On the Successful Anatomy of a Short Story

January 6, 2016April 4, 2020 / thealiennextdoor / 1 Comment

Some time ago, I was invited by writer and editor Jennifer D. Foster to participate in an interview on how to create a successful short story. Jennifer knew my work as a short story writer and had heard me speak at the Editors Association of Canada. She also knew that I teach the short story form as part of my science fiction course at George Brown College.

Writer’s Digest had asked Jennifer to write two “writing tips” chapters in its highly popular “Novel and Short Story Writer’s Market” (34^th Annual Edition, 2015). Years ago I got my start as an author using this helpful market guidebook. Not only did the guide provide hundreds of listings with submission guidelines and current contact information; the guide’s writing tips section was also very helpful. So, I was both pleased and thrilled to be inside the 2015 edition!

As with previous editions, the 2015 edition contained—in addition to current market listings—articles on “Craft and Technique”, “Getting Published”, and “Marketing and Promotion”.

Below, I provide some excerpts of the 8-page chapter in the Craft & Technique Section, entitled “Anatomy of a Successful Short Story.” You can read the whole thing if you get your own copy of the guide, which is very decently priced. While it’s a year old, the advice remains as germane now as it was then. And many of the markets remain relevant too. You can also find the guide in most libraries, which tend to carry the entire Writer’s Digest series of market guides for writers.

Defining the Short Story

“Short stories are perhaps one of the best places for novice writers to start their careers,” wrote Foster in the opening to her article. “They’re not too long and complicated, and they offer the writer a chance to intimately explore a plot, a character, and a theme. Short stories also offer writers the opportunity to hone their craft and actually finish a piece of fiction—a great confidence booster!” Foster was quick to add that you shouldn’t be fooled by their short length compared with a novel—or their assumed simplicity: “Short stories are not necessarily any easier to write than novels or novellas.” I talk more about the significance of short story length in a previous article on this blog: “Know What You’re Writing: Short Story or Long Story?”

Madison Davis at the University of Oklahoma suggested that short stories are “more concentrated … and notable for what they leave out.”

I mentioned that the short story is “a metaphoric event, a moment in time. It’s a single place—a crossroad—compared with the landscape of a novel. Short stories are more about awareness … and have the potential to be far more memorable and disturbing, with the power to enlighten.” Best-selling Canadian author Andrew Pyper suggested that, “a novel is the result of lengthy mulling, while a short story is the rising of an event out of the subconscious.”

Starting the short story in the middle of things “is crucial,” said Davis. “The reader must be thrown into the water immediately. There simply isn’t time or space to wind up.” Steve Woodward, associate editor of Graywolf Press in Minneapolis, Minnesota argued that good first lines are vital: “they can tell you everything you need to know in an instant. Find that right first line, even if it means cutting several pages to get to it, and build outward from there.”

Theme

The message—or theme—of the short story is its raison d’être. In How to Write Short Stories, 4th Edition, Sharon Sorenson wrote that, “if you have no message, you have no story.”

I concurred: “Every good story explores a theme. In a short story, it is a single theme told as a ‘statement’ rather than a novel’s ‘argument.’ It’s a ‘close-up’ rather than a novel’s landscape. All story elements reflect the theme.” Susan Hesemeier, instructor at MacEwan University in Edmonton, Alberta, added that the theme must be “limited to one subject or overall message rather than [the] multiple, interconnected themes [found] in a novel.” Margot Livesey, fiction editor of Emerson College’s Ploughshares magazine in Boston, Massachusetts summed it up eloquently: “theme is probably the hardest element to define, but we recognize its absence when we call something an anecdote.”

Conflict

According to author Louise Boggess, conflict “is the heartbeat of a story.” Conflict expresses internally or externally. Hesemeier wrote that in a short story, “there are fewer conflicts that lead to one climax; in a novel, a series of smaller conflicts and climaxes lead to or connect with a larger overall conflict and climax.”

Plot

Publisher Kevin Watson suggested that a great short story, much like a novel, “is presented to the reader in layers, delivered using setting, character, conflict, and dialogue.” At the center of those layers, said Watson, lay the plot, the theme, and the heart of everything that was presented.

Award-winning author Kevin Barry cited William Trevor: “a short story doesn’t need a plot, it just needs a point.” Toronto-based editor and author Andrew J. Borkaowski agreed: “it’s usually a matter of a single word, gesture, or incident and a handful of actions leading up to it.”

Character

Sorenson wrote that, “Believable, motivated characters make or break a story. If readers cannot understand or accept them, nothing else you do matters.” This is because the actions of your characters convey theme.

Novelist and writing instructor at Western University, Terence M. Green concurred. “Character is most important. Make the long chord of understanding and involvement with a character the goal. This is the emotional resonance, the epiphany that is the goal of the best long-lasting fiction.”

Setting

river in Nova Scotia (photo by Nina Munteanu)

Characters and action should interact with the setting,” said Borkowski. She suggested that, “Setting is important as a conveyor of mood or atmosphere, and … has to be rendered succinctly, poetically almost.” Hesemeier added that, “Setting is usually limited to essentials that are necessary to describe the particular moment or that have symbolic significance for the reader’s understanding of the story.”

I further clarified: “A short story’s plot, setting, and character are often portrayed through strong metaphor, the short story writer’s major tool. Metaphor conveys so much more than the surface narrative might suggest; this is because metaphor by its very nature resonates with deeper truths, interpreted individually by members of a culture.”

Point of View

Foster wrote that for Borkowski, it was all about picking a side and sticking with it: “Once you start wanting to explore the inner lives of multiple characters, you’re on your way to something bigger than a short story.” Be mindful how many characters you provide agency and viewpoints to!

Woodward believed that once voice was established, everything else followed. Woodward preferred a solo voice in short story. “Stories are wonderful when concise and focused, often confined to a single narrative voice and to a single moment in time.”

Winter in The Beach (photo by Nina Munteanu)

Andrew J. Borkowski suggested that an exceptional short story arose from the intensity of emotion that resonated with the reader: “A great short story leaves you feeling you’ve experienced ten times more than what’s actually described on the page.” I shared a similar view: “The best short story is an elegant thing. It draws you into a singular experience that resonates at a visceral level, like an arrow through the heart; no time to think—just feel. A bad short story misses the heart … and this is why writers who master the short story form are some of the very best authors in the world.”

Excerpted from “Anatomy of a Successful Short Story” by Jennifer D. Foster. In: “Novel and Short Story Writer’s Market” Writer’s Digest Books; 34^th Edition (Rachel Randall, editor), 2015. 569 pp.

Available at: Amazon.com, Amazon.ca, and Writer’s Digest Shop.

Douglas Smith’s “Playing the Short Game” is also valuable with great advice for those wishing to market their short stories.

Natural Selection, my short story collection published by Pixl Press in 2013 is available at several bookstores.

“Written with flare and a conscience…Munteanu shines a light on human evolution and how the choices we do or don’t make today, may impact our planet and future generations.”—J.P. McLean, author of The Gift Legacy

“Nina Munteanu is a gifted writer. Each story surprises and delights.”—Allan Stanleigh, co-author of USNA and The Caretakers

Nina Munteanu is an ecologist and internationally published author of award-nominated speculative novels, short stories and non-fiction. She is co-editor of Europa SF and currently teaches writing courses at George Brown College and the University of Toronto. Visit www.ninamunteanu.ca for the latest on her books.

Summoning the Slow Train To Find “The Last Summoner”

December 28, 2015April 4, 2020 / thealiennextdoor / 1 Comment

In her book The Art of Slow Writing, Louise DeSalvo tells the story of how Ian McEwan composed his book Atonement.

McEwan had shared that the novel “grew out of many months of sketches and doodling.” Then one morning, he wrote “six hundred words or so describing a young woman entering a drawing room with some wild flowers in her hand, searching for a vase,” and “aware of a young man outside gardening whom she wishes both to see and avoid.”

He knew he had at last started a novel, says DeSalvo. But beyond that, he knew nothing. Slowly, McEwan pieced together a chapter, the one in which “Cecilia and Robbie go to the fountain, the vase breaks, she strips off and plunges into the water to retrieve the pieces, she walks away from him without a word.”

McEwan then languished for six weeks with questions: who was the woman? Who was the young man? What was their relationship? When and where did this event take place? And what was its significance to the story? What was the story about?

McEwan went on to write the chapter in which Briony attempts to put on a play with her cousins. Upon completing that chapter, he finally realized what the story was about. He realized that he would write about Dunkirk and St. Thomas’s hospital. He also knew that Briony was the main protagonist and POV character; that “she was going to commit a terrible error, and that writing…throughout her life would be her form of atonement.” Briony is in fact, what we call a displaced narrator. While the focus of the story is on the tragic journeys of Ceclia and Robbie—resulting largely from Briony’s eventful action—the deeper tragedy is Briony’s who must live the remainder of her life with what she has done.

“McEwan’s remarks illustrate how a successful writer sometimes begins without knowing the work’s subject,” writes DeSalvo. This process of creative problem solving can take on many forms. McEwan sketched and wrote what Diana Gabaldon calls “kernel scenes”, muse-inspired scenes—usually character-based—that represent major emotional turning points or events: important moments in forming a larger set piece toward a larger story. McEwan wrote a scene that required for him to solve some creative problems. Each solution provided him with another piece to the creative puzzle and the blurry meaning of the story slowly came into focus.

According to DeSalvo, McEwan swapped his first two chapters and rewrote them several times before he realized that the novel should begin with Briony. Once that watershed moment came to him, the rest of the process fell into place and practically wrote itself.

This type of “organic” writing can be very exciting and revealing to an author; it can also be chaotic and time-consuming. That’s OK. You need the time for the story to reveal itself to you. As DeSalvo says, “we can’t force a resolution too quickly.” She adds that “creative solutions often take us into unexpected territory—the introduction of Briony’s narrative, for example—and often these swerves take us into exciting solutions we hadn’t anticipated—Briony as narrator, for example—and push our work in an altogether different direction.”

If McEwan had kept the first narrative that emerged—Cecilia and Robbie at the fountain—and if he hadn’t been open to the potential in Briony’s narrative, he would no doubt have written a less complex but still successful novel about love, class, and war. But in deciding to give Briony a voice and combine both narratives, McEwan introduced another more metaphoric layer of meaning to the more literal one—that of personal betrayal and the impact of knowing you have destroyed two people’s lives.

The Last Summoner … Summoned

cover art by Tomislav Tikulin

My historical fantasy The Last Summoner came to me in a single image. I’d run across a spectacular image by Croation artist Tomislav Tikulin (he’d done the cover art for Darwin’s Paradox, my previous book published by Dragon Moon Press). When I checked his website, there it was: this incredibly evocative image of a knight, standing in the war-littered mire of a drowned cathedral. The knight gazed up, questioning, at the vaulted ceiling from which shone streams of white gold. It sent my imagination soaring with thoughts of chivalry, adventure and intrigue.

Who was this knight? Where was he and why? What were the circumstances?

At that point I only had an image and many questions. I knew I wanted to write about this knight and this setting. Since I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by Europe during the medieval ages and I had been thinking of writing outside the science fiction genre for a while.

The image remained imprinted inside me for weeks, months, until the next nexus moment came. I stumbled across a significant but little-known battle in the medieval Baltic, the Battle of Grunwald. It would turn out to be the defining battle for what are now the countries of Poland and Lithuania. On June 14th 1410, they were still part of Prussia and tyrannized by the Teutonic Order, who were Christianizing the pagan Baltic on behalf of the Pope. In truth, the Order had been for centuries gathering wealth and land for colonizing Germans in their drang nach osten; they built sturdy castles (many of which still stand today) and a force of monk warriors, feared for their cunning strategy and treacherous combat abilities.

Chilean castle, Switzerland (photo by Nina Munteanu)

The Battle of Grunwald was, in fact, an upset in history. The Teutonic Order was powerful, intimidating and extremely capable. They should have won; but the peasant armies of Prussia slaughtered the Order, killing most of its knights. Historians debate that the hochmeister’s arrogance—indeed, the arrogance of the entire Order—precipitated their downfall. They underestimated their adversaries and got sloppy. After the Polish and Lithuanian armies outsmarted the Order and slayed their hochmeister, along with most of their knights, the Order’s own peasant slaves finished the job using clubs, pitchforks and stones.

Courtyard at Chillon Castle, Switzerland (photo by Nina Munteanu)

Intrigued by this lessor known order of religious crusaders, I pursued the premise of an alternative consequence: what if the Teutonic Knights had NOT underestimated their enemy and won the Battle of Grunwald? Would they have continued their catastrophic sweep of Northeast Europe into Russia and beyond? Would they have claimed the whole for Germany’s expansionist lebensraum movement, fueled by its sonderweg, a dialectic that would ultimately lead to the killing fields of the Holocaust? What if the success of the Teutonic Order helped consolidate a united fascist elite, ambitious to conquer the world?

And what if, as a result, Nazism sprang up 100 years earlier? The Last Summoner, arose from this premise.

I’d already conceived a heroine: a self-centered romantic noblewoman who has a vision of a knight in a drowned cathedral. Fourteen-year old Vivianne Schoen, Baroness von Grunwald, dreams that her ritter will rescue her from the drudgeries of her duties and an arranged marriage to some foreign warrior. When she discovers that her intended is a cruel and abusive mercenary, Vivianne makes a bold and impetuous choice that results in a startling discovery that she can alter history—but not before she’s branded a witch and must flee through a time-space tear into a alternate present-day Paris, now ruled by fascists. There, in present-day Paris she learns that every choice has its price. She meets François, a self-serving street kid who tries to monetize her and her gear but then falls for her anachronistic charm.

I originally wrote the Paris section in Vivianne’s point of view, but it seemed flat with too obvious fish-out-of-water observations. I let the book sit, while I conducted more research on Paris, and then it came to me: give the narrative to François. This part of the book was his story. By giving François the only POV, I also gave his character agency to react and change to Vivianne’s role as “catalyst hero.” I rewrote this section, starting with François fleeing from a street crime he’d committed, when Vivianne literally appears and knocks him down. She then sweeps him up in a high-stakes chase that will change his worldview. When Vivianne returns to 1410 Poland in the last section of the book, her great journey of self-discovery and atonement begins.

Spanning from medieval Poland to present day Paris, France, The Last Summoner explores the sweeping consequences of our “subtle” choices. From the smallest grab to the most sweeping gesture, we are accountable for the world we’ve made. During her 600-year journey to save the world and undo the history she authored, Vivianne learns wisdom and humility. Through the paradox of history, she learns that what might have seemed the right choice for an immediate future, turns out to be disastrous for a distant future. To win is also to lose; to save oneself one must surrender oneself; and to save the world one need only save a single soul.

The knight standing in the drowned cathedral is Vivianne.

The Last Summoner, published by Starfire World Syndicate, was released in 2012 and remained a Canadian bestseller on Amazon for several months. It represents my first historical fantasy in an otherwise repertoire of hard science fiction. The cover of the book is indeed the original image that had inspired the book in the first place; and was kindly acquired by my publisher. The Polish and Lithuanians celebrate June 14th with pride, erecting mock-ups of the battle annually. Some day I hope to participate.

References:

DeSalvo, Louise. 2014.”The Art of Slow Writing”. St. Martin’s Griffin. New York, NY. 306pp.

Munteanu, Nina. 2012. “The Last Summoner”. Starfire World Syndicate.

Nina Munteanu is a Canadian ecologist and internationally published author of award-nominated speculative novels, short stories and non-fiction. She is co-editor of Europa SF and currently teaches writing courses at George Brown College and the University of Toronto. Visit www.ninamunteanu.ca for the latest on her books.

Finding Focus at Christmas-Reprise

December 22, 2015April 4, 2020 / thealiennextdoor / 4 Comments

The Beach in winter (photo by Nina Munteanu)

How many of you are still running around

preparing for the Christmas celebration or secular family festivity? Buying that last minute gift you’d forgotten or were chasing down since a bazillion days ago? Or making last minute changes to your travel plans, house-cleaning for guests, mailing of cards or parcels or meal preparations?

Well, you’re reading this blog post … That means you’re sitting down and taking a minute to relax and regroup. That’s good. Remember to breathe… while I tell you a story…

I’d just finished a three-day drive through snow and rain storms from

Sammy, my cat

Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia, to Toronto, Ontario, where I’m staying for two days before catching a flight to Vancouver to spend Christmas with my son and good friends on the west coast. Talk about fast living.

I move around a lot these days. It helps me to appreciate some of the most simple things in life and reminds me of what I love most about Christmas: how it focuses my heart and reconnects me. I don’t mean just with relatives and friends either, although the season certainly does that. I’m talking about my soul and the universe itself.

Before I became an itinerant, Christmas bustled with my responsibilities as primary caregiver, social coordinator and hostess of major parties.

After I’d said goodbye to our visiting friends and done the dishes and tidied the house, and my husband and son had gone to bed, I sat in the dark living room lit only with the Christmas Tree lights and the flickering candle. Listening to soft Christmas music, I was primed to write. My male cat, smelling fresh from outside, found his rightful place on my lap and settled there. He then trapped my hand with his paws, pinning me down with love. And there, as I breathed in the scent of wax and fir and cat I found myself again.

Most of us think of Christmas as a busy time, of getting together (often dutifully) with family and friends, exchanging presents and feasting. Christmas is certainly this, but that is only a shallow view of a far deeper event; and I don’t mean only Christians.

Whether celebrating the holy light of Hannukah or the birth of Jesus, or the winter solstice, this season provides us with the opportunity to meditate on far more than the surficial nature of the symbols we have come to associate with the season: the Christmas tree, presents, turkey dinner, Santa Claus or Saint Nicholas—most of which originate from pagan tradition, by the way.

Says Lama Christie McNally (author of The Tibetan Book of Meditation), “once you dive below the surface, you will discover a beautiful clear place—like a diamond hidden beneath the rubble. It is your own mind, uncovered … Tibetans say we have only just begun the process of awakening—that we still have quite a way to go in our evolutionary process. And it has nothing to do with building spaceships or computers. The next step in our evolution takes place within.”

Christmas is, more than anything, a time of embracing paradox. It is an opportunity to still oneself amid the bustle; to find joy in duty; to give of one’s precious time when others have none, to embrace selflessness when surrounded by promoted selfishness, and to be genuine in a commercial and dishonest world. If one were to look beyond the rhetoric and imposed tradition, the Christmas season represents a time of focus, a time to reflect on one’s genuine nature and altruistic destiny. A time to reconnect with the harmony and balance in our lives.

A time to sit with our cat, pinned with love, and write our next novel.

Revising: Improve Your Story Using Paragraphs

December 8, 2015April 4, 2020 / thealiennextdoor / 2 Comments

Enhance Reader Ease by Addressing Paragraphs in Your Revision.

patterns-Spalting log and blu-green stain fungus LR

Spalted maple log (photo by Nina Munteanu)

Ever so often I get a story from a student that reads like one long run-on sentence… A James Joyce special of stream-of-conscious… In fact, what the writer had done is write many sentences without breaking up the narrative into paragraphs. You might be laughing at this point. “I don’t do that,” you might be saying to yourself. “I haven’t done that since high school!” But go take a look at that first draft you’re working on; there it will be: a page-long paragraph. Oops.

We can’t help ourselves. When immersed in the creative process, we often don’t think about structure. That’s OK; that kind of thinking is more appropriate during the second draft revision process, when you are more objectively assessing the “storytelling”. That’s when you want to pay attention to storytelling devices like paragraph breaks.

Paragraphs are defined by a main point or expression or an idea, not by any specific length. Strong paragraphs contain a sentence or several sentences that are unified around one central, controlling idea. A paragraph may be a single sentence or occupy half a page of sentences.

What a Paragraph Does

Paragraphs do several jobs in stories. They: 1) provide a break from long stretches of text both in content and in space on the page, and 2) they help clue the reader in to key changes in your story. The second point is often subtle and can be assigned almost arbitrarily if the need of the first point must be met. This is because the rules are not hard and fast and, ultimately in fiction, an author can “break” them according to their judgment of style and flavor.

Before you start “breaking” rules, you need to understand what paragraphs are meant to do. They:

Introduce something new
Define a shift in something already there
Mark a movement in a sequence

Each of the above is definable and interpretable in many ways from very subtle alterations to very obvious changes. Because of this, it is important to pay attention to the visual role of paragraphs; that is, how they create a more attractive and easeful text for readers. There’s nothing more “slowing” than seeing a page of narrative without any breaks.

Fiction writers use paragraphs much like punctuation to create a visual flow of narrative that varies in cadence, tone and flavor for readers. This is accomplished in several ways.

Vary Paragraph Lengths

Varying paragraph lengths in text provides diversity in the narrative that adds interest for the reader. Long paragraphs unify a more ponderous and serious mood in a reader. Interspersing these with short paragraphs will break up the reader’s tendency for complacent reading and livens the narrative. The short paragraphs, by default, provide areas of emphasis within a sea of longer text. The fiction writer may use these to make a subtle point.

Using Dialogue

Dialogue effectively breaks up paragraphs and provides a lot of open white space that is attractive to readers and increases pace of narrative. However, even dialogue requires variation. Variation can take on the form of 1) dialogue interspersed with descriptive narrative vs. the use of straight back and forth dialogue, and 2) one-line dialogue vs. dialogue containing several sentences (the one line dialogue serves to punctuate).

Paragraph Checklist

In their 2008 book, The Little Brown Handbook by Pearson Longman (Toronto), H. Ramsey Fowler, Jane E. Aaron, Murray McArthur, Deane E.D. Downey, and Barbara H. Pell provide a general checklist for revising paragraphs that is adapted here for fiction writing. This consists of asking the following questions:

Is the paragraph unified? Is it tied to one general idea or narrative direction?
Is the paragraph coherent? Are the sentences linked and do they follow a clear and consistent sequence?
Is the paragraph developed? Is there a logical beginning and end that “frames” a whole idea or thought?

Hope this helps. Don’t forget the one line paragraph.

Very effective.

How to End Your Story

November 28, 2015April 4, 2020 / thealiennextdoor / 1 Comment

Sunset in Niagara-on-the-Lake (photo by Nina Munteanu)

Have you ever seen the movie The Party with Peter Sellers? The first scene is priceless. Sellers plays an actor who is shot in a war scene; he subverts the script by refusing to die. His endless death struggles get so annoying that even the men on his side turn and shoot him.

The last thing you want to do is create an ending or dénouement that struggles in its conclusions. Ultimately, a story’s ending should conclude the story’s plot and theme satisfactorily to the reader.

According to Ansen Dibell, author of Elements of Fiction Writing: Plot, successful endings come in two basic shapes: 1) circular and 2) linear. In a writing workshop I recently participated in, Patrick Rothfuss, author of The Name of the Wind, demonstrated two kinds of endings using his hands: for the first kind he clenched his fists in front of him; for the second kind, he opened his hands airily toward his audience.

The kind of ending you choose for your story will depend on the kind of story you are telling: one that rises to a climax or one that returns home.

Circular Endings

Beginning and ending connect in a circular story. In such a story, the end and the beginning are much more alike than they are to the middle. This is because the end reflects the promise of the beginning. Framed stories use the same technique, except the beginning and end “frame” are more like bookends, supporting the story from the outside and made of a visibly different structure (e.g., often portrayed in prologue and epilogue fashion and often in different POV, tense, style, etc.).

Circular endings, and their circular stories, are often the shape that quest-adventure stories take on. The main character sets out on a quest to find or learn or accomplish something, passes through trials, and finally succeeds in his mission and returns home with his prize to share (often insight or wisdom). Ultimately, the protagonist grows/changes/achieves then brings that wealth back home to alter his pre-existing everyday life. Full circle. Beginning and end mirror and contrast one another.

Circular endings must do the job of showing the hero’s “homecoming”, how she is changed through the turning point in the middle of the story, and what she has brought to the ordinary world to change it.

Linear Endings

Linear stories and their endings run more like a marathon up a hill, with slides, diversions and hard climbs, until they reach the summit and climax (the highest point of conflict—and resolution). Once the result of the conflict is achieved, the story is at an end. Most straight adventure stories are of this type.

Reflective vs. Narrative Ending

Roy Peter Clark, author of Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer, reflects that “great endings bring back the whole story.” He cites the “reflective ending” of The Great Gatsby, in which the narrator reflects back, pulling together the important narrative threads like a master weaver, to make meaningful conclusions.

“A powerful alternative,” adds Clark, “is the ‘narrative ending’, a final scene that crowns the action.” Both types of ending work when masterfully handled. The former is essentially “telling” and the latter is essentially “showing”. You choose. Both work.

Discovering the Ecotones of “When Words Collide”

November 20, 2015April 4, 2020 / thealiennextdoor / 1 Comment

“If you have an apple and I have an apple and we exchange apples then you and I will still each have one apple. But if you have an idea and I have an idea and we exchange these ideas, then each of us will have two ideas.” —George Bernard Shaw

The venue

In August 2015, as part of my sojourn in my homeland of British Columbia, I participated in When Words Collide, one of Canada’s premiere writing and reading festivals in Calgary, Alberta. This is one writing conference I make a point of attending every year.

Held at the Delta Calgary South Hotel, and run by the super team of Randy McCharles, Susan Forest, Sarah Kades, and Mahrie G. Reid—among other awesome volunteers—this multi-genre writing festival initially modeled itself after the International Surrey Writer’s Conference—flavoured and spiced with the joie de vivre energy of a science fiction writer’s convention. The integration of multi-genres, professional interactions (e.g., editors, publishers, writers and readers) and the festivity of costuming, song and dance, is a truly winning combination.

Diana Gabaldon

Guest presenters included best-selling authors Diana Gabaldon, Brandon Mull, Faith Hunter, Daniel Abraham, C.J. Carmichael and agent Sally Harding. The festival included a diversity of panels and workshops, author readings, book launches and parties (including an absinthe-tasting party), an autograph session and a merchant’s corner.

I gave three workshops: one on writing fiction called “Five Things to Consider”; one on narrative voice and POV called “Mastering ‘Voice’ and Narration”; and one on setting called “Mastering Setting.”

Highlights were many: trading stories with my colleagues and writing friends over a drink or signing or loitering in the hallway is always a highlight. Meeting interesting people in a crowd of interesting people is another. Briefly visiting with Diana Gabaldon—an incredibly gracious and entertaining artist—is certainly another.

Eco Panelists

An important highlight for me was moderating a panel on Eco-Fiction. Joining me on the panel were publisher/writer Hayden Trenholm, and writers Michael J. Martineck, Sarah Kades, and Susan Forest. The panel was well attended; panelists and audience discussed and argued what eco-fiction was, its role in literature and storytelling generally, and even some of the risks of identifying a work as eco-fiction.

Someone in the audience brought up the notion that “awareness-guided perception” may suggest an increase of ecological awareness in literature when it is more that readers are just noticing what was always there. Authors agreed and pointed out that environmental fiction has been written for years and it is only now—partly with the genesis of the term eco-fiction—that the “character” and significance of environment is being acknowledged beyond its metaphor; for its actual value. It may also be that the metaphoric symbols of environment in certain classics are being “retooled” through our current awareness much in the same way that Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World or George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty Four are being re-interpreted—and newly appreciated— in today’s world of pervasive surveillance and bio-engineering. I would submit that if we are noticing it more, we are also writing it more. Artists are cultural leaders and reporters, after all. I shared my own experience in the science fiction classes I teach at UofT and George Brown College, in which I have noted a trend of increasing “eco-fiction” in the works in progress that students are bringing in to workshop in class. Students were not aware that they were writing eco-fiction, but they were indeed writing it.

I started branding my writing as eco-fiction a few years ago. Prior to that—even though my stories were strongly driven by an ecological premise and strong environmental setting—I described them as science fiction and many as technological thrillers. Environment’s role remained subtle and—at times—insidious. Climate change. Water shortage. Environmental disease. A city’s collapse. War. I’ve used these as backdrops to explore relationships, values (such as honour and loyalty), philosophies, moralities, ethics, and agencies of action. The stuff of storytelling.

Environment, and ecological characteristics were less “theme” than “character,” with which the protagonist and major characters related in important ways.

Just as Bong Joon-Ho’s 2014 science fiction movie Snowpiercer wasn’t so much about climate change as it was about exploring class struggle, the capitalist decadence of entitlement, disrespect and prejudice through the premise of climate catastrophe. Though, one could argue that these form a closed loop of cause and effect (and responsibility).

The self-contained closed ecosystem of the Snowpiercer train is maintained by an ordered social system, imposed by a stony militia. Those at the front of the train enjoy privileges and luxurious living conditions, though most drown in a debauched drug stupor; those at the back live on next to nothing and must resort to savage means to survive. Revolution brews from the back, lead by Curtis Everett (Chris Evans), a man whose two intact arms suggest he hasn’t done his part to serve the community yet.

Minister Mason (Tilda Swinton), an imperious yet simpering figure who serves the ruling class without quite being part of it, reminds the lower class that:

“We must all of us on this train of life remain in our allotted station. We must each of us occupy our preordained particular position. Would you wear a shoe on your head? Of course you wouldn’t wear a shoe on your head. A shoe doesn’t belong on your head. A shoe belongs on your foot. A hat belongs on your head. I am a hat. You are a shoe. I belong on the head. You belong on the foot. Yes? So it is.

In the beginning, order was prescribed by your ticket: First Class, Economy, and freeloaders like you…Now, as in the beginning, I belong to the front. You belong to the tail. When the foot seeks the place of the head, the sacred line is crossed. Know your place. Keep your place. Be a shoe.”

Ecotones are places where “lines are crossed,” where barriers are breached, where “words collide” and new opportunities arise. Sometimes from calamity. Sometimes from tragedy. Sometimes from serendipity.

When environment shapes a story as archetype—hero, victim, trickster, shadow or shape shifter—we get strong eco-fiction. Good eco-fiction, like any good story, explores the choices we make and the consequences of those choices. Good eco-fiction ventures into the ecotone of overlap, collision, exchange and ultimate change.

In my latest book Water Is… I define an ecotone as the transition zone between two overlapping systems. It is essentially where two communities exchange information and integrate. Ecotones typically support varied and rich communities, representing a boiling pot of two colliding worlds. An estuary—where fresh water meets salt water. The edge of a forest with a meadow. The shoreline of a lake or pond.

For me, this is a fitting metaphor for life, given that the big choices we must face usually involve a collision of ideas, beliefs, lifestyles or worldviews: these often prove to enrich our lives the most for having gone through them. Evolution (any significant change) doesn’t happen within a stable system; adaptation and growth occurs only when stable systems come together, disturb the equilibrium, and create opportunity. Good social examples include a close friendship or a marriage in which the process of “I” and “you” becomes a dynamic “we” (the ecotone) through exchange and reciprocation. Another version of Bernard Shaw’s quote, above, by the Missouri Pacific Agriculture Development Bulletin reads: “You have an idea. I have an idea. We swap. Now, you have two ideas and so do I. Both are richer. What you gave you have. What you got I did not lose. This is cooperation.” This is ecotone.

Tidal pools in Botanical Beach, BC (photo by Nina Munteanu)

I think we are seeing more eco-fiction out there because ecosystems, ecology and environment are becoming more integral to story: as characters in their own right. I think we are seeing more eco-fiction out there because we are ready to see it. Just as quantum physics emerged when it did and not sooner, an idea—a thought—crystalizes when we are ready for it.

Don’t stay a shoe … go find an ecotone. Then write about it.

Hope to see you at When Words Collide next year.

For my complete critique of Snowpiercer in The Alien Next Door, go here.

The Careful Writer: Commonly Misused Terms

November 16, 2015March 5, 2024 / thealiennextdoor / 4 Comments

Spalting wood (photo by Nina Munteanu)

When I first started writing stories — a while ago — I knew that I was a poor speller, had generally bad syntax and often misused grammar. Someone, who believed in my capacity to tell a good story, despite my shortcomings in delivery, handed me a slim copy of Strunk and White’s classic guide The Elements of Style. This elegant 105 page book includes elementary rules of usage; elementary principles of composition; a few matters of form; words and expressions commonly misused; and an approach to style.

It is “…still a little book, small enough and important enough to carry in your pocket, as I carry mine,” said Charles Osgood. And it has helped me out of a few messes. Let’s look at some examples of commonly misused words and expressions. These words and expressions, Strunk and White tell us, “are not so much bad English as bad style, the commonplaces of careless writing.” Being mindful of our language and our style can often make the difference in a publisher’s or editor’s perception of our professionalism.

Here are some of my favorites, in some cases more because of Strunk and White’s pithy comments than from the actual utility of the advice. Have you used any of these?

Allude: not to confuse with elude. You allude to a book; you elude a pursuer.

Allusion: easily confused with illusion. The first means “an indirect reference”; the second means “an unreal image” or “false impression”.

As to whether: whether is sufficient.

Being: not appropriate after regard…as. For instance, go from “she is regarded as being the best writer” to “she is regarded as the best writer.”

But: unnecessary after doubt and help. For instance, go from “I have no doubt but that…” or “She could not help but…” to “I have no doubt that…” and “She could not help…”

Compare: to compare to points out the similarity between objects regarded as different (as in most metaphor); to compare with points out the differences between objects that are similar. For instance, life may be compared to a pilgrimage; Paris may be compared with London (another large city) but compared to a movable feast. Nina: some modern linguists consider these interchangeable and do not distinguish the metaphoric elements of comparison. I concur with Strunk and White.

Comprise: literally means embrace. A zoo comprises mammals, reptiles and birds — because it embraces or includes them. The animals do not comprise a zoo — they constitute one.

Disinterested: means “impartial”. Do not confuse with “uninterested” which means “not interested in”. You bring in a disinterested (impartial) person to judge a dispute; another may be uninterested (couldn’t care less) about the dispute.

Effect: noun means “result”, and as a verb means “to accomplish”; not to be confused with “affect” which means “to influence”.

Farther/further: farther refers to distance and further refers to time.

Finalize: called a pompous and ambiguous verb by Strunk and White, I must confess using it many times in my other life as a consultant in business. Every segment of our society adopts its own vernacular of offbeat, “jargon” words and expressions that are regarded to help the flow of business. Another example that comes to mind is the use of dialogue as a verb. When using vernacular of any kind, be mindful that it is appropriate to your character, situation and story.

Imply/infer: not interchangeable. To imply is to suggest or indicate but not overtly express; to infer is to deduce from available evidence.

Interesting: Strunk and White suggest that this is, in fact, an uninteresting word, given that it tends to label and “tells” rather than letting the writer “show”. For instance, instead of using “an interesting tale of …” avoid the preamble and simply make it interesting! Let the reader judge. Telling them won’t make it so. This applies also to any letters you write to publishers and editors; avoid telling them your story is funny or interesting. Show it in your description.

Less: don’t use instead of fewer. Less refers to quantity; fewer to number. For instance “his troubles are less than mine” means they are of less magnitude; while “his troubles are fewer than mine” means he has a small number of troubles.

Nice: means everything and nothing. Use it sparingly and judiciously with intention; in other words, to be purposefully vague as in conversation. Strunk and White define it as a “shaggy, all purpose word”.

One of the most: Strunk and White define this phrase as a “feeble formula” that is threadbare, invites cliché and adds little except words to narration.

Personalize: Strunk and White dismiss it as a “pretentious word, often carrying bad advice. Do not personalize your prose,” they say, “simply make it good and keep it clean.” I agree. It falls under jargon.

Prestigious: “it’s in the dictionary, but that doesn’t mean you have to use it,” say our prestigious experts. Sorry … couldn’t help myself.

That/which: that is the defining (restrictive) pronoun; which is non-defining. For instance, 1) the lawnmower that is broken is in the garage (tells us which one); 2) the lawnmower, which is broken, is in the garage (gives us an additional fact about the lawnmower).

While: many writers use it indiscriminately for and, but and although. It can be efficiently replaced by a semi-colon (e.g., change “the girl stood by the door, while the man stood next to the couch.” to “the girl stood by the door; the man stood next to the couch.”). While is best used to mean “during the time that”.

For more writing tips on writing fiction (and non-fiction or memoir) check out “The Alien Guidebook Series” on writing.

References:

Strunk, William and E.B. White. 2000. “The Elements of Style” (Fourth edition). Longman. New York. 105 pp.

The Meaning of Writing and Water with Nina Munteanu

November 10, 2015April 4, 2020 / thealiennextdoor / 1 Comment

I was recently invited to “Liquid Lunch” a program on That Channel in Toronto, Ontario, to discuss the writing process and my new book on water, “Water Is…” with Hugh Reilly and Hildegard Gmeiner:

Hugh Reilly

Hildegard Gmeiner

Nina Munteanu

“Water Is…” is due for release early 2016. Below is the final cover by Aurora finalist Costi Gurgu (more on the book and the cover later):

Nina Teaching SF Writing Course at George Brown College FALL 2015

September 19, 2015April 4, 2020 / thealiennextdoor / Leave a comment

I’m back at George Brown College in Toronto, teaching my 12-week long writing course on how to write science fiction. “Creating Science Fiction” is now part of George Brown’s Creative Writing Certificate.

The 12-week course starts SEPTEMBER 22 (TUESDAY) and runs until DECEMBER 8th. See the description below:

The course “Creating Science Fiction” runs TUESDAY nights from 6:15 to 9:15 starting September 22nd through to December 8th and costs $285.

Meant for both beginning writers and those already published, the 12-week course is run like a workshop with student input and feedback on student’s WIPs.

Munteanu explores with students the essential tools used in the SF genre (including world building, research and plot approaches). “Students will work toward a publishable original piece by learning to generate and follow through with premise, idea and theme,” says Munteanu.

You can register for the course here:

George Brown College is located on 200 King Street, Toronto, Canada.

How Art Reveals Truth in Science

August 18, 2015April 4, 2020 / thealiennextdoor / 3 Comments

Mountain cabin, Switzerland (photo by Nina Munteanu)

It is quite possible … that we will always learn more about human life and personality from novels than from scientific psychology —Naom Chomsky

In the 1920s, physicist Niels Bohr struggled to re-imagine the structure of matter. He rejected the current hegemony of a fractal “solar system” model and sought a new metaphor. “When it comes to atoms,” said Bohr, “language can only be used as poetry.”

Bohr compared the invisible world of atoms and electrons to cubist art because, according to Jonah Lehrer in an article in SeedMagazine.com, it “revealed the fissures in everything, turning the solidity of matter into a surreal blur.” In 1923 deBroglie had determined that electrons could exist as particles or waves. Bohr maintained that the form they took depended on how you looked at them: by simply observing, you determined their nature.

Many of us believe that while art can be profound, it does not solve practical challenges of reality; only scientific knowledge, which progresses on a linear ascent toward greater understanding, resolve the serious challenges of our world and will one day solve everything.

This is, of course a matter of belief. Novelist Vladimir Nabokov once wrote, “the greater one’s science, the deeper the sense of mystery.” The traditional elements of science have used a reductionist approach to understand the whole, looking at the parts and reconstructing the causal pathways. Take the synapse, for instance. Neuroscientists now know that 100 billion electrical cells occupy a human brain, that every cubic millimeter of the cerebral cortex contains a billion synapses involved in the neurotransmission of electrical impulses in perception and thought. Yet, as Novelist Richard Powers challenged, ‘If we knew the world only through synapses, how could we know the synapse?”

“The paradox of neuroscience,” said Lehrer, “is that its astonishing progress has exposed the limitations of its paradigm … Neuroscience has yet to capture [the] first-person perspective. Artists … distill the details of real life into prose and plot … They capture a layer of reality that reductionism cannot … and provide science with a glimpse into its blind spots … Sometimes the whole is better understood in terms of the whole … No scientific model of the mind will be complete unless it includes what can’t be reduced.”

Logical minds will reject art as too incoherent and imprecise to contribute to the knowledge base provided by scientific process. They will maintain that Beauty isn’t Truth, that the novel is just a work of fiction, and abstract art the arcane expression of a micro-culture.

But what of paradox? Critic Randall Jarrell contended that, “it is the contradictions of works of art which make them able to represent us — as logical and methodical generalizations cannot — our world and our selves, which are also full of contradictions.” The cultural hypotheses of artists can inspire the questions that stimulate important new scientific answers, adds Lehrer.

The irony of modern physics is that it seeks reality in its most fundamental form, and yet we are incapable of comprehending these fundamentals beyond the math we use to represent them. The only way to know the universe is through analogy.

Douglas fir, Vancouver (photo by Nina Munteanu)

Richard Feynman said, “Our imagination is stretched to the utmost, not, as in fiction, to imagine things which are not really there, but just to comprehend those things which are there.”

While artists rely on imagination, much of modern physics exceeds the imagination: dark matter, quarks and neutrinos, black holes, multiple dimensions and folded space. To venture beyond the regular confines of our “ordinary world” where matter is certain, time flows forward and there are only three dimensions, we must resort to metaphor. “Metaphor in science serves not just as a pedagogical device,” wrote physicist and novelist Alan Lightman, “but also as an aid to scientific discovery.” Einstein came up with relativity while thinking about moving trains; Arthur Eddington compared the expansion of the universe to an inflated balloon; James Clerk Maxwell visualized magnetic fields as little whirlpools in space. String theory is often imagined as garden hoses.

The greatest physicists of the 20^th century thought metaphorically. String theorist Brian Greene wrote that the arts have the ability to “give a vigorous shake to our sense of what’s real.” Picasso never understood the equations, says Lehrer: “he picked up the non-Euclidian geometry via the zeitgeist.” A century later some scientists still use his fragmented images to symbolize their ideas. “Novelists can stimulate the latest theories of consciousness through their fiction … Painters can explore new theories about the visual cortex … Dancers can help untangle the mysterious connection between the body and emotion.”

Both science and art benefit from exchange. By inviting art to participate in its conversation, science provides art with the opportunity to add science to its repertoire. And through its interpretation of scientific ideas and theories, art offers science a new lens through which to see itself.

Karl Popper exhorts us to “give up the idea of ultimate sources of knowledge, and admit that all knowledge is human; that it is mixed with our errors, our prejudices, our dreams, and our hopes.”

Window in University College, UofT (photo by Nina Munteanu)

Both science and art benefit from exchange. By inviting art to participate in its conversation, science provides art with the opportunity to add science to its repertoire. And through its interpretation of scientific ideas and theories, art offers science a new lens through which to see itself.