Oh. Right. I Have a Blog.

It kind of slipped my mind. See, I’ve spent the last few months traveling with Francis Crawford of Lymond.

There’s so much I want to say:

I want to discourse at length on three words - “I don’t mind.” - as spoken in The Disorderly Knights, on why the scene of which they are the lynchpin became my instant favorite as I read it, and on why that judgment only deepened after I finished the entire series.

I want to discuss, from both a reader’s and a writer’s perspective, the importance of supporting characters. Not just “characters who play an important but secondary role in the plot,” but truly supporting characters: the characters who make it their mission in life to support the main characters. In other words, a prose ode to the men of Saint Mary’s, with pride of place given to Adam Blacklock and Archie Abernethy. (Daniel Hislop fans may also present their case.)

I want to start what I think (only half facetiously) could be a very illuminating debate: “Granting that they both richly deserve it, whom do you want to punch more: Jerrott or Marthe?”

I want to announce that I love the ending of Pawn in Frankincense, and then let you all call me a horrible person.

I want to explore the whole concept of the supernatural as Ms. Dunnett presents it, from religion to the occult, and how it relates to her views on marriage.

I want to talk about Sybilla. Oh, how I want to talk about Sybilla.

That’s just for starters. But I can’t do any of it. You see, I had the great good fortune to come to these books blind (and that word, right there, is intentionally loaded). Someone I trust gave me The Game of Kings and essentially said, “Read this. You won’t be sorry.” So I read it. I admit I found it rough going at first (and there’s another thing I want to discuss: Should the central narrative thrust of Kings have been made apparent earlier, to give us some sort of foothold in navigating this new world? Or is the delayed revelation ultimately necessary to the structure of the whole six-volume work?). But trust kept me going, and then in the courtyard at Threave I surrendered utterly and signed up for the whole voyage.

I tried to stay away from comments and reviews while I read, for it became apparent very early that this is a story built to astonish, in every sense. I intend to go back now, and relish it differently, but the first encounter should, by rights, be on Ms. Dunnett’s terms.

And that’s why I don’t want to post anything. Because I can preface with all of the spoiler warnings I want, but it would still be out there, and I don’t want even to risk ruining for some unknown reader-of-the-future the end of part four of Checkmate. But how do you talk about Lymond without talking about that?

Sometimes you can’t say “Read this because…” You can only say “Read this, and the ‘because’ will become apparent.” The Lymond Chronicles are an experience for solitude, and a favorite chair. They require, as their hero does, an extraordinary trust.

So really, all this post can be is a long “Thank you” to the person who, five months ago, put the first volume into my hands. Who reminded me that the best way to discover a story is to receive it, in trust, from a kindred spirit.

And I’d better stop now, or I won’t be able to resist bringing up Austin Grey...

The Theology of Doctor Who: The Fires of Pompeii

Since this episode has recently increased in trivia-game value (“Name the Doctor Who episode that guest-starred both a future companion and a future Doctor.”), it seemed like the right time to give it another look. So much good stuff here that it’s hard to know where to begin. It is funny, as all of the best Doctor Whos are (the water pistol!), and heartbreaking, as all of the best Doctor Whos are.

Theologically speaking, it is an elegant illustration of that most difficult of concepts, the coexistence of predestination and free will. Headed for ancient Rome, the Doctor and Donna instead wind up in Pompeii on the day before “volcano day.” Donna wants to warn everyone, but the Doctor just wants to get out: there are certain points in time, he explains, that are fixed, unchangeable. Unfortunately, the destruction of Pompeii is one of those times. Donna, not much impressed by Fate, tries anyway to start an evacuation, but she encounters two roadblocks: the language does not yet have a word for “volcano” (it is this eruption that will give it one), and the city’s soothsayers predict a long and prosperous life for the city and its inhabitants. Donna would scoff at that last one, but for the fact that Pompeii’s soothsayers really do seem to have second sight. One of them even identifies the Doctor as “man from Gallifrey.”

The Doctor’s plan (for the Doctor, “run” is a plan) also hits a roadblock when an enterprising street merchant sells the TARDIS as “modern art” to a local businessman, Caecilius. In attempting to recover it, the Doctor learns (short version) that ancient aliens, the Pyrovile, have tunneled under Mt. Vesuvius and intend to use its power to take over the earth and transform humans into Pyrovile. The Doctor can stop them, thus saving the world, by shutting off their machine...but all of the power of Vesuvius that had been diverted will then need another outlet. In other words, Pompeii is a fixed point in time AND it is the Doctor’s choice that causes it.

As a bonus, this is also a nice example of the principle of double-effect. The Doctor does not blow up Pompeii to save the world. He turns off the Pyrovile engine to save the world, and the destruction of Pompeii is an attendant but decidedly un-willed consequence.

And yet, for all of that, the moment that haunts me is yet to come. The Doctor, furious and despairing (“Don’t you think I’ve done enough?” he snarls at Donna), and haunted by the burning of Gallifrey, heads straight for the TARDIS. But Donna, with tears in her eyes and ash in her hair, begs him to “save someone.” She has accepted what had to be done and what must be, but she rejects the Doctor’s fatalist surrender. And so Caecilius and his family are saved (and David Tennant grips Peter Capaldi’s hand and pulls him into the TARDIS).

It’s so easy (for me, at least) to be the Doctor here. To become so overwhelmed by the big picture that we think, because we can’t control that, we can’t control anything. Sometimes we all need a shorthand typist from Chiswick to remind us that we can still save someone.

Reason #17 Why I Want to be Stephen King When I Grow Up

This is the first reason. Go read it. It’s not long. I’ll wait.

(Back now? Isn’t that elegant and infuriating and utterly magnificent? And infuriating?)

Anyway. I’ll probably mention most of the next fifteen reasons at some point.

Which brings us to this, the subject of today’s post.

There’s a lot to chew on here, but I think this is the “pull quote” (for anyone who didn’t click over, he’s talking about the first sentence of a book and the fact that it should invite the reader in, and then how you accomplish that):

“So an intriguing context is important, and so is style. But for me, a good opening sentence really begins with voice. You hear people talk about "voice" a lot, when I think they really just mean "style." Voice is more than that. People come to books looking for something. But they don't come for the story, or even for the characters. They certainly don't come for the genre. I think readers come for the voice.”

I suspect there’s some hyperbole at work here, but he’s fundamentally right. I do want story, and characters, and (to a lesser extent) genre, but above all, I want to trust the author. Cor ad cor loquitur. If I’m going to trust you with my heart, I want to know something about yours.

So for fun (read: narcissistic masochism), I went back and looked at some of my own work in that light. I’m ruling out the screenplays, since I think that there a slightly different principle is at work. That left me with two mostly-outlined-but-mostly-unwritten novels, one drafted short story, and one short story that popped into my head six days ago - characters, plot, and setting all complete - and that has been consuming me ever since.

Now, I could analyze these to death (and have...and will...), but see, I know all of the stories. So for purposes of the “voice” test, I’m going to throw them out here and ask what you think. Here they are, in alphabetical order by title. Speaking of genre, they are all spy stories - a predilection about which I have theories, which will have to wait for another post.

I’m going to cheat a little with the novels: since each has a prologue, I’m going to give you that first sentence and then the beginning of the first chapter. With that said, have at it:

Acceptable Loss

By all rights, Yelena Zelenko should not have been in the Friedrichstrasse station that day.

Not for Profit

They asked me to change the names.

Within His Wounds: A Novel of Recusant England

Prologue opening:

Blood is curse and blessing; for a Howard, it is doubly so.

First chapter opening:

He gave his name as Mr. Edmunds, diamond merchant, neither of which was entirely a lie, though in private he would have exchanged the diamond for a pearl of great price.

The Younger Son

Prologue opening:

30th July, 1809

My Dear,

I have spent the greater part of the night praying that you have already heard the news, so that it will not be me to tell you.

First chapter opening:

My Lord Barham was late.

So. There they are. I was going to ask, Which of them make you want to read further? But perhaps I’d better take the safer route and ask, Do any of them make you want to read further? And of course the follow-up: Why or why not?

Meanwhile, I’m off to finish that short story. Whether or not it needs a new opening sentence.

Trusting in Princes: A Defense of the Aragorn Complex

I have a respect for Steven D. Greydanus that I extend to few film critics. And I really like most of his Very, Very Little Movie Glossary. But seeing as, lo these many years ago, I wrote a script celebrating the Aragorn Complex, I have a couple of thoughts on the trend.

Mr. Greydanus defines the Aragorn Complex thus:

Contemporary Hollywood no longer believes in rock-ribbed, confident, heroic leaders, such as Charlton Heston’s Moses in The Ten Commandments. The Moses of DreamWorks’ excellent The Prince of Egypt — self-doubting, conflicted, reluctant — is much more in keeping with our more skeptical view of heroism and leadership.

The archetypal example, of course, is Peter Jackson’s Aragorn, whose virtue, complexity and all-around worthiness to lead the filmmakers telegraph by vastly punching up the themes of reluctance and self-doubt in Tolkien. (Moses in Exodus also initially resists God’s call, but the DreamWorks film goes way beyond Exodus in this regard.)

I would argue that the real tragedy here is not that “Hollywood” has stopped believing in such leaders as characters, but that “Hollywood” still does believe in them - as politicians. But I digress. (Not really.)

I’m not sure that an unwillingness, or even inability, to believe in such heroes necessarily bespeaks a “cultural poverty,” as Mr. Greydanus calls it in the comments. I admit that, if it does, it is a cultural poverty that I share. Or more precisely, I don’t find such heroes useful. A “rock-ribbed, confident, heroic leader” does me no good. He just leaves me hoping that if I’m ever in trouble, he’ll come along.

I am afraid. I believe that the world is a dark and broken place, and that man is a dark and broken creature. So in my fiction, I don’t want someone who is not broken to fix everything. I want someone to tell me that brokenness does not make heroism impossible. I want someone to tell me that even I still have a chance.

(Necessary caveat: Of course there are stories that pile on the doubts and the flaws until we are left with a hero who is not a hero at all. That’s not what I want, and I admit that drawing the distinction in individual cases is extremely difficult. All ll I want to do here is address the trend.)

And there is this: If we continue to deconstruct our heroes, to remind ourselves that they are not idols or demi-gods, perhaps we will be more likely to search for the source of their heroism as something outside themselves. Perhaps, if all of them are broken, we will more clearly want Someone who is not broken.

Or perhaps not. I realize that I am advocating the more dangerous road. But in a post named for Estel, I prefer to hope.

On Being an Instrument

Not, in this case, an instrument of God. I take that as a given, and maybe someday I’ll actually get it right. (Nobody hold your breath.)

No, I’m thinking about the different instruments that different artists use: the paintbrush, the violin, or (in the case of an actor or singer) the body itself. In each case, the artist must study the instrument, learn everything about how and why it works, and then forget about it in order to focus on the art.

In the writer’s case, the instrument is the mind itself. Of course, I can’t really “forget” about the mind, but the same basic principle holds: I shouldn’t be thinking, “What do I think?” I should be thinking about the story. And there’s the danger.

When I’m writing, I shouldn’t be deciding what I believe. I should be unconsciously using what I believe. It should be the violin, not the music. But that means that before I start, my instrument needs to be properly tuned. Writing frightens me because, while I can lie to myself, I can’t lie in my work. And the question is not, “Do I measure up to what I believe?” (Answer: No.), but the far more terrifying, “Do I really believe it?”

The Uses of Envy

I was a drama geek in high school and college, and I loved it.  I am a trained soprano (lyric coloratura, to be technical), and I loved that, too.  I haven’t acted or sung (except to myself, usually in the car) in a decade, and yet I don’t really miss either.

I get the occasional wistful feeling, especially when I sit in the audience at performances of the Ventura County Gilbert & Sullivan Repertoire Company, but I think that has more to do with the tendency of the G & S culture to create its own family, united by Patter Trio allusions and “How did you manage the ghosts in Ruddigore?” exchanges.

No, I have acted, but I’m not an actress, and I have sung, but I’m not a singer.

I am a writer.  Unfortunately, I’m not proud of the way I know that.

Play me a Kiri te Kanawa recording, and I rejoice.  Show me Meryl Streep inhabiting Julia Child, and I will laugh and marvel.  But let Steven Moffat end “A Scandal in Belgravia” with five simple words (“When I say run, run.”), or let Neil Gaiman make his return to Doctor Who with an episode titled “Nightmare in Silver”, and I turn green.

I want to have written that.

The longing is particularly acute in the Gaiman example, since titles are usually the hardest things for me to write.  There’s so much pressure on a title: genre, tone, theme, plot...it has to be everything.  In half a dozen words or less.  When that title popped up on iTunes, before I saw anything else, I felt a tiny thrill, a certainty that this episode, at least, was in good hands.  The “written by” credit only explained what I already knew.  So, being the mature person that I am, my interior dialogue immediately commenced: Boy (growl), it must be nice to be Neil Gaiman (snarl, hiss), with all that stinking talent and all (growl) - great, I can’t even come up with a synonym for ‘growl’...

This tends to continue, without synonyms, for an appreciable time, and with the resulting fodder for confession.

But if sin is an emptiness, a lack, then perhaps I can, at least, let it focus me on what I actually do lack.  First, I need to clarify for myself that I am not Neil Gaiman.  That is not the lack, because that is not what I was made to be.  There’s already somebody doing a darn good job of being Neil Gaiman, after all.  I need to focus on what Neil Gaiman has done that I can, and should, also do.

He has done the work.

That’s it.  That’s what I can emulate.  If I want to have written, I first have to write.  I will never measure up, but if I am doing my work I will have less time to measure.  And maybe I can turn envy into inspiration.  Or simply into gratitude.

As for that G & S nostalgia, it’s turning into a neat screenplay.  I even have a title.

Commitment

Long-term relationships are hard. You have to give your heart away without knowing how things will end. Even if they end well, at some point along the way, the other party will frustrate you, or let you down, or be just plain Wrong. It’s a lot to go through with no assurance of a payoff.

I’m talking, of course, about my relationship to television.

Though the cost factor means I often wait for DVD or Netflix, I’m usually willing enough to see a movie. At the worst, I’ll only have wasted a couple of hours, and I frequently learn things from bad movies. “That didn’t work” is easy enough, but “Why didn’t that work?” can be a delightful and illuminating puzzle. Most importantly, at the end of a couple of hours, I will know. I will know whether it worked or not; I will know what happened to the characters; I will know what the movie is trying to say.

TV isn’t like that. TV demands trust. TV builds expectations that, as the years go on, become more and more difficult to satisfy. How many perfect finales have you seen (other than Blackadder Goes Forth)? And when a show fails, whether the failure be minor or catastrophic, it hurts more. You know these characters - you’ve lived with them for months or years - so the betrayal can feel very personal.

I’m going through this right now with Once Upon a Time. It has never been my great love, but I had mostly been enjoying it, and Robert Carlyle is worth watching even when what surrounds him is less than ideal. But now, the whole Tamara and Greg subplot leaves me absolutely cold, they made a serious misstep with “Lacey”, and no one - I mean no one - is as stupid as Regina was in “The Evil Queen”. I will slaughter whole villages to find Snow White, then I will kill Snow White, and once she is dead the people will love me. I hereby challenge the writers to find me one actual person to whom that makes actual sense.

Is it possible for the show to recover? Sure. I sat through Season Three of Lost and was ultimately glad I did. It’s also possible, though, that it will not recover. If it doesn’t, I will not be devastated, but I will be disappointed.

And yet...

There’s a new man in my life. His name is Sherlock. It’s taken me two years to find him, and I owe a very belated hat tip to Joseph Susanka of Summa This, Summa That. I held off because I was afraid he would be great, and that his greatness would demand my attention. My trust. Another tiny piece of my heart. The funny thing is, when I finally sat down to watch him, that’s exactly what I wanted him to do. The fear and the desire can’t be separated. So far, they have both been satisfied, and therefore they have both increased. And very soon, I will reach the end of Series Two, glare at Netflix, and shout, “What do you mean I have to wait until September?!?”

Here it is, Mssrs. Moffat, Gatiss, Cumberbatch and Freeman (and all the rest of you that I don’t have space to mention). Here’s a piece of my heart.

The game is on.