Excerpt: Horse Catcher

(Preliminary marketing image for 'Horse Catcher,' coming October 1.)

Kjarl and Akim and the others were lined up for inspection. With two men left to help his parents look after the farm, Kjarl had managed to recruit twenty-two men for what the Sheriff had promised would be ‘a week or ten days’ of soldiering. Every year in the late spring or early summer, after the crops were safely planted and coming up strong, the numerous local units of the Kirtele national militia of the county Sulatawia went on maneuvers.

These exercises took place under the watchful and critical eyes of men representing the Eyrie. Unfortunately, this year it seemed they were to be blessed by the presence of The Right Honourable Yphonius Cornelis himself, titular Eagle’s Head of the County, reporting back to the National Council. This year, with all the rumours of war going around, the usual air of levity that attended these martial gatherings was in abeyance. The Honourable Yphonius was reported a deadly serious person, with his piggy little eyes staring coldly into your own, even at the best of times.

Yphonius was a corpulent, sweating man, stiff in his ceremonial robes of office, which apparently he never took off, not even to bathe. A surly and argumentative man, his fat, glowering visage was quick to reflect displeasure at less-than-perfect performance or presentation. Kjarl and some of the others had already felt the bite of his tongue and a rather barbed wit. Kjarl’s stomach grumbled loudly, and he hoped the men next to him wouldn’t giggle. To draw the man’s attention was to draw his ire, they had quickly discovered.

It was a foretaste of the social graces he would no doubt exhibit at the first opportunity, for example lunch. This seemed to be seriously delayed by the lengthy proceedings. The gentle slapping of a cold rain did nothing to raise their spirits or to even drive down the flies who were also in attendance at this review of troops, squadron after squadron and man by man. All with the most horrid noises coming from what he assumed would be a band someday, if only they could learn to play their instruments. Combined with the rawness and inexperience of many of the troops, his own brave-looking little contingent included, it was a morning that could only be described as a comedy of errors, with some of their precision evolutions going horribly wrong. Sheriff Knolos had a lot riding on this inspection, for the concession was up for renewal in the autumn sessions of the National Council.

The stranger on his right was cursing softly, barely audibly, and Kjarl was cold, wet and hungry. An aide-de-camp brought out a dark, flat leather pouch and proffered it up to Yphonius, mounted upon a creamy white charger that Kjarl frankly envied. Taking out a scroll from inside it, the man’s voice called out loud and clear, so that all the men could hear and understand his words.

“By an act of the National Council of the Kirtele Nation, we hereby appoint Yphonius Cornelis District Commander for the County of Sulatawia, and do hereby and forthwith authorize him to raise troops, impress horses and wagons, and to purchase fodder, grain and other foodstuffs at fixed rates as set out in documents attached hereunder.”

As the fat man paused for breath a funny little sigh went through the assembled squadrons of troops. There was a single snort from a horse, perhaps more sensitive than most to the qualms and sudden mood swings of men.

“We hereby authorize The Honourable aforesaid Yphonius to appoint officers, to disburse monies, make payments to contractors, and dispense Military Justice….”

Another deep soughing murmur went through the troops, most of whom were full-time soldiers with the Sheriff’s troop, and who perhaps better understood the significance of the words being spoken.

“These articles of war are sworn this day at this Assembly, and shall be deemed to be in effect for the duration of any subsequent hostilities, which shall arise from definitions and instructions attached hereunder.” On and on it went, with Kjarl, for one, totally mystified.

But then, he’d never been on maneuvers before. With all the others sitting there impassively resigned to whatever happened next, he had no idea what to think.

“Well, that’s fewkin’ torn it.” A trooper behind him spat in disgust.

A long drum roll and a flourish of horns rang out as Yphonius’ personal bodyguard raised their lances in salute, all lined up on the other side of the square. The fat man raised a hand in acknowledgement, as he spurred his horse and trotted smartly out the gate.

Kjarl sat stone-faced in contemplation, with the hot eyes of his men on his neck, looking across to where Sheriff Knolos Ryngger sat watching the Eyrie’s men file past on their way out of the parade-square.

As the last of them rode by, the gathering of men and horses and local dignitaries let out their breath with a collective gasp, and the mutterings of three hundred and fifty men gathered into an ominous-sounding dull roar. Everyone was cursing and complaining at once. Kjarl spurred his horse, off to see Knolos and find out what in the names of the seven hells had just happened. There were a few minutes of waiting for the hubbub to subside, then he sat in the Sheriff’s large back room beside the plotting table, complete with a map of the county painted on the surface of the centre of it.

There were a dozen other sergeants and junior officers seated around the table, listening intently to the Sheriff.

“We must be prepared to move out at a half-hour’s notice.” Knolos’ orders seemed terribly optimistic to Kjarl, even with his limited experience. “We’ll leave a security force of experienced troopers here to maintain law and order. When I know more, I’ll tell you.”

He nodded and the others all rose with alacrity to attend to their duties and preparations.

“Stay for a minute, Kjarl.” The Sheriff held up a raised palm as the others shuffled out of the room without so much as a backward glance of curiousity.

“Sheriff.” The other man stepped in quickly with his explanation.

“I’m sorry, Kjarl, I really am. I swear by my mother’s grave that I had no idea. Luckily we don’t have anything on paper. I mean, you could take your boys and just ride off if you wanted to. But I sure hope you don’t.”

“No. I suppose I couldn’t do that.” Kjarl ground his teeth in dismay.

He was strongly tempted, though.

“Look, Kjarl, the whole thing has to do with the Tzclinacoque. They’re coming up the River, and there’s a huge army. Thousands of boats, animals, elephants—”

“So what’s an elephant?” Sherrif Ryngger sighed on hearing that.

His patience was being sorely tested today.

“They’re really big, they put little castles on their backs.” Kjarl just shook his head in disbelief.

“Look, Kjarl. There’s some possibility that we may go to war, if they come this way. But the likelihood is that it will all blow over in a few weeks.” Knolos scratched his belly. “You have to admit, the money’s good.”

“If we get called out, can my men take over patrolling the county?”

“I’m afraid not.” The Sheriff sounded regretful. “It’s a matter of procedures, writs, protocols have to be observed so as not to violate the natural rights of a citizen…”

Kjarl nodded that he understood that his men didn’t have that kind of training, or any training at all, for that matter. But the idea of taking them to war was patently ludicrous. If he walked away and war came, he’d look like a coward and feel like a skunk, and drag his men’s names in the mud. If he stayed, and war came, some of the boys might get killed. The others, feeling as tricked into this situation as he did, would blame him and everyone would treat him like a skunk. He was damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t. They’d hate his guts either way.

“All right.” He looked Knolos squarely in the eye. “But one, you can’t split up my men. Two, we’d better find them some place better than the stable to sleep, and I have a few more items after that.”

The Sheriff nodded with a sense of relief. It would have been bad for the morale of the rest of his troops if a large party were allowed to go home at the first sign of trouble or even mere hardship, which he knew it to be. It seemed they were back to horse-trading again.

“I’ll tell you what, Kjarl. There’s three gold pieces for every man who signs these articles, and an extra one for you as well.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess some of them will sign, but for how long?”

“We always try to give the men time off for the harvest.”

‘Sure you do,’ thought Kjarl.

He kept that thought to himself, along with some others.

END

After reading this, it struck me that it could be improved. Can you spot the changes?

Kjarl and Akim and the others were lined up for inspection. With two men left to help his parents look after the farm, Kjarl had managed to recruit twenty-two men for what the Sheriff had promised would be ‘a week or ten days’ of soldiering. Every year in the late spring or early summer, after the crops were safely planted and coming up strong, the numerous local units of the Kirtele national militia of the County of Sulatawia went on maneuvers.

These exercises took place under the watchful and critical eyes of men representing the Eyrie. Unfortunately, this year it seemed they were to be blessed by the presence of The Right Honourable Yphonius Cornelis himself, titular Eagle’s Head of the County, reporting back to the National Council. This year, with all the rumours of war going around, the usual air of levity that attended these martial gatherings was in abeyance. The Honourable Yphonius was a deadly serious person, with his piggy little eyes staring coldly into your own, even at the best of times.

Yphonius was a corpulent, sweating man, stiff in his ceremonial robes of office, which apparently he never took off, not even to bathe. A surly and argumentative man, his glowering visage was quick to reflect displeasure at less-than-perfect performance or presentation. Kjarl and some of the others had already felt the bite of his tongue and a rather barbed wit. Kjarl’s stomach grumbled loudly, and he hoped the men next to him wouldn’t giggle. To draw the man’s attention was to draw his ire, they had quickly discovered.

It was a foretaste of the social graces he would no doubt exhibit at the first opportunity, for example lunch. This seemed to be seriously delayed by the lengthy proceedings. The gentle slapping of a cold rain did nothing to raise their spirits or to even drive down the flies, who were also in attendance at this review of troops, squadron after squadron and man by man. All with the most horrid noises coming from what he assumed would be a band someday, if only they could learn to play their instruments. Combined with the rawness and inexperience of many of the troops, his own brave-looking little contingent included, it was a morning that could only be described as a comedy of errors, with some of their precision evolutions going horribly wrong. Sheriff Knolos had a lot riding on this inspection, for the concession was up for renewal in the autumn sessions of the National Council.

The stranger on his right was cursing softly, barely audibly, and Kjarl was cold, wet and hungry. An aide-de-camp brought out a dark, flat leather pouch and proffered it up to Yphonius, mounted upon a creamy white charger that Kjarl frankly envied. Taking out a scroll from inside it, the man’s voice was loud and clear, so that all the men could hear and understand his words.

“By an act of the National Council of the Kirtele Nation, we hereby appoint Yphonius Cornelis District Commander for the County of Sulatawia, and do hereby and forthwith authorize him to raise troops, impress horses and wagons, and to purchase fodder, grain and other foodstuffs at fixed rates as set out in documents attached hereunder.”

As the gentleman paused for breath a long sigh went through the assembled squadrons of troops. There was a single snort from a horse, perhaps more sensitive than most to the qualms and sudden mood swings of men.

“We hereby authorize The Honourable aforesaid Yphonius to appoint officers, to disburse monies, make payments to contractors, and dispense Military Justice….”

Another deep soughing murmur went through the troops, most of whom were full-time soldiers with the Sheriff’s troop, and who perhaps better understood the significance of the words being spoken.

“These articles of war are sworn this day at this Assembly, and shall be deemed to be in effect for the duration of any subsequent hostilities, which shall arise from definitions and instructions attached hereunder.” On and on it went, with Kjarl, for one, totally mystified.

He’d never been on maneuvers before. With all the others sitting there impassively resigned to whatever happened next, he had no idea of what to think.

“Well, that’s fewkin’ torn it.” A trooper behind him spat in disgust.

A long drum roll and a flourish of horns rang out as Yphonius’ personal bodyguard raised their lances in salute, all lined up on the other side of the square. Yphonius raised a hand in acknowledgement, as he spurred his horse and trotted smartly out the gate.

Kjarl sat stone-faced in contemplation, with the hot eyes of his men on his neck, looking across to where Sheriff Knolos Ryngger sat watching the Eyrie’s men file past on their way out of the parade-square.

As the last of them rode by, the gathering of men and horses and local dignitaries let out their breath with a collective gasp, and the mutterings of three hundred and fifty men gathered into an ominous-sounding dull roar. Everyone was cursing and complaining at once. Kjarl spurred his horse, off to see Knolos and find out what in the names of the seven hells had just happened. There were a few minutes of waiting for the hubbub to subside, then he sat in the Sheriff’s large back room beside the plotting table, complete with a map of the county painted on the surface of the centre of it.

There were a dozen other sergeants and junior officers seated around the table, listening intently to the Sheriff.

“We must be prepared to move out at a half-hour’s notice.” Knolos’ orders seemed terribly optimistic to Kjarl, even with his limited experience. “We’ll leave a security force of experienced troopers here to maintain law and order. When I know more, I’ll tell you.”

He nodded and the others rose with alacrity to attend to their duties and preparations.

“Stay for a minute, Kjarl.” The Sheriff held up a raised palm as the others shuffled out of the room without so much as a backward glance of curiousity.

“Sheriff.” The other man stepped in quickly with his explanation.

“I’m sorry, Kjarl, I really am. I swear by my mother’s grave that I had no idea. Luckily we don’t have anything on paper. I mean, you could take your boys and just ride off if you wanted to. But I sure hope you don’t.”

“No. I suppose I couldn’t do that.” Kjarl ground his teeth in dismay.

He was strongly tempted, though.

“Look, Kjarl, the whole thing has to do with the Tzclinacoque. They’re coming up the River, and there’s a huge army. Thousands of boats, animals, elephants—”

“So what’s an elephant?” Sherrif Ryngger sighed on hearing that.

His patience was being sorely tested.

“They’re really big, they put little castles on their backs.” Kjarl just shook his head in disbelief.

“Look, Kjarl. There’s some possibility that we may go to war, if they come this way. But the likelihood is that it will all blow over in a few weeks.” Knolos scratched his chin. “You have to admit, the money’s good.”

“If we get called out, can my men take over patrolling the county?”

“I’m afraid not.” The Sheriff sounded regretful. “It’s a matter of procedures, writs, protocols have to be observed so as not to violate the natural rights of a citizen…”

Kjarl nodded. His men didn’t have that kind of training, or any training at all, for that matter. But the idea of taking them to war was patently ludicrous. If he walked away and war came, he’d look like a coward and feel like a skunk, and drag his men’s names in the mud. If he stayed, and war came, some of the boys might get killed. The others, feeling as tricked into this situation as he did, would blame him and everyone would treat him like a skunk. He was damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t. They’d hate his guts either way.

“All right.” He looked Knolos squarely in the eye. “But one, you can’t split up my men. Two, we’d better find them some place better than the stable to sleep, and I have a few more items after that.”

The Sheriff nodded with a sense of relief. It would have been bad for the morale of the rest of his troops if a large party were allowed to go home at the first sign of trouble or even mere hardship, which he knew it to be. They were back to horse-trading again.

“I’ll tell you what, Kjarl. There’s three gold pieces for every man who signs these articles, and an extra one for you as well.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess some of them will sign, but for how long?”

“We always try to give the men time off for the harvest.”

‘Sure you do,’ thought Kjarl.

He kept that thought to himself, along with some others.

END

Note: After reading the second version again, I made more changes.

Confidence is Everything.

(Morguefile.)

Confidence is everything.

It’s true, isn’t it? Confidence is everything. For without confidence, at least some positive belief that we might succeed, we would never really try, would we? There’s no incentive without at least the possibility of success.

It’s a lot of work, after all.

The notion that we might try and subsequently fail is enough to put some of us off. What would our friends think? Why do we care? Their needs are different, and each must act according to their needs. That’s why we figure a family of five should live in a house, and a single male can get along fine in a one-bedroom apartment. We try new things, and maybe someone else carps about it. Let them. It helps them in some way, which is to the common good of all. Right?

But when we aren’t really trying anything new, we have little chance of failure. We don’t learn much from success. We learn a great deal from failure, not the least of which is that we can go on. Our lives are not over.

“We have just begun to start,” to badly misquote a famous American naval hero.

It is in fact failure that instills confidence. Because we did what we had to do, and we took it on the chin, and paid our dues. We put in our time in the trenches. At last, we have earned the right to succeed, or even just to be here.

As things stand, I am confident that I can finish any writing project that I choose to start. I am confident that I can edit it. I am confident that I can format it, and publish it, and market it, et cetera. This is a lot better than where I was three or four years ago, when I was scared shitless about self-publishing my first two e-books.

Yes, I am confident that I can create paperbacks, and one would suppose hard-covers if it comes right down to it. I didn’t know any of this stuff before I tried and failed…to hear them tell it.

You know I’ve made every mistake in the book. We’re only up to about Chapter Three on that one by the way, but the mistakes showed where the problem areas were. I didn’t know before that. I had to put it to the test and find out where the weaknesses in the plan, the skills, and the knowledge were.

We still have weaknesses. Should I write another novel and submit it around to major publishers again? Should I try to get an agent? But how long would that take? And what if it never happens? I should have more confidence, but of course I’ve been reading all the wrong stuff about this industry. I think I will check out a few other sources. Anyhow, I can’t rule it out. I have full confidence in making a proper submission, and full confidence in writing a book that could be published. As for whether it ever really would be published, the word is that it’s very hard to justify taking on new authors right now, at least for the publishers that I’m actually interested in. It would have to knock their socks off, not just be a good, clean, workmanlike novel. And I don’t have nearly so much confidence in that regard. It would have to have a brilliant premise, wouldn't it?

So there is this question of attitude. One of the things that strikes me is that pretty much every blogger or online columnist has an interest and a premise. When I re-post someone’s opinion, it very often mirrors my own opinion, which is natural, but doesn’t it also support my own premise? Don’t I post it to support my brand, and aren’t I posting it for the benefit of my readers, whether on a blog, or somewhere like Kindle Boards?

I throw in the odd link of an opposing viewpoint, but it’s hardly balanced fifty-fifty. Nowhere near it, in fact.

Do I actually have an opinion on where this industry is headed, and if so, how did I arrive at that viewpoint? Seriously, why would I have an opinion? It’s just a bunch of stuff that I read. I am what I read, and lately I seem to read a whole lot of opinions. I read some non-fiction, and I read very little fiction these days.

But I would carefully label some writer’s work as opinions, and not ‘non-fiction.’ Even though it’s not presented as fiction, I think it really is in some cases. Some things I read lately clearly aren’t geared to my needs, and I suppose that should be taken into account. The writer was writing for a very specific group, and I wasn’t actually in that group. I should bear that in mind. They were clearly expressing opinions, and fairly strong ones.

It’s meant to persuade, and that means someone has an interest, if only a very basic one like getting as many hits as possible on their blog or website, or who knows, it might be genuine altruism.

I’m always on the lookout for good blog posts and websites relating to books, stories, writing, editing and publishing. If they seem relevant to others, like my tweeps and feebs and fellow collaborators in this great conspiracy of life, I will re-post them when I see them.

Other than that, I try to be objective, but there are times when I wonder if I really am.

It’s easy enough to persuade ourselves, especially when we’re the ones doing all the talking.

Attitude is everything, and I have to admit, I’m not exactly brimming over with enthusiasm lately. It’s probably just a little phase I’m going through, and it will all clear up in about a week.

Comments are always welcome.

Chapter Seven, sc. 1, 'The Art of Murder.'

(Preliminary design. Not finalized.)






Hypnotism had been around since the early 1700s. They had looked it up before coming here. Now the author of The Art and Science of Hypnotism sat before them, expounding on his craft.


“Three forms of hypnotic somnambulism are distinguished clinically. These include classical somnambulism in patients with hysterical neurosis on a juvenile-unstable basis, sensual-lucid somnambulism in patients with hysterical neurosis on a primitive personality basis, and sensual-split somnambulism in patients with pseudo-neurotic schizophrenia with a hysteroid clinical picture. The differential diagnostic importance of such forms of somnambulism is stressed in all the literature.”

Without any idea of what to expect, it was a letdown but also revealing that the office was decorated and furnished like any other professional’s, whether doctor, lawyer, or some other type of consultant.

“And you say that hypnosis really doesn’t involve mental illness, nor cause any lasting chemical or structural changes to the brain? It is a phenomena completely unrelated?” Gilles listened carefully, wondering if he was even competent to ask a proper question. “Well, I can see why you wrote the book on it.”

“Essentially, that is correct.” The Great Swami, an American whose real name, Edward Cole, was all over the passport and professional documents he had provided, was a showman but also a scientist in his own way.

He had to thoroughly understand the medium, which involved heavy audience participation in terms of individual but also group consciousness, and he had to understand his art, which Gilles took to be one of misdirection.

“The trance state is primarily a physiological state, which alters the state of consciousness, rather than a transcendental state, where I sort of impose my will upon yours. In purely psychological terms, most subjects actually do resist the trance, at least at first. It is not a magical spell, not in any sense of the word. The fact that popular ignorance often prefers this view is no concern of mine. It actually makes my job easier. The public performance is a show, after all. The subjects participate by choice, at some conscious level, for the practitioner has made them comfortable, relaxed, and they feel safe enough in letting go. They often believe the audience will keep them safe enough, at least in a public performance.”

“So you’re like a real doctor, then?” Levain stumbled as he tried to make notes, knowing he would never be able to reconstruct all of this later from the squiggles in his notebook.

“Oh, absolutely, I am a doctor, yes. But I am so much more than that.” The Great Swami nodded complacently. “I am also an avatar of Shiva, but that is beside the point.”

Gilles coughed politely, sure it was a joke. He was as stumped as Levain.

“Totally off the record, none of your subjects are plants?”

Cole grinned.

“Never, although that is a common misconception.”

Gilles wondered whether to believe him or not.

“So you liked my book?” Gilles wondered at the insecurity of the vain, or was it just the writers.

“Yes, I couldn’t put it down. I stayed up all Saturday night to read it.”

The Great Swami beamed at the statement.

“I’d be happy to sign it for you.”

“No, that’s quite all right, besides, it’s actually evidence in a homicide. But you may have misunderstood my question.”

“Not at all, Inspector, but there are no easy answers. The classical feeling, the belief among professionals, is that it is impossible to induce a person through a hypnotic trance, to do or perform some act of which they are fundamentally incapable, or which they have no real need to do. They must be predisposed to it, and even then I believe, and many experts believe, that to over-ride a person’s natural sense of caution, or consequence if you will, the basic instinct for self-preservation at all costs, makes the task impossible. The organism would react where the whole was threatened.”

“You mean it is impossible to over-rule the subconscious mind?” This was the meat Gilles was looking for.

“Something like that.” The Swami, who looked like a perfectly ordinary person in the quiet comfort of his office, was trying to be helpful, but unfortunately they could only tell him so much. “There is perhaps one exception, which I deal with in chapter nineteen.”

“Oh…oh, ah...” Gilles thought furiously. “Yes—group consciousness. With a large enough sample you believe anything is possible?”

The sound of Andre’s pencil overwhelmed the brief silence as The Great Swami gave him a look. They were serious.

“I believe that crowd psychology, and a kind of mass hypnotism, is likely more effective than attempting to suborn a single individual, considering the mass media and its reach and influence in modern society.”

Gilles wondered if the Great Swami had ever been consulted by the government, but he didn’t think so or the man would have mentioned it. Also, he was unlikely to say anything that was too controversial, or likely to be contradicted by any other competent practitioner. That much was self-evident.

“What about quitting tobacco?” Levain’s shrugged at Gilles’ inquiring glance. “Why not, Inspector? We might as well ask, now that we have him.”

A feeble grin escaped Maintenon. He had been expecting a fast-talking charlatan, a real shyster, and the man was nothing like they had expected.

“I might be able to help you quit smoking. It’s a long process, and it is by no means certain. Nicotine is one of the most addictive substances known to man. It’s a hard habit to break, and that’s just the truth. As far as convincing someone to commit a serious crime, let alone murder, again, in my opinion, it cannot be done. It would be harder, or at least take more time, than getting them to quit smoking.”

“And how do you feel about your book being found at a crime scene?” Gilles was floundering and he knew it.

“It sold hundreds of copies world-wide. I suppose I should be pleased, or something.” He settled back in the deeply-padded leather chair and crossed his fingers on his belly. “I’m flattered, really.”

There was an air of resignation in this statement. He must have had high hopes for it.

“Yes, I see your point. Well, thank you for your time.” They all rose for the obligatory round of hand-shaking and back-slapping.

Doctors were all the same in his opinion, although the fact that the Great Swami was a real doctor, with all kinds of degrees hung up on the wall, was of some anecdotal interest. The thing was that now he’d have to put a man on verifying the degrees were real. He probably made more money from all the quackery or perhaps the richer or more foolish people were more willing to pay good money for it. Judging by the house, he seemed to be doing all right, and had never heard of Theo Duval other than maybe reading something about him in the paper.

His game seemed to consist of a lot of listening and a lot of talking, in about equal amounts. Perhaps their jobs had more in common than he realized.

End.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZaPTELylZ1s

What makes a character resonate?

(Morguefile.)


What makes a character resonate with a reader?


It’s helpful if the reader likes them in some way, but it’s not entirely essential. A character who may begin as unprepossessing may encounter a problem that the reader can identify with. These can range from the grand, where the protagonist is the only one in the world who can stop the bad guys from kidnapping the president and replacing him with a body double; to smaller issues including common irritants. This might be something like an inbox full of spam or a broken muffler on their vehicle. That broken muffler might play a bigger role if the bad guys hear the protagonist arriving in a desperate, one-woman rescue bid. In that case a simple irritant has become a much bigger problem. It could be as simple as liking toasted tomato sandwiches, in fact making the antagonist eat one might humanize them a little…especially with lettuce, a slice of cheese and some grated onions, and just a hint of mayo.

Duty—a character has a duty, whether it’s paying the mortgage, protecting the public or just to try and keep a friend out of trouble. We all have our own duties, big and small, and so we can relate.

Science-fiction great Ben Bova says, ‘the protagonist and the antagonist each have a problem that they need to solve.’

I have a problem that I need to solve. I’ll bet you do too. I think I’m a protagonist rather than an antagonist, but we’ll let the readers decide. However, the key factor here is problem. In our example, the antagonist has a problem. He wants to replace the president with a body double in order to achieve some sort of a goal, perhaps justice for his own people, revenge or just plain evil reasons. The protagonist wants to prevent it even though they are alone, have little resources or training, and of course a duty to do the right thing.

Injustice.

Some of the most compelling characters are victims of injustice. To prevent this from becoming cliché, it has to be believable, and the back-story could be as simple as an innocent man being released from jail. The readers know he’s a good guy by his behaviour. Just because the author says they’re a victim of injustice doesn’t necessarily make it so. There have been plenty of trick endings written in fiction, and the readers are on the lookout for that. So their behaviour is key, and I think it’s in the little things—how they treat a kid, or a stranger, or even their manner of speaking. Do they ask questions, or make statements?

Suffering.

We have all suffered. A character might suffer pain, or grief, or loss. These are things we can all identify with. The antagonist also suffers, more often than not. The difference is in how they deal with it. The nice guy tries to deal with it with as little impact on the lives of others as possible, and the bad guy wants to destroy the world, or whatever. How they deal with problems is another key indicator of who’s who and who’s what, if you take my meaning here.

Who likes them?

This is important. If nice people like them, it can go two ways. They are either a genuinely nice person, or they are false and manipulative, a hypocrite and a con artist. While it is by no means as cut and dried in real life, these cues go a long way to letting the reader know who is the good one and who is the baddie.

Personal life is important. The real people have them, the bad guys are totally obsessed. They’re always busy doing bad things, right? Hobbies, pets, aging relatives, a small dependent child, these are the hallmarks of the well-rounded person. While Hitler loved his dogs and that guy in all the James Bond films was always stroking that danged white cat, there were enough other indicators to let us know this wasn’t the normal person.

Giving a character a phobia, or a cold, can help any number of readers identify with them—remember the cave full of snakes in the Indiana Jones movie. Most readers would not like to be in a cave full of snakes in real time. On a movie screen, it’s just fine and dandy. It’s a vicarious thrill.

(It also helps if they love someone. Or even just some thing.-ed.)

The reader’s expectations of the genre play a big role in character resonance. If they’re reading horror, it’s for the thrills and the chills. The protagonist must be at the centre of the action and must be in great danger for much of the time. A horror movie almost inevitably has a host of disparate characters. They give us all someone to like, and then when they’re killed by having a stainless steel spike driven into the head, it’s pretty easy to imagine how that feels, and there is a distinct emotional wrench. It’s all in great fun, of course. In terms of steel spikes, a lesser stimulus would of course carry a smaller emotional impact. A scene where someone takes an overdose of sleeping pills would take an entirely different treatment to get the same emotional shock. The spike in the head is much quicker of course, the death by sleeping pills has a much slower pace.

What makes a character resonate is that we can identify with what happens to them, how they feel about it, and how they react to it, even if it’s not exactly what we hope we would do under similar circumstances.

How many times in horror have we seen perfectly sensible people split up and search a rambling old house for a psychotic slasher? The emotional impetus of that is essentially one of sheer frustration. We yell at the screen. Don’t you just grind your teeth during those scenes? But that’s why they keep putting them in there, even when the universal audience response is that they don’t like it.

The characters' actions are not entirely logical, but there is that gut-level reaction. It’s something we can all identify with.

Additional comments are always welcome.

Fin de siecle.




'The Reader,' Felix Valloton, 1922.

At the peak of Byzantine culture, the social distinctions between classes reached their ultimate refinement. The same was true again in pre-Revolutionary France. I see a bit of that now: people want to divide themselves up into an infinite number of gradations, and this in societies that are on the face of it, democratic and egalitarian. The deference society, where we must defer to some authority, is not quite dead yet. There are those who think we still have it, or would like to bring it back with themselves as the sole constituted authority.

Fin de siecle.

Society has become decadent. We have arrived at the fin de siecle--the end of a era. We can mourn the passage of the old, or we can rejoice at our opportunity for a new beginning. 



At one time there were three estates of man. This was before the evolution of the nation-state with which we are all familiar. There was a martial class of kings and knights, whose duty was to protect the kingdom. There was the priestly class, whose duty was both spiritual and educational. They informed people of what to think and how to think it. Everything they said was backed up by the authority of God and the Bible. The third class was the labour class. Their duty was to do the actual work and support the other classes. Their recommended duty in the face of atrocious social conditions was patience and acceptance. They were better off to keep their mouths shut, or be hanged. Social mobility was very difficult. Society was stratified and everyone believed it was meant to stay that way.

Such an idea dies hard. It’s not dead yet. There are those who are still holding to the hierarchical notion, the idea that somehow, somebody who is head and shoulders above the crowd, must lead in the moral sense, and the legal sense, and the intellectual sense, and that others should have no choice but to conform and to follow.

Think of how easy it is to look down on someone…anyone, really. We have much to be grateful for. And this in a society where by law everyone is created equal. Even now, some are still more equal than others.

A conflict between the conservative and the inventive.

But my premise is that society is a conflict between the conservative and inventive. Isn’t invention a good thing? That largely depends on who you ask, and where their interest lies.

The internet is a great leveler. It is inventive, and a threat to conservatism. Now we can listen to all kinds of people and examine their ideas and see what they are worth. You want me to listen to your message—and accept it. There are those who are both didactic and extremely conservative. They see freedom of thinking and expression as a threat to the established order. They want us to stick to the old models in spite of evidence that there is a new way. They would prefer if we defer to them, let them do our thinking and learn nothing for ourselves that they do not approve of.

Literary area-bombing.

Much of the backlash against the rise of digital publishing is in fact a reaction to a perceived threat to someone’s interest. To target those who write something and publish it themselves is to pick an easy target. Some of them really aren’t very good. But those who aren’t very good are not the real threat to conservative, long-established power structures. Those folks are sure to fail. Those who are very, very good are the real threat. Lumping everyone into one basket is a kind of carpet-bombing, where the workers are the real targets. The history of WW II makes it clear that this is no way to stifle production of war materials or anything else. It was only when the U.S.A.A.F. went after oil targets, precision targets, when any appreciable effect could be discerned; and only in terms of fuel production. Airplanes and tanks were produced right up to the very end of Nazi Germany. Production rose at the height of area-bombing.

The fact is that traditional publishing cannot comprehend the nature of the threat (or more importantly, what to do about it,) any more than they can provide profitable publishing vehicles for everyone with something to say. The traditional models are not about communication, or learning, or teaching. They were about the passive consumption of entertainment and corporate profitability.

What if I write and publish a book and no one reads it? If nothing else, I have entertained myself, and in an active sense rather than passive. And I didn’t buy someone else’s product. More importantly, how in the hell does that affect you?

Gutenberg, the man who invented the printing press by popularly accepted accounts, was extremely unpopular with the Church, and arguably with the ruling classes. Knowledge, learning, and most important of all, teaching, are no longer monopolies of Church and state.

The mainstream publishing model held sway for decades, even centuries. Much that was published was crap in somebody’s eyes somewhere.

The internet has changed that. So has self-publishing. Now we have more of everything, in fact somewhere online you can find ‘Mein Kampf,’ Hitler’s turgid and almost incomprehensible ravings in book form—which used to be a ‘real’ book, that is to say one made out of paper and ink. When couples married, the state gave them an important gift—a copy of ‘Mein Kampf.’

The more sophisticated listen to everyone.

While it is true that the more sophisticated listen to as many relevant sources as possible before making up their own minds, there are people who feel very threatened by the rise of self-publishing. Here in Canada, the market is very small.

Some sources are saying much of what is published online is crap. This is actually a true statement, but bear in mind their editorials are also published online.

The Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

This is the fin de siecle—the end of an era. The world will be flooded with new books and surely this is a good thing, even if (or especially if,) no one in a position of ‘authority’ vets them or stamps them with the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. Oprah Winfrey and Martha Stewart don’t have time to read it all anyway. To believe that everything touted by cultural arbiters like that is the result of a literary meritocracy is nonsense.

When has anyone ever touted a great book with a premise or point of view that they didn’t approve of?

Now publishing is so easy that anyone can do it. The mystery has been revealed and the monopoly broken. It’s now open to everyone with a computer and an internet connection. This much is true.