I wish Raymond Swanland did more cover work. No one captures motion like he does. Admittedly, his style is so unique as to be almost one-note, but I love it nevertheless. Here he is with a new novel from K.V. Johansen and Pyr. I feel like Swanland really should be illustrating X-Men when I see The Lady.
Every book has a story, and Goblin Emperor’s begins long before it was published. Katherine Addison is actually Sarah Monette, a critically acclaimed author of four novels for Ace Books. Unfortunately, those books didn’t sell very well. Goblin Emperor was submitted to Ace and rejected, forcing Monette to shop the project elsewhere. Purchased by the Jim Frankel (who has had some problems subsequently) at Tor, the novel found a home. Monette became Katherine Addison because bookstores aren’t big fans of authors who don’t sell real well, but are easily mollified with byline changes. I mention this because I have no idea whether Monette can write her way out of a paper bag, but Katherine Addison is a genius and Ace should be totally bummed they didn’t buy Goblin Emperor.
Like many writers starting out, I read a fair number of writing instruction books. Some were helpful, others weren’t. Eventually I was guided towards Samuel Delany’s excellent book, About Writing. It is not a typical writing instruction manual. For starters, it suggests that people don’t learn to tell stories from writing instruction books. Rather, they learn from reading other stories. I wasn’t really sure I believed that at the time. I felt like I’d learned a fair few things.
Fast forward to my discovery of the New Weird movement. Perhaps that should have been enough for me to realize that you learn from what you read. Because in the works of China Miéville and Jeff VanderMeer and others, I suddenly saw the shape of the fiction I had been nascently grasping towards. Fiction that broke free of traditional western genre conventions and cavorted madly through the shattered pieces that remained.
Unlike most epic fantasies of its size, Words of Radiance features only four primary characters–Shallan, Kaladin, Dalinar, and Adolin. Although there are a host of other important characters, and a dozen other view points as part of Sanderson’s unique “interludes”, the novel boils down to these four. Given Words of Radiance comes in around 400,000 words, each of point of view is given nearly an entire novel’s length to bond with the reader. Combined with their appearance in the previous installment, Way of Kings, a Stormlight Archive reader has absorbed each of these characters for at least 150,000 words each. I would argue that level of intimacy with a group of characters is unheard of, where typically we’d get the forty disparate characters of Steven Erikson’s Malazan Book of the Fallen or the unerring one-character-note of Robin Hobb’s Farseer Trilogy.
Being the first Middle Grade novel I’ve read since the Harry Potter binge of aught four, Jennifer Nielsen’s The False Prince (and subsequent novels) was something of a dip into the unknown. Truth be told, I began the endeavor solely because I’m on the make for novels my four year old and I can read together. While the Nielsen novels are perhaps a little too dramatic (read intense) for her, the first one, False Prince, was an absolute delight to me. It is unfortunate that the well was poisoned by the following two novels written as they were with contempt for the reader’s perceptiveness.
The story begins with, Conner, a nobleman of the court, seeking a lookalike for the king’s long-lost son. His plan involves installing the youth as a puppet prince, and thus stabilizing a kingdom on the ropes after the death of the royal family. Four orphans are recruited to compete for the role, including a punk named Sage. Among the four, Sage is the most savvy. As he begins to uncover Conner’s plans he becomes more and more concerned about the role he’ll play.
Swords and Deviltry by Fritz Leiber
Although chronologically the first stories of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, Swords and Deviltry is composed of three novellas that were written quite a bit later than the more classic tales of the iconic duo. They are stories that fill in the blanks surrounding the origins of the pair, first giving them both a story to come into their own and leave for Lankhmar, then a story of them on their first adventure together. Problems arise in the collection in large part because neither Fafhrd or Gray Mouser are remotely interesting as individuals in Swords and Deviltry. In fact, they only shine when on screen together, exchanging barbs and concocting ridiculous schemes. In other words, the first 150 pages of the book put the bore in boring.
As a side note, I find the portrayal of women in the novel extremely off-putting. A sign of the times perhaps, or at least I’m sure that would be the easiest excuse, but Leiber’s women are consistently portrayed as manipulating the men in what I feel is an unkind light. They whine and cajole and flirt and tease. Both have moments where they stand out as agents of their own destiny, but not a few pages later are swaddled by their menfolk and tucked away. It seems like Leiber had moments where he was writing vibrant female characters before reconsidering and falling back into the standard, and entirely annoying, expectations.
Marc Simonetti getting Robin Hobb incredibly right:
Are you with me? Doesn’t he seem to “get it” more than any other Hobb’s past artists have?
Assuming publishing as a whole is akin to Christianity writ large–your Orthodox, Mormons, Methodists, Pentecostals, etc.–then the Big-Five are the Roman Catholic Church and the self-publishing community is the Evangelists. Think about it for a minute…
Founded in the 1st century AD, the Catholic Church has been around so long its part of the cultural fiber in a way that’s impossible to remove from the conversation. Worldwide there are 1.2 billion members, led by the Pope in Rome. Structured around rigid rules and tradition, the Catholic Church has some not-insignificant hurdles to become a Priest. Sure the Church is corrupt and plagued by scandal, but it remains the strongest faction of Christianity due not just to immense wealth and momentum,but to the status earned by its clergy over centuries. Whether that faith is warranted, the illusion of its value supersedes any argument of fact.
By comparison, most places will site the requirement to become an Evanglist Minister as a desire to be one above all else. Like all things in life there are good Evangelists and bad Evangelists, those who dedicate themselves to the Calling and those who pay lip service to it. Regardless there is only one fundamental requirement to becoming one, an unswerving desire to tell the story of Christianity and covert others, to bring the ‘good news’ to all corners of the globe.
Set in Henrietta, Virginia, Maggie Stiefvater’s The Raven Boys exhibits characteristics of the “southern novel”, a form I associate strongly with Tom Wolfe or Harper Lee. Novels of the American South tend to focus on the gross inequalities that exist there, often couched in racial terms, but also the nature of inherited wealth juxtaposed with the lack of opportunity that exists in the more urban centers. In the case of Raven Boys, Stiefvater creates that paradigm between Blue Sargent, daughter to a poor, but comfortable, and exceedingly proficient psychic, and four boys from Aglionby, a feeder high school for the Ivy League.
For all her life, Blue has been warned that Aglionby boys are trouble. They’re rich and live by a code that means the rules don’t apply to them. These Aglionby boys–Gansey, Adam, Ronan, and Noah–would be no different, except they can’t accept the lives they’ve been given. They want something more, for themselves and for each other. Bound up in a brotherhood dedicated to uncovering a measure of magic in the world, the boys come to Blue and her family for help. While the story is a quest, the novel is hardly about it at all. Not just about the unequal nature of the American South, Raven Boys is an examination of the power dynamics between people. The power we give to others over us, and the power we reserve for ourselves. In other words, it’s a novel of character and the connections that bind them together.
Gansey has everything—family money, good looks, and devoted (dependent?) friends. Adam is a scholarship student who refuses to be taken in by his friends’ resources. Ronan wants nothing, but to be left alone, to wallow in grief and throw away his life. And Noah just watches.
On Tuesday, January 28, Larry Correia wrote a response to Alex Dally MacFarlane’s “Post-Binary Gender in SF: Introduction” on Tor.com. Regardless of what you think about the thrust of McFarlane’s points, Correia’s response is disproportionately offensive and factually wrong.
In her piece on Tor.com, McFarlane declares, “I want an end to the default of binary gender in science fiction stories.” A bold pronouncement, but one couched in the idea that McFarlane is “not interested in discussions about the existence of these gender identities: we might as well discuss the existence of women or men. Gender complexity exists. SF that presents a rigid, unquestioned gender binary is false and absurd.” These statement are what those of us in the business refer to as opinions. Interestingly, no where in the piece does McFarlane suggest that writing with binary gender is wrong, merely that she is no longer interested in reading fiction that trends in that direction. And, slightly more strongly worded, she wants more writers to challenge themselves to break through their own rigid thinking.
The impetus behind Correia’s response is,
Okay, aspiring author types, you will see lots of things like this, and part of you may think you need to incorporate these helpful suggestions into your work. After all, this is on Tor.com so it must be legit. Just don’t. When you write with the goal of checking off boxes, it is usually crap. This article is great advice for writers who want to win awards but never actually be read by anyone.
Although Correia goes on from here to say some incredibly misguided things, the core statement has merit. Writing about gender, particularly non-binary gender, in such a way that it is not organic to the story you’re trying to tell is awful writing advice and will almost assuredly make your book suck. The problem is McFarlane never purports to give advice. Not even a little bit. She is writing her point of view. She is demanding something more of herself and the fiction she reads, not the fiction Correia writes or his readers’ read. What she’s asking for is more fiction that appeals to her, not less that appeals to Correia. It’s the same argument used by those advocates for marriage equality. Our marriage doesn’t lessen your marriage. Except, much like Correia is offended by McFarlane’s feelings, conservatives around the country cannot fathom sharing the precious with someone not like them. It’s a position that, as someone who has self identified as a conservative white male, I find continually reprehensible.