Betrayal: The Ultimate Tragedy

I’m currently listening to an audiobook called Betrayer by Aaron Dembski-Bowden. It’s a book from the Warhammer 40k “Horus Heresy” series, which revolves around a massive civil war that rips apart mankind’s galactic empire. This book, and what I’ve read from the series in general, have really opened my eyes to how much I enjoy betrayal as a theme. In some stories you can see the betrayal coming from a mile away; it’s of no surprise that the blackhearted schemer betrays trust at the earliest opportunity. Those betrayals are shallow because the bonds between the characters were weak. What really makes excellent, tragic storytelling is when betrayal separates two people who were bound together with seemingly unbreakable ties. For me, the epitome of this kind of epic betrayal is found the fall of King Arthur and his court. The knights of the round table were champions of justice and chivalry, a brotherhood of warriors that could defeat any foe. The round table is destroyed, not by her enemies, but from within her ranks. Arthur is betrayed by his best knight, the one who most embodied his virtuous ideals. Betrayal topples Arthur’s kingdom when nothing else could and undermines the very virtues on which it was built. Betrayal destroys body and soul.

The “Horus Heresy” and its follow up series, “The Siege of Terra”, do a great job of conveying betrayal on a galactic scale. Sons turn against their father, and brother is set against brother. Friendships that we’ve seen blossom over multiple books are torn apart by the blood soaked hand of betrayal. The military fellowship that saw victory across thousands of worlds is shattered into bitter factions. Every good thing that was built has been cast down, as both the body and soul of a galactic empire are cast into hellfire.

The closer the bond, the higher the heights of success, the deeper and more brutally a great act of betrayal may cut. The Spartans at Thermopylae, who faced the infinite armies of Persia, were undone by the betrayal of a fellow Greek. Cuchulainn and Ferdia were raised and trained together. When they meet at the ford, they fight a long and bloody duel that ends with Ferdia’s death. Though Cuchulainn was the hero of the Tain, his victory over Ferdia feels more like a defeat. The great duel between Obi-Wan and Anakin in Star Wars is epic primarily because of Anakin’s great betrayal, summed up by Obi-Wan’s heart-broken reminder that they were “brothers”.

Fellowship is one of the most widely celebrated virtues, especially highlighted in tales of war or strife. Betrayal is the breaker of bonds, the shattering of fellowship and brotherhood, and thus leads to the most devastating tragedies. Similarly, betrayal is the great enemy of life’s greatest theme: love. How many heroes and heroines have been betrayed by a lover? Merlin, Arthur, Tristan, Sigurd, Heracles, Ariadne, and Sampson come to mind. Even more may be named that were betrayed by a close family member.

Betrayal is a great reversal, a swift and thunderous undoing or the rot that eats away at the foundations. Its dramatic and tragic. Betrayal makes us mourn and rage at what was lost, but also at the loss of what might have been. How long might Camelot have endured without betrayal? What feats could Cuchulainn and Ferdia have accomplished if they had worked together? Tragedy may arise from fate or accident, but betrayal always leaves us with a bitter taste because we know that it didn’t need to happen. Betrayal is a choice with full knowledge of the faith being broken. It puts in stark contrast the best and worst of humanity. Little else may be as ground-shaking as a well written betrayal. It’s hard for me to write betrayal because of my own emotional investment in the characters. Killing your darlings is one thing—having one darling kill the other along with all they’ve accomplished together is just brutal. It’s not easy, but I’m in search of top-tier heartbreak. Readers beware!

Halloween

Halloween is nearly here, and for the first time, I’m going to be spending it outside of the US. Halloween originated as Samhain (pronounced Sow-een), a Gaelic festival that celebrated the harvest and marked the beginning of the dark half of the year. Samhain was a liminal time, when the boundaries between this world and the Otherworld thinned. The Daoine Sídhe, powerful fairies who are reflections of the ancient Celtic gods, were free to wander the earth. The Daoine Sídhe had to be propitiated with food, drink, and crop gleanings, to insure that people and livestock would make it through the winter and to prevent any curses the Fair Folk might otherwise inflict. If one had to go abroad on Samhain night, it was wisest to carry salt and cold iron, or take other measures to ward off any fairies intent on doing mischief. It was also thought that the souls of the dead would visit their homes on Samhain, and so it was common practice to set a place for the dead at the table and beside the hearth. Young people would impersonate the fairies and spirits, traveling from house to house and demanding offerings on their behalf. Those who refused to donate were sure to be the victim of pranks or other mischief, to say nothing of what the fairies or spirits of the dead might do. Bonfires, especially those started using friction, were lit as a form of protection from malignant forces and as a way to divine the future.

Though Samhain is a Gaelic word, the other Celtic peoples had their own versions of what must have been a pan-Celtic festival. The Welsh had Nos Galan Gaeaf while the Irish held Samhain. The Welsh also believed that it was a night when spirits were abroad and held their own bonfires. The villagers would all inscribe their name on a stone, placing it within the bonfire. When the fire began to die, everyone would run home as fast as they could—for once the fire died, terrible, disfigured spirits would chase them to devour their souls.

Halloween became popular in the US in the 19th century, when there was a large influx of immigrants from Ireland and Scotland. In the states, the old practice of carving a face from a turnip became our pumpkin carving tradition and need to propitiate the spirits or face their wrath became wrapped up in the phrase “trick or treat”. The transmission of Halloween to the US caused many of the old traditions to become forgotten or softened into less ominous forms. Despite the loss of some the old Halloween meanings or traditions, Americans have our own flavor to the holiday. We have our own harvest traditions like corn mazes, hayrides, and pumpkin patches but far more in what we’ve contributed to Halloween’s spooky side. We have our own ghost stories to tell, and tales of witches, haunted houses, monsters, and murders. The Salem Witch Trials, the Headless Horseman, and Lovecraft have firmly identified New England as the American center for all things spooky and mysterious, a reputation which a thousand subsequent books, movies, and TV shows have solidified.

I’ve come to identify Halloween so much with New England that it seems strange to think that the holiday actually originated among the Celts of the British Isles. The holiday feels so American now, that I’m a little sad to be spending it in Britain. It’s also quite bizarre how the American interpretation of Halloween has influenced how its celebrated in its old homeland. American pumpkins are common here, as are the cheap polyester costumes and plastic decorations for sale in the stores. Once the day arrives, I’ll be interested to see how it is similar or different to our familiar American celebrations. Maybe we’ll carve our names on a stone and give them to our own Nos Calan Gaeaf fire.

The Difficulty of Modernized Mythology

My friends and I have recently started up a new D&D campaign which also happens to be our first crack at a published adventure: The Rime of the Frostmaiden. Though I’m personally an avowed home-brewer, I have to say that the premise for this adventure is tantalizing. Basically, a northerly part of the world has been cast into perpetual winter by the Frostmaiden, the goddess of winter’s wrath, and it’s up to the adventurers to see that spring comes again. The threat of perpetual winter is a theme that surfaces repeatedly in the western mythos. Modern examples include Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather and Wintersmith, and C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, but this is a truly ancient theme. The Greek tale of Persephone’s imprisonment in Hades, the Brythonic duel between Gwyn ap Nudd and Gwythyr ap Greidawl, the Irish celebration of Beltane, and the Germanic Yule are all stories or celebrations centered around the transition between winter and spring where the cycle of the year must be encouraged to turn. I even include this theme in the final book of my Kellan series. It’s safe to say that I really adore the turning of the seasons as a subject for mythology and other storytelling.

The Rime of the Frostmaiden presents a problem straight from the deepest storytelling instincts of the Indo-European peoples, if not humanity at large, but it is perhaps this classic choice that really highlights some our modern issues in understanding the myths and gods of ages past. I think the point is neatly demonstrated by my struggle to create my character for this campaign. My friends and I decided to go with an all-dwarf party for the storytelling potential. I decided that I would create a religious character dedicated to a fertility goddess. The dominance of winter, the failure of crops, the withering of forests, the death of animals both wild and domestic, all these things would be an affront to one aligned with a deity of growth, harvest, and life. I really struggled to find a class that aligned with these principles. The life domain cleric was the closest candidate, and even mentioned fertility goddesses as appropriate deities for the class. My issue is that the life cleric is a healing class. There isn’t anything inherently wrong with a healing class, but healing injuries seems only tangentially related to deities of growth and life. The more nature oriented classes, spells, and abilities exclusively focus on wild nature as an enemy and antithesis to the agricultural world.

What Wizards of the Coast have created with the life cleric is something that is probably more motivated by concerns for game mechanics than it is by a mythological understanding, but it is exactly that sort of thing that really damages the way we’re able to understand mythology. We like to put gods into neat boxes so we can put them all into a list that covers most of the aspects of the world. Poseidon is the god of the sea and that’s all we’ll say about the matter. What we leave out is that Poseidon is also the god of horses, springs, and earthquakes. He’s fathered monsters and heroes, built the walls of Troy, and fought in the Titanomachy. He has evidence ancient worship as a sacral king in Minoan temples, with Demeter and Persephone by his side. He is the god of the sea, but he is not simply the god of the sea. When we pigeonhole a god into a domain we create a poor caricature of real mythology.

Real mythology is complex, layered, and may be confusing to the uninitiated. I grew up going to a Christian church and have continued going to church as an adult. I have read the Bible and attended a lifetime of sermons, discussions, and classes on biblical stories and church history. When I read something with a biblical theme or symbol, I can usually understand the reference without even pausing to think about it. One of my friends from high school wasn’t brought up in the church and had received anything but a passive and cursory education on biblical matters. We took a western literature class together and he had a difficult time because he simply didn’t understand most of the biblical references, symbols, or themes. For me, an ox may bring to mind the gospel of Luke, Christ’s ministry to the poor, the patience and long-suffering attitude of a good Christian, God’s command to be kind to animals and pay laborers their wages. For my friend, an ox was just a dopey farm animal. We modern readers are like my friend from school. We are on the outside of these ancient mythologies. The symbols, themes, and language in these ancient stories is not our own. Our only exposure to much of this material has been through the distant echoes that linger in our civilization, but which only tell a fragmented, bastardized version of the old tales.

When we craft stories (through any medium), we must resist the urge to create something fragmented and reductive. It’s easy for me to create a pantheon with gods and goddesses that are all “god of” one or two things. It’s easy to set these deities at the head of a religion with a formal clergy and stone temples. What’s exceedingly difficult is to create a mythology that even has the appearance of real depth. It’s hard to write about gods in a way that makes them feel foundational, not only to society, but to the very earth. The Rime of the Frostmaiden presents a mythic problem: the seasons won’t turn properly. Yet I feel that there is little chance of a properly mythic solution. The gods of Faerun are flat concepts. They seem divorced from the land and the seasons, with no grip on the real world beyond a papier-mâché religion. I want to write mythology that pays proper homage to the real thing; I want to write myths that feel like they are living things that have bearing on the earth. I’m just a player in this campaign, but I’ve got some ideas.

A Personal Update

It feels strange to be writing a blogpost after a hiatus of over a year. I’m afraid that 2020 saw all my activities as a writer grind to an almost complete stop. The pandemic was partially to blame; as someone who worked in education, having to switch to a fully-online service was difficult. I ended up working more from home than I had when I was at the college and by the end of the day I was usually too mentally exhausted to be productive at my creative work. On top of my demanding new work schedule, I was struck by a massive setback in my writing career. I had finished writing my second book, The Many Antlered Crown, and had done a preliminary round of editing. Satisfied for the moment, I submitted the book to my editor. After a brief review, the publishing company declined to publish The Many Antlered Crown or any other further books in the series. The primary reason given was that the book was simply too long. The Wind from Faerie was around 100 thousand words long, whereas The Many Antlered Crown ended up being about 162 thousand words long. Given in more concrete terms, The Wind from Faerie was 272 pages in print, so The Many Antlered Crown would be around 440 pages in print. I will grant that it is a long book, but I don’t think it would be considered long by the standards of the fantasy genre. Nevertheless, Authors4Authors is a small company which simply does not have the capital to invest in printing a book that size. I’m sure the lack of significant commercial success of my first novel was also a factor in their decision.

I was extremely disappointed that my sequels would not be published by the same company that had handled the first book. The publisher and I hadn’t had a conflict-free relationship, but I hated the idea that the series was going to be broken up between publishers. To add salt to the wound, I would now have to query and find a new publisher for the second book in a trilogy. It didn’t seem like the kind of deal that a new company would want to get involved with. The current plan is to finish writing the third and final book of the series, then to buy back my rights to The Wind from Faerie and then market the whole trilogy to a new publishing company. The publication of The Many Antlered Crown would have to be seriously delayed and I felt like I was failing my faithful readers. My publication woes combined with the difficulties of the pandemic and a little writer’s block to make a perfect storm of compounding guilt. Writing had turned from an enjoyable, if sometimes arduous, pastime into something that really only made me feel guilty and depressed. With the joy of writing largely drained away, I almost completely stopped any sort of creative writing. I did some world-building for a D&D game I was running and I wrote a few poems, but that was about the sum of my production for a long time. For a significant part of 2020, I hardly even read.

Eventually, the unsolved mystery of my third book coaxed me back to the page. I scribbled in notebooks, talked to myself on long walks, and even managed to write a few lines. The pull to write has grown stronger and stronger so that now my motivation to write this final book in Kellan’s saga has outshone my guilt and apathy. I still haven’t plunged back into a writing routine as focused and productive as I once had, but writing again feels like a magical process to me and I’m once again excited about the stories that may one day flow out of my pen.

The Dangers of Age Labels

I’ve always liked the story of Peter Pan. I loved being a child; I loved living in a world filled with wonder and mystery, a world where my imagination invigorated everything I encountered with life. I empathized with Peter Pan’s refusal to join the stodgy, gray world of adults. I had adults tell me (not in so many words) that growing up meant abandoning the things that I loved best about childhood and embracing the jaded cynicism of adulthood. I had a few mentors that made growing up less frightening, people who had all the life and wonder of a child despite being old and gray. Now as an adult, I often think of what C.S. Lewis said, “When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.” Certainly we should lose the ignorance and selfishness of childhood as we age, but I think the creativity, wonder, and joy of being a child are virtues that we should carry throughout our lives.

The writing community is plagued by labels of all kinds, but the age labels of “adult, young adult, and children’s book" are particularly difficult. Much ink has been spilt attacking and defending books intended for different age groups. In particular, I’ve noticed that the definition of “adult” is heading in a concerning direction. One would think that the only prerequisite for having an “adult” book would be having characters who are adults, or characters with which adult readers can most readily identify. Now it seems that “adult” is not only reflective of the life stage of the characters, but has become more akin to a movie rating. What now separates “adult" fiction from “young adult” fiction is the amount of cursing, graphic sex, violence, gore, and rape. In our modern world, these elements are appreciated as realism. Mature themes are those which revolve around those dark elements; everything else is thought to be sugar coated and fit for children. In my mind, much of this obsession with dark realism as the basis of adult themes is born out of the desire to appear grown up.

By labeling a very narrow range of books as “adult”, I worry that we are providing a narrow and dangerous definition of what it means to be an adult. It seems that the industry is saying that adults must be cynical, that their world should be devoid of optimism and whimsy, and that they should not only be aware of the horrors of the real world, but take delight in their machinations. In the same way, I worry that our labels are too limiting on young adults and children. Why does every young adult book need a love triangle? Why can children’s books not acknowledge the reality of the world? I know that I’m painting with a broad brush, but it seems as if many writers are intentionally writing books to fit into the formulaic structure that the publishing industry has created.

I want to read books about optimistic, idealistic adults making the world a better place. I want to read books that feature teenagers who wrestle with complex moral and philosophical issues, and I want to read children’s books that confront evil in the world. I realize that age labels were created and are perpetuated by the publishing industry, and that many within the writing community would be more than happy to see them go, but it is tempting to adapt our stories to fit within the construct that the publishers have created. I would like to see people writing books that publishers struggle to put in a neat little box because life does not fit into discrete categories. Life does not wait for us to be mature before showing us evil in the world, nor does age always bring wisdom and maturity. As an adult, I crave wonder and whimsy perhaps even more than when I was a child. A child is as human as an adult, and many of us will even admit that we don’t feel that our personhood has substantially changed since childhood. I acknowledge the usefulness of age categories of marketing purposes, but let’s not let those categories define us or our work.

The Coming of Rænor: An Epic Poem of Purovus

I’ve recently felt an aversion to social media, even to writing this blog which has been a welcome diversion for about over a year now. I think I can attribute this reluctance to the recent submission of my book, The Many Antlered Crown, to my publishers. Sending away a book feels something like how I imagine it must feel to send a child off to college. I have spent my time tending this book with all the love, frustration, and elation of a parent, and now that I’ve sent it away, I feel a little unmoored. It has taken some time to readjust to life away from my creation and perhaps some time to mourn that it has officially left the nest. During that time, I had little appetite for social media or desire to write blogposts. Now I’m ready to brave the apocalyptic wastes of social media and again feel the pull of The Great Blank Page.

I have a great love for myths and legends, and have endeavored to create some of my own for my fantasy worlds. Below is an excerpt from an epic poem I began a few months ago and abandoned. I hope to get back to it someday, but have recently been busy with other projects (like actually writing my books). Hopefully I’ll get back to it soon. So far the poem is over a thousand words long, and I plan to make it substantially longer. This poem is entitled, “The Coming of Rænor”, an epic telling of humanities greatest and oldest hero.

Listen now to legend’s birth

in grinding ice and hunger’s dearth.

His people fled from dreadful East

where dark things do on corpses feast.

A great Kingdom forever lowed.

Of blood, they say, a river flowed,

from battles won and lost more oft

‘till land did reek of death’s foul waft.

From home long engulfed in nightmare

a remnant ran, without thought where

their weary legs may at last lie

and if they laid them down to die

at least it were a place apart

from misery and breaking heart. 

Into that remnant he was born,

golden-haired, as if made to scorn

the dark that could not quench the light

though it may seem to pass from sight.

Through the mountains they struggling came

then over frozen seas untamed

that groaned a haunting song of cold

that called to sleep and froze the bold.

On they pressed through untold perils

into Rabdranas, land of feral

things that dwell in endless winter.

Raenor had grown from child tender

to a youth hardened, strong, and fell,

who sang and fought and crafted well.

Yet still he was a stripling lad,

no feats of arms or deeds he had.

Then in a raid both hard and fast,

giants stole the light and then were past

the reach of those who would return

the lost treasure for which they yearned.

None of Drothin’s men would dare climb

where ravens fly in endless line.

Then from despondent host arose

Raenor, swearing to end all foes

who would dare to steal from his King.

Then did Drothin begin to sing

a song of doom and hope entwined

and bid Raenor the last light find.

He began his tread ascending

up the pinnacles unending,

winding up to snowy mountain peaks

to slay the foes, to treasure seek.

Speaking Out

Let me begin this post by saying that I have not meant for my public persona as an author to be political, and I do not mean to become concerned with politics now. I am very political and active in my personal life, but I have endeavored to avoid politics in connection with my books. I adopted this policy not because I am ashamed of my politics or because I am fearful of others holding opinions which are different from my own. I have had to make my author persona apolitical because of the divisive political atmosphere in the United States and the especially vitriolic nature of Twitter. Additionally, I have my contract to consider. I can very literally be dropped by my publisher for espousing views which are contrary to those held by the publishers. I was not surprised by this part of my contract and signed it willingly. If only from the perspective of marketing and sales, it makes sense that publishers would be wary of crossing public opinion. However, these contractural considerations make me doubly hesitant to speak politically.

Even now, I have refused to flout my personal ideals on social media that’s related to my author persona, and for good reason. The dominant sentiment today seems to be that dissenting opinions should be censored and that we should do everything in our power to ruin those with whom we disagree. People are unfollowed, unfriended, blocked, and reported for contrary opinions. Writers and other creators will have their works boycotted for daring to cross a particular group or ideology, while many others are told to “shut up and do your job.” Shockingly, these censorships happen even within a person’s own political group. A left-leaning writer may have their books boycotted for not being far enough left, or not following the labyrinthine and arbitrary protocol set forth by various people. A right-leaning writer may be called weak or pandering for not being far enough right. Add in the other political axis of authoritarian to libertarian ideals, and it becomes very clear that no one can become political without expecting some kind of backlash.

I have seen many creators take the stance that the backlash is irrelevant. If someone wishes to boycott my work, then I wouldn’t have wanted them to read it in the first place. Some go so far as to say, “If you don’t agree with me on X issue, then please leave.” Essentially, these people are creating an audience of homogenous opinion. I generally dislike this approach, as it has a tendency to create an echo-chamber. If my audience consists only of those who already agree with me, then no one will be challenged by my work, no one will find something unexpected. One of the most surprising and gratifying things about having a published book is being met with readers who I did not expect to by in my audience. I’ve been told by many readers that I was their first foray into fantasy novels. They were introduced to a whole new world of literature, full of works more beautiful and more important than my own, because no one told them that they shouldn’t read my book. If I had announced that my book was for fans of the genre only, many of them would have never picked up the book. In the same way, I would limit the impact of my work by setting limits on its readership.

Even now that I have decided to speak out, I don’t want to lose one reader. I firmly believe that art can and does change people’s hearts, minds, and lives. It is therefore my objective to share good art, not just of my own making, with as many people as possible. Denying someone the experience of good art is denying them the chance for growth and change on a level that can never be achieved by any argument. In that light, I remain staunch in my refusal to become a politically vocal author. I don’t want to use my position to support candidates, bills, or political systems. I only want to share my ideals because concealing them has begun to feel dishonest and cowardly.

Here is one thing that I hold to be true: black lives matter. As a Christian, I think that every person is precious in God’s eyes and should therefore be precious in my own. It’s painful to think such a simple statement of a people’s worth has become a trigger for political fighting. Asserting the basic worth of one race is not an attack on another and should not be misconstrued as such. I also believe that people should receive justice, and that there can be no justice where there is not equality. Any system that denies people equal justice is not just. A campaign for justice may be inconvenient, it may even be dangerous, but it is never unwarranted or untimely. We should all gladly accept the disruption of our daily lives as the smallest price to pray for a just society. We should all endeavor to do what is right with a peaceful heart, keeping in mind that we are all part of a human family. In a war of ideas, victories are won by changing people’s minds, not by insulting them or brutalizing their bodies. In the end, I believe that goodness will win; injustice cannot reign forever. We should never despair of doing what is right.

I don’t say these things because I need you to agree with me, I say them because I believe them to be true and I can’t, in good conscience, remain silent. I will ask this of you: examine what you believe and speak out for what is right.

Returning to Your Creative Center

Much to my dismay, I’ve found writing to be difficult lately. For me, writing feels like running. Sometimes it can be exhilarating and effortless, at other times it feels like I’m trudging up a hill of sucking mud. As most of you know, I’m currently editing my second novel, The Many Antlered Crown. I confess that I’m not a natural editor; the process is usually difficult and disheartening although there have been a few precious moments of deep satisfaction. My immediate editing goal is to finish writing a new chapter that I’m adding to the draft. Ideally, the new chapter will smooth out some wrinkles in the plot and provide some much needed character development. The issue is that creating this chapter has been horribly difficult. My writing discipline is usually something that I can rely upon, but it suddenly seems that all my literary virtues have deserted me. My writing process has been clouded by the needs of the moment, the demands of my schedule, and my inner critic. I’ve been struggling to write this chapter because I’ve distanced myself from a creative mental space.

Maintaining a healthy mental space is absolutely essential to good writing. When I’m stressed or worried, I get distracted and can’t produce anything worthwhile. When I feel at peace, fulfilled, and awake to the beauty around me, I’m capable of producing art. There is definitely a sense in which one create an atmosphere conducive to a positive head space, that is the entire premise of a disciplined writing schedule, but what do we do without our precious routines? What if my schedule has been thrown off by life, and I am forced to write in less than ideal conditions? What if I’ve been self-critical while editing and suddenly find myself in need of creating something of which I’m proud? What if I’m just having a rotten day? How do I force a creative headspace?

Simply put, I don’t think one can force a creative headspace, but I do think we can guide ourselves there. Below, I’ve listed a few steps that help me to enter into the right mindset. Hopefully they will be of use to you.

1. Relax. Lay your troubles aside for a time. You can’t worry yourself into creating something beautiful. Ignore everything else and let your mind be still for one peaceful moment. I like to put some atmospheric music on or go for a walk to help me with this step.

2. Remember who you are and what you love. There’s a reason you’re writing this story, something that you’re passionate about. Hold on to that.

3. Imagine the scene as it first occurs to you and freeze that moment in time. Do not think about what the scene should accomplish, how long it should be, or any other technical distractions. Think about the sensory details. Use the smells and sounds to immerse yourself in the world. Put your feet on the ground.

4. Write the scene as you are experiencing it. Once the board is set, allow the pieces to move, describing the game as it unfolds before you. You are only a scribe recording what is happening around you, what is flowing through you. Describe it as best you can, but don’t let yourself get in the way.

Thoughts on Improving Style

I’ve been mulling over the concept of style recently. Those of us who write a lot develop a particular writing style. The way we construct sentences, the words we use, and the scenes we depict all feed into our particular style of writing. Recently, I’ve been thinking about what control (or lack thereof) we may have over our own styles. If I decided to drastically alter my sentence structure or word choice, would my style change overnight? Would my work become more enthralling just because I use choppier sentences, or would I only sound like myself in staccato?

Though it seems like I should be able to alter my sentence structure and word choice to change styles, it’s not so easy in practice. I write sentences the way that I do because my writing is intimately tied to the inner workings of my mind. My narration may not be an exact copy of my internal dialogue, but it’s pretty close. The same goes for my working vocabulary. I have little control over what words pop into my head and demand to be put on the page. I can search for new or half-remembered words in a thesaurus, but my very gravitation towards one word over another must be subjective. Another writer describing the same scene would use different words, in an order that my mind would never produce. So if style is so ingrained in us, how would we change it if we wanted to?

What could I change to make my style more regal, more thoughtful, or more relatable? These are the questions that keep me up nights, and I’ve rounded up at least a few thoughts on the subject. I’ve found that the best way to improve my style is to read authors who have a style I admire. When I read Tolkien, my work becomes more regal. Occasionally, I have written a passage in imitation of Tolkien, or Pratchett, or Rothfuss, in an attempt to understand what makes their styles have a certain quality. I’ve found that studying the works of writers I admire has always improved my own work. Sometimes, the lessons I learn from great writers distracts me from reading their books. Shortly after beginning War and Peace, I had to put the book down and rush to my computer because the way that Tolstoy wrote his characters was inspirational.

Initially, I was hesitant to even pick up a book during a productive writing phase because I didn’t want to compromise the style of my work. I didn’t want each new chapter sounding like it was written by a different author, and I didn’t want to risk plagiarizing someone’s work. Now that I have a few books under my belt, that’s not something I worry about. My style is stubborn; it’s difficult to change it for the better and I need all the help I can get.

Ultimately, I do think it’s important for a writer to develop her own, unique style, but I see that process as practically inevitable. It’s hard for me to imagine someone could write hundreds of thousands of words and still sound imitative. At some point, the writer’s real voice has to break through. But perhaps some books seem derivative not because the writer hasn’t dedicated enough time to developing style, but because the actual story being told is sub-par.

I seriously take issue with someone trying to write “the next Harry Potter”, or “Twilight, but with minor changes so I don’t get sued”. For one, I’m not sure I understand the ultimate goal of these projects. Do people write these imitations because they want the financial success of the original, or because they loved the original so much that they want to revisit the story through their own hands? I’m not sure what the ideology behind these writings are, but I think I know why they fall flat. Someone who is completely imitating J.K. Rowling’s stories cannot bring what Rowling brought to those stories. Rowling put herself into Harry Potter. It was her heart and mind that sculpted every inch of that world, and though I will be the first to say the series is imperfect, an imitation can never capture that which invigorated the original work.

As writers, we must tell our own stories with our own voice. I think it’s healthy to endeavor to be more like those we admire, but we should never hope to be just like them. We each have something to offer the world which it has never before seen: our perspective. Good art lets us see through the artist’s eyes. If I want to learn something from another author, it is only to better convey my own vision. I think that’s why I’m so concerned about style; I want to paint my vision as truly as possible, and that means using the right tools for the job.

Sailing in the Ancient World

For the past several weeks, I’ve been writing posts about daily life in ancient Europe, and it’s been a blast. There is so much history that gets overlooked by writers because it isn’t as glamorous as arms and armor. Another commonly overlooked subject is the history of sailing, which is what I’d like to discuss today. Boats of some fashion have been used in the Mediterranean since 8000 BC, when early peoples colonized the islands of that sea. From that point until the roughly the 11th century AD, paddling and rowing were the dominant form of ship propulsion. The sail has a long history, but was used as a supplement to the oar until sailing vessels began to replace rowed vessels in the Middle Ages.

Whereas paddles are generally short and pulled through the water using the paddler’s strength alone, oars are long and operate on the principle of levers. Thole pins in the gunwales of the vessel serve as a fulcrum against which the rower can pull the oar. The resulting stroke is much more powerful and energetically favorable than the stroke of a paddle. Paddling is still used for some very small boats, but was replaced by the oar in most historical examples.

The first advanced craft we know of were built in the Egypt’s Old Kingdom, around 2300 BC. Under the rule of pharaoh Pepi I, these early galleys were used for the transport of troops, slaves, and timber during his raids of the Levantine coast. In these early days, there was no distinction to those vessels used for trade versus those used for war. It wasn’t until rams were built into ship bows in the 8th century BC that a difference in design emerged. The first Greek galleys are attested by Homer’s Iliad in the 12th century BC, where he describes ships with a single row of oarsmen. This single row of oarsmen was the only design at the time, usually with anywhere from 30-50 rowers working a single oar each. Around the same time, in 1175 BC, we have record of the first naval battle, waged between the Egyptians and the mysterious Sea Peoples.

The bireme represented the first big invention in seafaring, and was probably invented by the Phoenicians well before the 6th century BC. The bireme was a two-tiered vessel, allowing two rows of rowers to propel the ship. The bireme was used by many Mediterranean cultures and persisted into the time of the Byzantine Empire. The trireme was the next development in rowing technology, which used an outrigger to allow a third bank of rowers to participate in propulsion on each side of the ship. Triremes  were first used by the Greeks, but were later massively utilized by the Romans. The invention of the trireme led to the disappearance of single-tiered vessels, though biremes still remained in use. Triremes employed up to 170 rowers, who all initially manned a single oar. As naval combat became increasingly important to Republican Rome, experienced rowers were in short supply and multiple rowers per oar began to be utilized.

Merchant galleys during Republican Rome were called actuaria, which used both rowers and a square-rigged sail to move. Actuaria had 50 rowers and transported goods, whereas the phaselus was used for passenger transport, and the limbs was a small express carrier. It’s likely that other seafaring peoples in the Mediterranean used similar designs for their merchant vessels during this period.

When Julius Caesar was conquering Gaul, one of the most troublesome Celtic tribes he came into contact with were the Veneti. The Veneti lived along the coasts of Armorica, what is today called Brittany, and they were consulate sailors. We know little about the Veneti ships, except that they were very tall, made of wood, thick hulled, and used sails for populsion. At the time, the Veneti vessels were superior to the standard Roman ships that Caesar brought against them. Ships under sail can be much taller than rowed ships because they don’t need to be close enough to the water to use oars. The much taller ships of the Veneti were difficult for the Romans to board, especially since the Veneti were deft sailors who could avoid the Roman craft. Additionally, the thick hulls of the Veneti ships made them resistant to the ramming hulls of the Romans. The Veneti were finally defeated by Caesar’s legate, Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, who equipped his men with long billhooks to cut the halyards of the Veneti ships. With their leather sails cut down, the Veneti were dead in the water and the Romans had the victory.

Sails in the ancient Mediterranean were all initially square, a rigging that can provide power when sailing with the wind at the back of the vessel, but which hinders maneuverability in almost any other conditions. They are particularly useless when sailing into the wind. In the 2nd century BC, the spritsail began being used by the Greeks, which is a sort of quadrilateral shape. The spritsail later evolved into the lateen sail, which is more triangular. Both the spritsail and lateen sail offered more maneuverability than square rigging and were capable of sailing into the wind using tacking. Lateen rigging was first used sometime between the 1st and 2nd centuries AD and became the standard rigging from the 6th through the 13th centuries. Ancient sails in Europe were made from leather, wool, or linen. In later centuries, cotton canvas became a common sail material.

In the time of the Roman Empire, the navy was greatly reduced from Republican times. The dominant vessel of the day was the liburnian, which was named for the Illyrian tribe from which it was derived. Liburna were compact biremes with around 25 oar pairs and were used for patrolling the Imperial provinces. They could weather both the open Mediterranean and travel up rivers. In regards to their versatility, autonomy, and speed, the liburna anticipated the Norse longships that took Europe by storm in the early Middle Ages.

In Ireland and Wales, two similar but historically distinct boats were used since the earliest days of human habitation in the islands. The Irish currach is a small boat with a wooden frame over which are stretched tarred animal skins. The Welsh coracle has a similar construction but they tend to be more circular in shape, and are usually only used in rivers. Both the coracle and currach are usually paddled rather than rowed. Aside from a few modern examples, both boats maintain their structure through thin pieces of wood that are woven together rather than fastened. The earlier forms of these boats may have been skin covered baskets, tarred to enhance waterproofing. Although there was once a land bridge between Britain and the continent, Ireland has pretty much always been an island. All people that settled in Ireland had to journey across rough seas to reach it, and the earliest of these probably did so in something similar to the currach. Coracles and currachs remain popular fishing vessels in Ireland and Wales today.

The famous viking longship is not a design that originated during the Viking Age, but was first developed in the 4th century BC by the Norse peoples of Scandinavia. When the Norse began raiding Western Europe during the early Middle Ages, longships had a certain uniformity of features. Longships had a shallow draft that allowed them to travel up rivers, and were light enough to be portaged (carried overland between bodies of water). Longships were fitted with a single row of oars, and later versions were rigged with a square sail made from woven wool. The bow and the stern were identical, allowing the ships to rapidly reverse directions which was helpful for both avoiding sea ice and fleeing a recently raided settlement. The longship was what enabled the hit-and-run tactics used by the vikings and gave them access to even the interior of the continent via rivers. Although all Norse longships held some features in common, there were many versions of the ship that varied according to the shipwright and its intended purpose. For example, the knarr was a merchant vessel built along a longship pattern, though it was wider and deeper in the hull while being shorter in overall length.

Norse longships were clinker built, meaning that the hull consisted of overlapping planks. Clinker construction was only known in Northern Europe at the time, and would have made the longships flexible enough to handle North Sea rollers. Ancient Mediterranean ships were built using a mortise and tenon method that was spread to Northern Europe by the Romans. The mortise and tenon method basically involved the linking of planks side-to-side using interlocking pegs and holes like lego bricks. With the raids of the Vikings, clinker construction became more popular among Northern Europeans like the Anglo-Saxons and remains a popular build for ships that sail around the North Sea. Clinker-built ships don’t fare well on the open Atlantic; their flexibility becomes a weakness when confronted by the more powerful swells of the open ocean. The old mortise and tenon method evolved to meet the demands of the Atlantic, with carvel-built ships becoming the standard in the 14th and 15th centuries.

Maritime navigation in the ancient world would have been devoid of instruments. Land astrolabes were used in classical antiquity, but didn’t work well on the heaving deck of a ship. In those days, Polaris (the North star) wasn’t as close to the celestial north pole as it is today. The ancient peoples of the Mediterranean used the whole of Ursa Minor was used to indicate the northern direction. During the Middle Ages, Polaris itself became more important in celestial navigation. It has been theorized that Norse peoples used certain crystal minerals that polarize light to find the sun in an overcast sky, or once it has dipped below the horizon, but there is no direct evidence for this use. Magnetic compasses first appear in Europe around the 14th century. Most seafarers of the ancient world would stayed within sight of land if at all possible, and traveled during seasons when the winds were favorable and predictable.