longer around. Of course, it happens to everyone eventually, and in large part I’m pretty philosophical about this. Yes, it’s sad that they’re gone, but they’ve left behind a great legacy in their music, and in that a part of them will live on.

But when I heard of Neil Peart’s passing, earlier this year, I felt sadder than I expected. Maybe it was because I’d been listening to Rush for so many years. Or maybe it was because they’d had the same line-up for so long that there was something permanent about them. Even though there was unlikely to be any new music from the trio anyway, it felt somehow wrong that he’d died.

Rush in concert at MGM Grand, Las Vegas, America - 25 Jul 2015

In case you’re unfamiliar with the name, Neil Peart was the drummer and lyricist with Canadian band Rush. Their music didn’t bother the charts much, but they could sell out arena and stadium tours around the world, and had an incredibly loyal fan-base.

I saw Rush on tour back in the eighties, at a time when just about every band would thrown in solo spots for different musicians, mainly guitarists and drummers. These solos bored me. If there were seats at the venue, I’d have a rest while the guitarist tapped away, or while the drummer hit everything within range as fast as possible.

But Peart’s solo was different. It felt like a structured piece of music, with peaks and troughs, passing through different ways of playing, drawing on different emotions. Rather than a way of showing off, the solo was an exploration into what a drum kit was capable of. And even though the band played rock, it was clear that Peart drew from many different styles.

He wasn’t content to sit still as a musician. He took his playing very seriously. He’d practice for an hour before each concert. And he continually sought to improve‌—‌listening to other styles of music, seeking other techniques, taking lessons from drummers who might not have been technically as proficient as him, but who still had something he could learn from, something new he could incorporate into his own playing.

It’s an important attitude for anyone creative, be that in music or sculpture or stories or hanging baskets. There’s always more to learn. To quote one of Peart’s own lyrics (from Mission),

‘the point of the journey is not to arrive’.

It’s impossible to reach the end of knowing, to become perfect. There’s always more to learn, and it’s important to absorb new influences and techniques, to develop, so that the next song, the next model, the next book, the next basket surpasses the previous one.

When I worked in education, I used to tell myself that the moment I felt I knew everything about teaching was the moment I should stop‌—‌not because I would know everything, but because that moment would signal the end of the desire to improve.

In my writing, I feel like I’m only just starting out, and there is so much to learn. One very important way I can widen my knowledge is through reading‌—‌not only in genres I’m naturally drawn to, but also in pushing myself to explore new genres. It’s why I’ll read the occasional romance book, or historical book. It’s why I’ll read books by new and old authors, independently-published and those who work through traditional publishers.

There’s always more to learn, even from books I don’t like. I read the Twilight series and the first couple of Fifty Shades books (haven’t been able to face the third yet) in part because I wanted to understand what made them so popular. And it’s why I very rarely give up on a book. Even books I don’t enjoy, or stories I don’t feel are particularly well told, have things to teach me.

I know some people take a different approach. Some writers dive deep into a particular sub-genre, writing and reading only that one thing, focusing their attention on becoming an expert in it. And that’s fine‌—‌but for me, I’d feel like I was missing so much. When I read books with a strong romantic element, I can garner more insight in evoking believable relationships. When I read literary fiction, I can absorb ideas on how language is used. When I read mysteries and thrillers, I can better understand how to keep the reader guessing. When I read books that evoke different times and locations, I can attempt to unpick how words can be used to give a sense of period and setting without being too on-the-nose.

There’s so much to learn out there, so many lessons that I can use to improve my own writing. But that’s only going to happen if I concentrate.

This, I feel, is something Peart understood. It’s not enough to simply consume. Learning is active. It involves both study and practice. It’s a never-ending cycle that is the only way to improve.

Or, in the words of Peart himself,

What is a master but a master student? And if that’s true, then there’s a responsibility on you to keep getting better and to explore avenues of your profession.