No "Best #fridayflash of the Month" for September

I just wanted to leave a quick note that there will be no Best #fridayflash of the month award for September because well tomorrow is the end of the month and on Sat I'll be jetting off to Greece for a couple weeks. So instead I will roll September and October together into a fantastic Septober version.


I'll be catching up when I get back though, so if you want to make sure your story is read by me, post the link in the comments.


Thanks,


Michael

Be a Rockstar!

You're a writer, so you're probably not wearing leather pants up on a stage in front of thousands of adoring crowds as the pyrotechnics blast off, filling the arena with the haze only spent benzine fuel could create while you do your work. (I you are, well that's awesome and I want to be you.) No. You're probably sitting in your office, living room, library, or coffee shop pecking away at your keyboard...alone. So how do you become a rockstar, and why?


Rockstars are generally really good at their craft. (And yes, this can be anything...not just music anymore. A Rockstar is somebody that is really good at what they do, and they have the personality that makes it fun to be witness to their genius. They are flamboyant and even a little arrogant. They make difficult things look easy and smile when they are done like they know you're amazed.


A rockstar is a surgeon who performs delicate brain surgery while whistling "Yankee Doodle" and when they are done, they say 'it was nothing.' 


A rockstar is an athlete who makes the opposition look like fools, and when they win, their celebration is elaborate and planned, because they knew they would win.


A rockstar is a writer who spins tales of intrigue that memorize their audience while they goof off in the media (or social media) but yet they never say anything dumb...they're just fun.


What you don't see though is the surgeon spending long hours in the library or skills lab, the athlete pushing their body to the limit, or the writer sitting at they keyboard typing out lines and lines of text even when they don't want to.


A rockstar is brilliant and arrogant in the public eye, but privately, they are mad perfectionists making sure their skills are the best in the world, and they won't settle for less. They work harder than anybody else, but they don't let the world see.


Why do you want to be a rockstar and not just a 'brilliant writer?' People love rockstars and their personalities, and they sell a lot of their work. And wouldn't that be nice if you were able to sell tons of copies of your book and actually quit your dayjob? A brilliant writer might write great books, but just like a brilliant musician, if nobody reads/listens to them, does it really matter?


If a brilliant book gets published in the middle of the forest, but nobody is around to read it, is the book really brilliant?


So how do you do this? How do you become a rockstar? YOU WORK YOUR ASS OFF IN PERFECTING YOUR CRAFT. You type at your keyboard until your fingers are arthritic and then you take some Alieve and keep going. You read voraciously in and out of your genre. Fiction and Non-fiction and you become the best damn writer you can be. And once you do that, you keep doing it day in and day out.


But you must also take some time out of your day to polish your rockstar image. Get on Twitter, Google+, Facebook, or your blog and smirk at the world as if you barely work at all. Poke fun of the latest Franzen novel and even belittle some of your own work by brushing off praise. Even pretend like you don't need or want it. Or perhaps you go Muhammad Ali and and proclaim yourself the greatest writer of all time...even if you don't know it yet.


"I am the greatest, I said that even before I knew I was." Muhammad Ali


Once you are oozing with confidence because you're convinced yourself that you truly are a bad-ass , and you mix that with the hard work you have put into your craft...you just might become a rockstar and the greatest writer of all time.


(This was a very fun post to write, and plus, it gave me an excuse to put up a picture of Judas Priest)

Anachronistic Dialogue in Fantasy

This Friday I wrote a short piece of fantasy flash fiction where a number of commenters raised an interesting issue. They noted that my dialogue pulled them out of the story because it was too modern. But, at the same time we can't be using period authentic dialogue and still get our point across. Now, with fantasy you have a little more leeway because the period the story is based off is a little more ambiguous, but even writers of historical fiction can't be 100% true to the language.


Imagine a historical fiction about the signing of the Magna Carta (assuming they talk in English vs. Latin.) Now you can argue that even the Old English that they would use is a completely different language, but in the end, our modern English is evolved from that, just so that our modern 21st century English is evolved from 17th century English. Not only are the definitions of the words different, but the metaphors will make absolutely no sense to the modern reader. This is probably why even the Canterbury tales (late 1300's and technically Middle English) is published often with the original text and a modern translation along with it.


So, unless you are one of those stubborn purists, I've probably convinced you that dialogue for fantasy and even historical fiction needs to be modernized. But that does not give writers a licence (if they want people to read what they write) to have the dialogue of their fantasy roughly based on the middle ages to include, "Dude, I'm trying to celebrate and chill, but you're harshing my buzz. What's going on?" This is where we now get to the interesting point of this article. We can't take modern dialogue and stick it in the story, but you also can't be authentic. What are you to do?


First, that example ("Dude, I'm trying to celebrate and chill, but you're harshing my buzz. What's going on?") is my rough, modern translation of this line from Chaucer, "What fold been ye, that at myn hom-comynge perturben so my feste with criynge?" Neither works, but we can do better, right?


The first problem with my version (if this was going into a fantasy of historical fiction piece) is obviously the slang. "Dude, chill, and harshing my buzz." We need to take that out and replace it with something perhaps a little more appropriate. How about:


"Sir, I'm trying to celebrate and relax, but your spirit is without cheer. What's going on?"


Now there's an interesting thing here as well. I've got some contractions in there. I'm sure people back in the day used them just as we do today, but there seems to be a prejudice in our media (movies, plays, books, etc.) about the people back in the day speaking in nice, crisp, proper English...without contractions. And especially somebody would would bother addressing anybody as 'sir.' So, taking those out, we have:


"Sir, I am trying to celebrate and relax, but your spirit is without cheer. What is going on?"


I'm still not happy with "What is going on?" and I think there needs to be a better way. It still sounds too modern (even though, as we saw from Chaucer, everything about my sentence is 'modern.'). So what I'm going to do is just take a phrase that, again, would make no sense in the 14th century, and see what happens:


"Sir, I am trying to celebrate and relax, but your spirit is without cheer. Please, tell me what is the matter?"


All I did was take a phrase that is not used all that often and put it in there instead. This and the other things I put in there alert the reader to know that this is definitely not taking place right this day, because just about nobody they encounter on a daily basis talks like that. From there you are free to use the setting to give your reader a more accurate sense of time.


You don't really want to create authentic period dialogue, but instead what you want is transparent dialogue that gets the character voice across and keeps the plot moving forward. Don't use it for creating setting, let your descriptions do that.


So in summary, what I would recommend at this moment would be the following:


1) Get rid of all slang (contemporary or otherwise unless it is native to the period you are working with)


2) Understand that formality and manners can be useful for some characters to highlight that we are not in our modern time period


3) Use uncommon phrases that seemingly transcend time to allow your setting to pin point the time period.


4) Don't use the 'thee, thou, thine' stuff unless you know what you are doing and the rest of your dialogue is going to be very close to authentic. And even the, I feel it takes away from the clarity and becomes less than transparent.


Hopefully my little rant was helpful, and props go to those who pointed out this issue of anachronistic dialogue in my flash. Without you, I never would have sat down to think about this. Thanks.


What do you think? How should dialogue be handled in Fantasy (and Historical Fiction.)

#Fridayflash Always Get a Name

As always, I appreciate comments, but don't be afraid to show me some Stabby Love.

He wanted to strike at my legs for the last couple parries, but he didn’t have the confidence. When our steel met once more, I listened in on his thoughts. I’m going to do it. This time, I’m going low. I prepared myself to step back, and as soon as he swung, I sent my sword through his back.

Images of his wife and two children flashed in my mind; my legs weakened. Their grim situation became apparent as I quickly learned about the local magistrate who was notorious for taking the wives and daughters of debtors as sex slaves. I pulled the sword out and collapsed onto the ground. A pair of tears ran down my cheeks. I made a mental note to try and make it to his family and help them, Mary and the twins, Catherine and Charles.

Once the images ceased, I gathered myself and stood up. I had hoped nobody heard our battle; another fight, another death, was not high on my list of things I wanted. I closed the man’s eyelids and left the passage.

I crept up the stone staircase towards the great hall where the lord ate with a pair of his advisers. I hugged the wall and moved patiently so I wouldn’t be seen like downstairs. When I was only a couple steps from the lord, I took out two of my daggers. I threw one at the table, sticking it in the wood. The men froze and stared at it for a moment while I rushed at the lord.

Before he was able to react, I had the steel of my other dagger pressed against his throat. Immediately I heard his thoughts rushing through the steel and into my head. How did they find me this fast. Could I stick my diner knife through this punk’s throat. Is anybody going to help me? Why are they just sitting there.

I took the dinner knife from the lord’s hands. “I wouldn’t even think about that.” I said. “And the rest of you,” I motioned towards the advisers, “would best be suited to leave. I’m here on orders of the king.”

Shit. He knows. They’re going to take me into the dungeon.

“That’s right, you are going to lock you up for a long time, that is if they let you keep your head.”

“Are you...You’re one of those freaks who can read people’s thoughts aren’t you?” He tried to mask his fear by speaking with confidence, but I knew better. I could feel his terror.

“That’s right. And since you know what I’m here for, tell me his name?”

I can’t tell him about Alexander. If I tell him, they will have me killed before the week is through.

“Tell me more about Alexander.”

“Son of a a bitch, I forgot you can do that. Listen, you know him as well as I do. He’s just one of those crooks that work around the embassies.”

It didn’t seem like he knew more, but still I asked, “Who was he working for?”

What was his name? He was the guy wearing the brown cloak, but shit, I don't’ remember his name. Did he even say? I only remember his face. “I don’t know his name.”

“But you got a look at his face?”

“Yes.”

“Describe it for me?”

His mind, slow initially, was now spinning with more momentum than a large, stone flywheel. “He had a round face. But his nose, I don’t know how to describe his it. It was very distinguished.”

He couldn’t put it into words; unfortunately for him, I could. I jammed my knife in the side of his throat. Instantly, the face of the man in the brown cloak rushed into my mind. I had what I needed and pulled the knife out of the lord’s neck.

I took the handful of coins he had on him while he bled out on the floor of the castle. “Next time, get a name. Always get a name.” I said to the corpse.

Killing the lord was nowhere near as painful as the man. He at least deserved to die. “Mary, Catherine, and Charles, hopefully you can forgive me.” I jingled the coins in my hand and started off for their home.

Review: "Low Town" by Daniel Polansky

I recently read “Low Town” by Daniel Polansky (“Straight Razor Cure” in the UK) and I figured I had to do a review on this. I’m not going to write my own description (I have enough trouble writing my own query letters) so this is from the description on Amazon:

“In the forgotten back alleys and flophouses that lie in the shadows of Rigus, the finest city of the Thirteen Lands, you will find Low Town. It is an ugly place, and its cham­pion is an ugly man. Disgraced intelligence agent. Forgotten war hero. Independent drug dealer. After a fall from grace five years ago, a man known as the Warden leads a life of crime, addicted to cheap violence and expensive drugs. Every day is a constant hustle to find new customers and protect his turf from low-life competition like Tancred the Harelip and Ling Chi, the enigmatic crime lord of the heathens.

The Warden’s life of drugged iniquity is shaken by his dis­covery of a murdered child down a dead-end street . . . set­ting him on a collision course with the life he left behind. As a former agent with Black House—the secret police—he knows better than anyone that murder in Low Town is an everyday thing, the kind of crime that doesn’t get investi­gated. To protect his home, he will take part in a dangerous game of deception between underworld bosses and the psy­chotic head of Black House, but the truth is far darker than he imagines. In Low Town, no one can be trusted.“

So what caught me right away, even before the book was published, was the idea of a seedy drug dealer in a fantasy world as the main character of a novel. The premise was strong enough for me download the sample chapter onto my Kindle shortly after its release.

Once I started reading, the premise took a second seat to the voice which jumped off the first couple pages like nothing I had ever read before. And even though Polansky (no relation to the director) used a
couple cheap tricks, such as the character describing what they see when looking into a mirror, the voice prompted me to purchase the book even before I got to the end of the sample chapter.

From that point on though, the voice did soften a little bit, but not to the point where it wasn’t good, just not as good. Also, the plot, which as you know revolved around the deaths of kids around Low Town, seemed to string out a little bit and it felt like at the end of each day, the main character was ‘reset’ and it had hints of feeling almost like a series of short stores linked together by the main plot point.

I also felt like there were a number of characters that didn’t really do enough to justify how much space they took up, and consequently  they were completely left out of the conclusion and left to dangle.

But that is about the end of what I was able to find distracting about the book. And some things, like the ‘dangling characters,’ I only noticed when looking back on the book once I was finished.

Aside from the voice, which I’ll try to limit my raving on, I was impressed how this drug dealing (and strung out user as well) was able to garner as much sympathy form me as he did. (I suppose trying to find the murderer of an innocent child does that.) I found myself rooting for The Warden when he got into his skirmishes with the hoax, (Low Town slang for the cops) and I didn’t even mind so much when he loaded up on pixie dust (Low Town cocaine I think.)

The Warden was also a very mortal person; he didn’t win every fight. Even when he did win, he had wounds that would hinder him the next day. I found this very refreshing versus some other characters I’ve read where they might jump off a building and their ankle hurts for a couple minutes. The Warden feels his wounds throughout the book..

I also mentioned some of the slang, like hoax and pixie dust, but this book is full of this very colorful language that really pulls you into the world. What’s quite impressive about it is that it feels organic to the story and not just slapped together and placed in there like other fantasy books I’ve read.

The best part of this noir/fantasy mashup is that I feel that this is not just a noir book with fantasy furniture or vice versa. Both the elements of noir and the elements of fantasy are essential to the story. For instance, the voice and the concept of the story would fail miserably without the noir part, and the plot would be impossible without the fantasy elements.

"Low Town" by Daniel Polansky is a true noir fantasy with spectacular voice and an incredibly rich world that more than makes up for its few flaws. I highly recommend this book to fans of noir, fantasy, and those who want to read something different from what normally ends up on the shelves.

I give this book 9/10 stars.

Now that I'm stabby...

I have recently been hanging out on twitter with the #stabbylove crowd, and I love them. They promote a no-bullshit sensibility when it comes to giving feedback. It's meant to be helpful so we all become better writers, but we won't trade praises just to stroke our egos. (Flying Spaghetti Monster knows I've got a big enough ego as it is)


Today they have graciously invited me to their Stabby Writers Triberr, and I hope this proves to be mutually beneficial to everybody.


So in that spirit, I would like to remind everybody that reads my blog, that you can let me know just how you feel about a piece I wrote. I won't get mad and do something childish like unfollow you on twitter or something goofy. Instead, I would probably sit up and take notice, perhaps even interact with you more often.


I encourage all of you to show me some #stabbylove now and in the future.

Whac-a-Mole

Two days ago, I came up with the following prompt for Icy Sedgwick: "Your cat has just been stolen by a race of clown-people and you need to win the ultimate whac-a-mole game to get him back." I figured that might make an interesting comedy or horror for those of us afraid of clowns...but I wanted to challenge myself and see if I could somehow take that idea and make it 'literary.' This is what I came up with. Let me know if you think I succeeded.

Aaron swept his hand across the grimy, faux granite counter and rested his fingers on the tattered paper. At the top, an image of pale clown with a red ruffle circling his neck served as the header with an address from a blighted part of town printed below it. Scrawled across the paper in a thick red crayon were four words, “We have your cat.”

He crumpled the paper, keeping it in the palm of his hand and stood at the broken window, facing his front yard. He called out, “Jake, come on Jake, where are you?” He turned around and got onto his knees, looking behind the couch and under the desk. “Fucking assholes.” he muttered while he un-balled the paper and memorized the address. “You’re all dead you mother fuckers.”

From his closet, he grabbed an old aluminum baseball bat and squeezed the handle; the cool coarseness of the old, ratty tape still clinging on from his days in college filled him with a sense of power. He took his keys, got into his car, and drove.

He arrived at an abandoned strip mall and parked his car in front of a store front featuring the clown from the paper above its doors; there were no other cars or people anywhere to be seen. Across the front window in painted lettering was the name of an old pizza place. Aaron took his bat and walked through the unlocked door.

Inside, herds of little people with blisteringly pale skin ran about, all dress in clown outfits. Some of them sat at tables eating and drinking sodas while others played some of the games left by the previous owners. At the back, behind a ticket prize counter, stood the only other person of normal height; he too was dressed the same.

Aaron hoisted the bat above his head and brought it down on one of the tables a couple of the little people were eating at, shattering a plate and a couple glasses. The whole restaurant fell silent. “One of your little fuckers has my cat, and if I don’t get him back right this instant, I’m gonna put you all in the hospital.”

One of the little men raised his hand and pointed at the small animal carrier next to him. Aaron marched over, but the man took the carrier and ran towards the back near the ticket counter; under his arm was a roll of tickets. “Don’t you run from me little bitch.” Aaron shouted, but the man finally turned around once he reached the counter.

Cornered, the little man pointed into the display case where a runt of a cat, if that’s what it really was, sat, chained to the case. It was an ugly creature, hairless and scrawny, but Aaron caught the little man’s eyes wandering away from the bat and towards the pathetic animal.

“Is that yours?” Aaron said? The man nodded and pointed at the case. Aaron took a closer look and saw a tag with “10,000 tickets” stapled onto the animal’s back. It had been there a while since the blood from the staple was dried and flaking away.

He looked back towards the little man and at the roll of tickets. “How many do you have?” He shook his head. “Well how much more do you need.” He held up three fingers.

Aaron raised his attention to the man behind the counter. Up close, he was at least a head taller than Aaron. “Just give the dude his fucking...whatever that thing is.”

“He does not have enough tickets. I need the tickets.” the man said in a monotone voice.

“It’s three fucking tickets. Just give it to him.”

“He does not have--”

“Here.” Aaron reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar. “That’s got to be worth 3 tickets.”

“He does not have enough tickets. I need--”

“Then how do I get three fucking tickets?” The man remained silent and Aaron raised his bat. “Alright, I guess it’s going down like this.”

Before he swung at the man, the little guy pulled on Aaron’s pant leg and pointed towards a bank of machines. They were old Whac-a-Mole games with two of the little people trying furiously to play one, but they were too small to use the mallet. Aaron leaned his bat on one of the tables and walked up to a vacant one. The little man with his cat put in a quarter and Aaron played.

When the game ended, the machine spat out five tickets. The little man ripped them from the machine and took his roll plus the extra five to the man at the counter while Aaron watched from the game. The tall guy reached into the display case and handed the little man both his animal and two left over tickets.

Aaron walked over to the case and snatched the two extra tickets from the little man’s hands. He leaned over and looked into the display case. “What can I get with two tickets?” The man at the counter pointed towards the far end of his case where some pieces of hard candy were set in a glass bowl.

Aaron nodded and reached behind him for his bat. Swinging it into the case, the bat shattered the glass and the man jumped back, startled by the noise. “Don’t you ever screw with my little friend here.” Aaron crouched down and poked his finger into the carrier where his cat licked his fingers. “That’s right Jake, daddy hates it when the little guy gets fucked.”