Once upon a time, I was an aspiring writer with no time for luck.  It wasn’t hard to find, out on the interwebs, those who hung on to various odd theories about how some folks managed to get their books published and others didn’t; one of the things that sometimes got said was that it was all about luck.  (That, or it was all about who you knew, what secret handshake you’d mastered, etc.).

The luck theory was, I suppose, a bit less daft than the various conspiracies proposed, but I still didn’t give it much credence.  I reckoned, in my infinite wisdom, that getting published and making a success of it was all about talent and application.  Maybe, I might have grudgingly conceded, the tiniest little bit of luck now and again; but mostly, not luck.

Now, I’ve got a different take on the whole business.  Sure, luck can play a part.  Not just in getting published in the first place, but in what happens thereafter.  I’ve had the odd bit of luck here and there.

The thing I’ve come to believe about luck, though, is that although you as a writer, aspiring or otherwise, can’t exactly control it, you can give it the chance it needs to make a difference.  You can invite luck into your writing life.  It’s not some numinous, magical force that picks folk out at random to sprinkle its beneficial pixie dust upon.  I mean, it might do that sometimes, but just as often the old cliche is true: You make your own luck.

Which brings me to the closest thing I’ve got to general advice for aspiring writers.  Luck might have a part to play in making your dreams come true.  You don’t get to decide whether, or when or how it will do so; that’s kind of in the nature of the luck beast.  But you can give it the chance to make a difference.  How do you do that?  Easy.

  • You write a lot, and you aspire to write well.  That means getting words down on (virtual) paper, finishing things you start, giving yourself the time and practice to get better at it.  You set your sights, and your expectations of yourself, high.
  • You put things you have written out there into the world.  Give them air.  You submit your work to magazines, publishers etc.  It’s difficult for luck to intervene if it doesn’t have the basic material to work with, and in this case that basic material is your work, sent out into the world.

I should note that this is not a roundabout way of advocating the self-publishing route that is so easily available now.  It has its place, no doubt, and there are those (not many) for whom it has worked magic.  But consider the possibility that on occasion it might also be a trap.  It’s an invitation to try a shortcut around parts of the first of those two bullet points and skip to the second: ‘putting your work out there’.  And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

So I’ve had my share of luck, some of it earned, some unearned.  None of it, though, would have happened if I hadn’t learned to finish pieces of writing, if I hadn’t sent them out to see what other, professional folks thought of them and taken rejection as a suggestion that I should try harder, if I hadn’t said ‘yes’ to certain opportunities or invitations that came my way that allowed me to get more writing out there, or get my existing writing into a different form.

All of which is perhaps just a long-winded way of saying that if you’re an aspiring author, or a published author who wants to get better or be more successful, luck might be able to help.  But if it does, it probably won’t be as a substitute for putting the hours in, risking and learning from rejection, aiming high, striving to improve.  More likely, it’ll be a result of those things.

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A few miscellaneous bits. Starting with by far the most important thing, the minor frustrations of my life. Because that’s what really matters, right?

So, I’m going to talk to some students on the MLitt course at Stirling University today. Enthuse or dispirit them on the subject of the life of a published author; could go either way, I suspect. Naturally, given that appointment, today’s the day I wake up with a sore throat, cough and general feeling of mild grottiness. Typical. Harrumph. Does it affect the odds of the enthuse or dispirit outcome? Time will tell.

Raising my eyes (reluctantly) from my own travails, I see B&N is heading into turbulent waters. Looks like those hoping the Nook might save them from a slow fade into history might be disappointed. And for reasons that are mysterious to me, it seems the founder wants to break up the company, taking over the the bookselling bit and cutting adrift the digital/Nook bit. It all looks very much like decline to me, terminal or otherwise. Given they’ve already said they’re going to be closing stores, it’s the slow-motion chewing up of a formerly strong but now very definitely fragile company. I’m kind of sceptical, to put it extremely mildly, much of it’s going to be left intact by the time the mastication is over.

Creative destruction’s all very well, but the future of writing, publishing, selling and reading books does not look a hugely appealing place to me these days. Quasi-monopolistic dictatorships are rarely pretty. We’re all going to have to live there, though, so might as well try to make the best of it.  Enjoy your nearest bricks and mortar bookstore while you can.

And here’s The Miniature Earth. What the world would look like, numbers-wise, if it was a village of 100 souls. Not a great deal that’s hugely surprising, but it’s kind of interesting, and elegantly done.

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I am aware that this is the third Moving Pictures on a Friday post in a row, with no intervening more sensible content appearing on this here blog. Sorry about that. I plead business. Yes, that’s my excuse: business.

I think I can guarantee that some distinctly more substantial content will be along next week, but in the meantime here’s a short film I like quite a bit. Some people are jolly clever.

Malaria from Edson Oda on Vimeo.

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I like parasites.  They do the craziest things; things that rightfully belong in sf, fantasy or horrror fiction rather than the real world.  Like create zombie ants. Biology’s a great place to trawl for story ideas.

If you’re currently eating anything, might be an idea to finish that before watching this.  Just saying.

CreatureCast – Lancet Liver Fluke from Casey Dunn on Vimeo.

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I just like this. Anything that reminds us, now and again, that the natural world is full of marvels is a good thing. We’re small and ephemeral things, us humans, compared to some of the life we grudgingly share the planet with.

That giant – it’s known, wonderfully I think, as Hyperion -  is centuries old and over 115m tall.   That’s quite a lot taller than the distance from the ground to the tippy tip tip of the Statue of Liberty’s torch.  Good job, Nature.

It’s out there, somewhere, even as you read this.  Hidden away in its secret valley, its silent forest.  Not doing anything, just being.  Being the tallest tree in the world.  Cool.

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Belatedly realised it’s been something close to an eternity since I offered an update here on what I’ve been talking about in my comics column over at SF Signal (though I can’t resist mentioning that if you follow me on Twitter, you’ll be more up to date).  So, since last we spoke of it:

I talked about the spectacularly good sf/fantasy epic-in-the-making Saga,

then I talked about the crazy, inspired mad scientist romp that is The Manhattan Projects,

then I talked about the Hellboy-related magnum opus B.P.R.D. Plague of Frogs.

All are speculative fiction of a pretty high order, and well worth a try even if you’re not a regular comics reader.  Especially Saga, which is not only immensely accessible but I predict is going to be drowning in awards in coming months.

As ever, the full extent of my comics-related rambling is preserved for (inflicted upon?) posterity in the Words and Pictures archive over there.

I like, and use Amazon, as much as any averagely active buyer of stuff over the internet.  That’s as a price-conscious consumer.  As a reader and writer, and as someone who is generally in favour of choice and competition in as many industries and retail sectors as possible, I find them … alarming, I suppose.  Not so long ago, I tended to use The Book Depository for most of my book purchases, in part specifically because they weren’t Amazon, but … oh, look.  Amazon bought them.  What a surprise.

So I’m a fan of anything that introduces more diversity into the online bookselling scene (because I think we can safely assume that nobody’s going to be introducing more diversity into the bricks and mortar bookselling scene any time soon).  The arrival of Bookish is therefore interesting.  It’s backed by three big publishers (including mine), and loads more are connected to it, so whatever anyone might say it’s undoubtedly at least in part an attempt to break Amazon’s growing stranglehold on their business.

But never mind why it’s (belatedly, since it’s been in the works for ages) here, or who’s behind it: putting my price-conscious consumer’s hat on for a second, Bookish looks like a good thing.  Competitive prices for both print and e-books, loads of social features, wide range of titles etc. etc.  It’s also a USA thing, so to any and all of you living on that side of the Atlantic I merely suggest: check it out, maybe give it a try.

Choice and competition matter, and they are not heading in a healthy direction at the moment.  To put it mildly.  Using Bookish might be one small way to nurture them.

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Saga of the Exiles

I found out the other day, entirely by accident, that Julian May’s Saga of the Exiles is out (in the UK – not in the US, I think) in new editions.  Not before time, if you ask me.

I adored – I don’t think that’s too strong a word, but it was a long time ago so who knows? – this series when I was a teenager.  I definitely really, really liked it.  It’s many years since I read it, so I can’t be 100% certain what I’d make of it now, but for the sake of argument let’s take the word of the young me: it’s great.

I confess, I don’t like the new covers – that dark, fiery one at the top – nearly as much as the elegant original ones I bought way back when (that blueish one down below).  Something about the new ones looks a bit … I dunno, generic?  Uninformative?  Those old covers had a hint of class and exoticism and teasing fascination about them, I thought.

Anyway, leave that aside.  The contents are what matters, right?

In the 22nd century, we invent time travel.  Hooray!  Unfortunately, it basically consists of a strictly one-way gate back to Earth’s Pliocene era, six million years ago.  Not so Hooray.  There are those willing to take a one-way trip to the distant past, though, so a steady trickle of adventurers and eccentrics begins to flow back into prehistory.  The four book series recounts the strange and complicated tale of what they find there and the dramatic effects their arrival has.

Not to spoil any surprises (since it’s spoiled in most descriptions of the books online), but it turns out that the Pliocene world awaiting them is not the uninhabited wilderness they expected.  Instead, it’s a battleground between two warring alien races – exiles of a sort themselves – who welcome new human arrivals from the 22nd century as, essentially, slaves and servants.  What follows from that initial revelation is a grand adventure that mixes epic fantasy and science fiction with tremendous success.

I probably would have liked the series just fine for its exotic setting, fun premise and the drama of aliens contesting the rule of prehistoric Europe.  But what Julian May does is to expand and complicate what might have been a relatively simple narrative by making the humans – who they are, why they’ve come back to the past, and what ‘issues’ they’ve brought back with them – much, much more central to the overall plot than at first appears to be the case.  By the time things really get going – on a genuinely epic scale – prodiguously powerful heroes, heroines and villains are wreaking havoc and threatening cataclysm.  It all feels increasingly like a tale of flawed demi-gods acting out roles from deep myth.

Which in a way it is, because much of what’s going on is based on real-world Celtic mythology.  Races, heroes and weapons are all science fictional stand-ins for their equivalents in the mythological history of the British Isles, especially Ireland.  That May makes it all work, fantasy and science fiction running perfectly happily alongside one another, is no small achievement.

(Although I would say, based on my admittedly imperfect memories, that in truth, at root, it’s functionally a fantasy series. The conceits – like the time gateway, and various other elements that show up – might be science fictional, but in style and tone and plot structures it’s more like a modern epic fantasy than anything else. Maybe space opera, I suppose. Doesn’t really matter. It is it’s own distinctive self.)

I’d highly recommend you give this a try, if you haven’t already. In terms of sheer entertainment and immersion, it was one of the highlights of my early genre reading.  In fact, thinking back, I’m pretty sure Saga of the Exiles was one of just two key series that enabled me to make the transition from childhood love of Lord of the Rings to an enduring affection for more modern epic fantasy (the other series was the Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, unsurprisingly). 

Those two – the Saga and the Chronicles – were the books I found back then that really satisfyingly answered the question the young me was unconsciously asking: ‘LotR was great, but what’s being published now that’s the same, and good, but different?’  Without Julian May and Stephen Donaldson, who knows?  I might never have made the jump to long-term genre fan. Never underestimate the potential influence of the right book, encountered at the right time.

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Since I was talking about a comic I stopped reading in my last post, seems only fair to balance that out with a pointer towards one I just started reading.  The good thing about this one is that if you’re so inclined you can read it – as I’ve started doing – entirely free of charge, in the form of a webcomic.

Skullkickers is a mildly bonkers, quite silly, quite violent fantasy comic following the adventures of two not especially bright but admirably determined mercenaries.  It’s pretty simple stuff, but it’s got plenty of energy and is a a diverting read.  Tongues are firmly planted in cheeks here, so I guess your level of enjoyment might vary depending on how in tune with the humour you are, but as with a great many webcomics (although this is technically a print comic adapted to the web), the more you read the more fun you’re likely to find it.

It’s written by Jim Zub and drawn mostly by Edwin Huang (with bits drawn by Chris Stevens, who’s the official ‘co-creator’ of the series).

As a side note, Jim Zub has a very good blog, which occasionally includes fascinatingly frank inside info on the inner workings and creative economics of the comics business.  That’s also where I found out about another graphic novel he’s got online – Makeshift Miracle – which I haven’t read yet so I’ve no idea if it’s good, but it does have absolutely lovely looking art by Shun Hong Chan.

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Because it’s too good at what it does, that’s why.

Most folks probably know The Walking Dead as a hit TV series chronicling the zombie apocalypse. I guess most of those most folks also know it was a comics series first, and not a few of them have probably read it.

I watched the first series of the TV show and haven’t been back for more, mainly because I just found it a little bit too slow and my time available for TV watching is pretty limited. (Best I can tell from secondhand reports, the second series was yet slower but the third has upped its game considerably – I stand to be corrected by anyone who’s actually watched all that stuff, though).

But I’ve doggedly read a whole heap of the comic series on which this is all based. Over the years, I’ve accumulated 12 trade paperbacks that collect the first 72 single issues; I’m still way behind, since issue #105 or so (?) is currently in the shops. But I don’t think I’ll be buying any more, and I’ve given the reasons why a good deal of thought. So much thought that I predict a lengthy post …

The bottom line is that I find it all too grim. Which might sound rich coming from the author of the Godless World trilogy, in which not a few readers detected a certain grimness. Generally, I don’t mind a bleak tone to my fiction, as either writer or reader, but The Walking Dead has a particular bleakness that I find almost uniquely stressful. I’d almost go so far as to say upsetting, in fact.

Why? Three reasons spring to mind.

1. As the series has gone on and on, patterns and thematic fixations have become apparent that have a cumulative effect to greatly darken the tone of the series. It’s in the nature of long-running serial fiction, to some extent; you have to keep upping the stakes and pushing the limits to achieve the same effect on the readers. Diminishing returns and all that.

In the case of The Walking Dead, the result is a cycle in which glimmers of hope and optimism appear, and are then brutally snuffed out as characters – and readers – learn that no, everything is in fact utterly  dreadful and no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse. More and more extremes of human suffering and cruelty are not only possible but inevitable.

It all ends up saying (to me, at any rate): Hope is illusory; humans are capable of limitless savagery and cruelty; and that savagery and cruelty is going to be consciously used to manipulate the reader’s emotions and engagement. Now, the first two of those statements may be true, and true or not they’re absolutely 100% reasonable and interesting subjects for fictional exploration, though they’re not necessarily a recipe for sustaining a pleasurable reading experience over the long term.

That last statement – about the authorial use of suffering in the context of reader engagement – is much more complicated, and something I feel more ambivalent about, which leads into …

2. The creators – Robert Kirkman and Charlie Adlard – are too good at what they do. My problem is that I’m increasingly uncomfortable with what they’re doing. With the creative choices being made. In fact, that’s a big part of the problem: at some point I became too aware that deliberate, conscious choices were being made, and that on some level I found them … distasteful, is the only word I can think of.

Much of what goes on in The Walking Dead is quite brilliant, as a display of serial comics writing. Kirkman’s use of cliffhangers, twists, reveals, reversals and so on puts much of the rest of the industry to shame.  For a long time, I was dazzled by the remarkable success of the series in creating layered, engaging characters the reader could care about. I still am, really. My problem came with the growing suspicion that the use to which that success was being put was the heightening of the disorientating trauma being inflicted on both those characters and the reader. By always choosing the darkest outcome, the most extreme manifestation of human suffering and cruelty; by making, in some way, the infliction of suffering not only part of the means but at the same time the point of all that effort put into securing reader engagement.

Early on, I thought The Walking Dead was an interesting and challenging exploration of how real people might behave in the face of an apocalypse. (I thought that because it was, and arguably still is).

But it has also come to feel – I’m specifically not saying that it necessarily is, just that it feels to me – like an exercise in the carefully designed physical and psychological torture of characters.  Not for the sake of any larger message or theme, because any such message or theme was fully and convincingly articulated earlier in the series, but for it’s own sake.  Pushing the limits further and further feels redundant.  Indulgent.  Turns out, me no like.  An ever increasing number of folk do like, though, and send that message to the creators unambiguously via the sales figures, so clearly I’m out of tune with a large chunk of readers.  Which is fine.  Tastes vary.  Case in point …

3. My tastes have changed. In part that’s probably just me getting older (boo hoo), but in larger part it’s definitely to do with becoming a parent a few years ago. That change in status abruptly and rather unexpectedly changed the way I respond to all kinds of things (shouldn’t be unexpected, and it wasn’t entirely, but nevertheless I wasn’t quite prepared for the all-pervasive ways in which it affected my emotional responses).

In this context, parenthood not only made me rather less enamoured of relentless bleakness in my fiction, but made me vastly more sensitive to, and uncomfortable with, reading about the suffering of children. And children suffer a whole lot in The Walking Dead. They kill and get killed. They undergo acute and extreme psychological trauma that has believably major effects on their behaviour and personalities. That believability is a big part of the problem for me; it’s a tribute to the quality of the writing (again) that it all feels just too plausibly real. It’s not fun, in other words, for the big softie I have become.

(This is the same reason, incidentally, why I have not either seen or read The Road movie or book. Both might be brilliant, and not nearly as stress-inducing as I fear, but the subject matter just doesn’t appeal.)

Oh, and a fourth, rather specific reason occurs to me.

4. Spoilers. I’m generally pretty unaffected by spoilers – I don’t go out of my way to avoid them. But The Walking Dead is conclusive proof that spoilers can have big effects, because a specific one pretty much triggered my final decision to stop reading the series.

It became obvious from even the most casual perusal of comics websites that the landmark 100th issue of the series, which came out late last year, features a peculiarly brutal, graphic and extreme scene. That in itself wasn’t a surprise (see above point about the need to keep upping the stakes to achieve the same effect); what was a surprise was the number of people I saw online – hardened, appreciative long-term readers of The Walking Dead – commenting on just how disturbing and distressing that scene was.

Which is what it was meant to be, of course, and given the considerable skills of the creators concerned I’m not surprised they delivered on that intent. But I was already uncomfortable with what I was reading in The Walking Dead, and with that pervasive intent itself, so knowing something like that was on the horizon became the straw that broke the camel’s back. I more or less literally thought to myself: ‘I’m not enjoying this any more, and it’s only going to get worse.  Therefore I should stop.’

So I’m done. At least until my heart hardens once more, and I re-acquire a stomach strong enough for what The Walking Dead is serving up.  Good luck to all those still enjoying the series.  I still think it’s a remarkable accomplishment, I understand its appeal and addictive qualities, and I genuinely think its success is deserved.  But it’s no longer for me.

Perversely, this might even prompt me to revisit the TV series, because I don’t for one second believe they can possibly push things as far, and into such staggeringly dark places, on the TV screens of America as the comic has gradually done.  It just might be that that kind of watered-down Walking Dead is what my palate needs these days.

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