Forging The Chain

“What’s it like to write The Chain?” none of you have probably wondered. Well, I’m happy to take time out of my busy schedule to answer this pressing (imaginary) question from my devoted (fictional) readers.

In the beginning, there was confusion

I didn’t really know what it would be like when I started this project, which grew out of a tiny germ of an idea that I had one day. It was a story idea about a series of mysterious deaths and the odd characters that sought to stop them, but I couldn’t figure out how to turn it into either a short story or a novel. For some reason it didn’t seem to fit neatly into either of those categories.

Eventually, I started thinking about the storytelling that goes on in serialized formats, specifically webcomics such as Girl Genius. Would my idea work as serial fiction? I’d never tried anything like it before, but I figured it would be worth a shot. So I sat down and wrote the first sentence that came to mind: “The funeral was not living up to his expectations.”

The Plot

When I first got the idea for The Chain, I’d already fleshed out a number of the important characters, the primary conflict, and the general progression of the storyline. I’ll just say that there’s a lot of information that I haven’t divulged yet about the hows and the whys of these events. In general, I imagine the story as progressing in a series of “arcs” (thus making my manga influences evident). The overall story will have a distinct progression, and within that there will be multiple story arcs that each have a relatively discrete substory of their own. The first one, which I refer to as the “Introduction Arc,” was simply to set the stage for the events that will unfold from here on, first by establishing the atmosphere, the narrative voice, and the two main characters, Timothy and Hannah.

The Characters

Timothy and Hannah are, I have to say, some of the better characters I’ve written– or at least, some of the more interesting ones. They’re full of quirks and eccentricities, they each have major flaws, both of them are socially awkward in their own unique ways, and in spite of their differences, the two have meaningful similarities. There will be more characters that I introduce in later arcs, but this story is mostly about Timothy and Hannah.

The Process

The difficulty, as I soon realized, is that when there is a significant delay between each entry, you have to try to write a good hook and a good closing line each time. While my efforts have varied in their success, it has certainly given me an appreciation for the difficulty of writing serial fiction, particularly when the individual entries are so short.

Why so short, anyway? Well, I recognize that people are busy, schedules are always full, and I want to try to keep readers engaged without forcing them to commit a large chunk of time to reading. So I keep each entry around 400-500 words or so, with some exceptions, and hopefully I’ve managed to achieve my goal.

Where is this going?

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. I have a lot of the story mapped out in my head, but only in general terms. That’s part of my approach to writing The Chain. I don’t plan out individual entries before I sit down to write them, except along the lines of “In this entry, Timothy does some research.” Then I just let the characters play out their parts in whatever way feels most natural.

I don’t plan on dragging this out indefinitely. I currently have enough material for another three arcs or so. There will be an ending. A chain is fixed, bounded in its length, and so too is The Chain.

What about you, readers? What do you think of The Chain so far? What would you like to see done differently (for example, two updates a week)? Do you have any questions for me about characters, places, names, events, etc.? I’m happy to answer anything as long as I’m not going to spoil the plot.

Short Story Substitute: The Hit

I’d never done a senator before.

Well, to be honest, he was a state senator, not a, you know, real senator, so the security wasn’t as tight. Made things a bit easier for me. That’s not to say that it was going to be a cakewalk, though. The guy traveled a lot, and the contract specified I had to perform the hit during one of his speeches, to make it look like it was politically motivated, which of course it wasn’t.

That’s how I found myself freezing my flabby ass off on the roof of an abandoned office building with a clear view of Millennium Park, peering down a scope as I put this sleazebag’s head in my sights. I could only hear bits and pieces of what he was saying, but even if I could hear it, I doubt I could’ve made heads or tails of his speech. Politics was never my thing. But maybe that’s part of why I wound up here, doing a job I wasn’t meant to do. Every time I take a contract, I have to fight my instincts. On some level, I know I’m supposed to be bringing people together, not blowing them away.

You’re probably wondering why I was sitting up there in sub-zero weather, reminiscing about my old profession when I could have just pulled the trigger and been done with the whole business minutes ago. What can I say? Killing makes me sentimental. But then I remember that, no matter what I feel, that’s not me anymore. I’m a hitman, now, and I need to accept that and let go of the past– like my overpaid therapist tells me.

More importantly, I had work to do.  I squinted and re-adjusted my aim, accounting for the strong winds. This should be a nice, clean shot. I had a good line of sight and the target was standing pretty still, aside from the occasional grandiose gesture to his small but vocal audience.

I took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly until there was no air left in my lungs, and pulled the trigger. Or at least, I meant to pull the trigger, when I caught a glimpse of the woman standing next to him on stage. Tall, brunette, thin. She wasn’t beautiful. Age and stress had left their marks on her.

So, this was my employer. I’d never seen her before, obviously. Paid half up front through a middleman, the other half on completion of the job. She certainly hid it well. You couldn’t tell just by looking at her that she hated her husband so much that she’d hired a contract killer to off the guy at one of his own rallies. Well, I say that “you” couldn’t tell, and that’s true– you couldn’t. I could. It was one of the many skills I had that come back to haunt me at the worst possible moments.

By the way, the instant right before you’re about to blow off a guy’s head from a thousand feet away? That would be one of those worst lovin’ possible moments to remember the training you got when you used to be a Cupid.

I know, I know. I don’t look like a Cupid. But that’s what happens when you get kicked out of Elysium and land flat on your ass in the mortal world. Things change a bit. Not all at once, you know, but one morning I wake up, look at myself in the mirror, and suddenly I’m a fatter, less attractive cousin of Danny DeVito. Go figure.

What was I saying? Oh yeah, I was about to put a round in this guy’s head, when suddenly all I can see is the red ribbon connecting him and his wife. And then- sorry, you don’t know what the love I’m talking about. See, you know all those stories about Cupid’s arrow not missing? Well, part of the reason we never miss is because we pick our targets well. We can see a relationship’s past, present, even a little into the future. We can tell what people’s feelings for each other are and what they could be, at least after we give them a little nudge. Cupids see compatibility. When we see a red ribbon between two people, it means they’d be a good couple. It’s our signal to fire away. But this didn’t make any sense. The ribbon doesn’t show up when people want to kill each other. I paused, and considered my options. I could take the shot now, or I could check it out.

I figured it was worth taking a peek. What harm could it do? I’d just sneak a quick look at the ribbon, make sure that the wife had actually called the hit, and then bang-bang, he’s dead. Nice and easy. I took my finger off the trigger and focused, using all my concentration to look deep into the patterns in the ribbon. It wasn’t pretty. Dark crimson stains everywhere, the cumulative effect of all the missed dinners, the lonely nights, the arguments.

The cheating.

I tell you, this fella got around. Interns, secretaries, campaign staff . . . he certainly hadn’t been choosy. And, yep, right there was a giant tear running almost the full width of the ribbon. She had found out, and decided she couldn’t stand it anymore. OK, I thought. That settles it. Revenge on the cheating husband it is.

But something was still bothering me, so I didn’t shoot just yet. I took one more look at the ribbon, trying to figure out why it felt like the back of my brain was kicking me for having missed something. And then I finally saw it, a tiny thread fluttering in that gaping rip, barely holding the two pieces together. It was glowing. Pulsing.

A heartstring. A lovin’ heartstring.

Do you see my dilemma?

Of course you don’t. You’re not a lovin’ Cupid.

A heartstring is something special. Even when I was still in the business, I didn’t see them very often. Heartstrings appear when two people literally can’t live without each other. One of them dies, and then a few weeks or months later, the other just fades away.

I don’t need to tell you I swore pretty loud and long while I tried to figure out what to do next. I was almost worried they would hear me down there, but the wind was going the opposite way, so I was safe.

They were honest-to-Venus star-crossed lovers. I hate star-crossed lovers.

A closer look at the ribbon told me everything I needed to know. It had been love at first sight. A perfect match. But time changes people. They’d been growing apart for years, and one morning he’d woken up and realized he hardly knew his wife anymore. But she still seemed happy, so he didn’t want to let her down. He was desperate and lonely, and started looking for something, anything like what he and his wife had in the beginning, only to realize that he’d never find anyone like her ever again. She, on the other hand, had known that all along. So when she finds out he’s been sleeping around, it’s like someone yanked her heart out through her mouth. But in spite of it, she still loves him more than anything.

I’m sorry, am I boring you? Hey, you’re the one who asked in the first place why I’m here. Why don’t you pipe down and pay attention?

As I was saying, I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the brightest bulb this side of Elysium. It took me a little while to realize that she knew. She couldn’t see the heartstring, but she knew she wouldn’t last long after her husband died, and she put the hit on him anyway. It was all so . . . tragically lovin’ romantic.

I really hate star-crossed lovers.

I had two options. Option one, shoot the cheating scumbag and kill my employer as well. Not immediately, but I’d still be killing her. Generally, that’s bad for business. Option two, don’t shoot him, and fail my contract. Also bad for business.

So there I was, getting really cold, and it was clear that the speech is going to be wrapping up soon, which means that I only had a few minutes left before I lost my chance at this guy, maybe for good. I had no idea if I’d get a shot like this again. I saw him waving at the crowd, thanking them for coming. It was now or never. So I took the shot.

I knew it was a clean hit as soon as I pulled the trigger. I told you, a Cupid never misses. I didn’t have to watch to know that he was falling to the ground, grabbing his chest.

I also knew his wife was doing the same thing. The round had hit him in the back as he turned to give her a big fake hug to show everyone how much they loved each other and gone straight through him into her heart.

Two birds, one .30-caliber stone.

Well, it looked like I wouldn’t be getting the other half of my paycheck. But I could live with that. Did I mention how much I hate star-crossed lovers?

The sound of people shouting and sirens blaring told me I had only a few minutes to get the love out of there. I grabbed the rifle as I got up, stretched out my stiff legs, waddled over to the side of the roof, and jumped. It was a good three stories down to the alley below, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I can’t fly anymore, not since I’ve put on this weight, but at least I can manage kind of a slow fall. I’m sure I look like a lovin’ idiot, but it’s better than getting scraped off the sidewalk. I stashed the gun in one of the safe drops I’d set up earlier. I’d be back later to pick it up, but for now it was a just a little bit conspicuous to walk down the street holding a sniper rifle. So I headed back here to the bar. This place is kind of a safe house for us, you see? Normals can’t just waltz in here uninvited, so I didn’t have to worry about cops nosing around. So there you have it. That’s why I’m here. End of story.

What?

Why are you looking at me like that? You got some kind of a lovin’ problem?

Of course they’re dead. Why wouldn’t they be? I shot them, didn’t I?

What, you want me to look at your lovin’ phone now? What’s this, a news story? “Senator and wife collapse in Millennium Park; couple expected to make full recovery.”

Oh, you think you’re so lovin’ smart.

Fine. OK, it wasn’t a bullet I shot earlier. I swapped it out for a “long-distance romance projectile.” That’s fancy words for a Cupid’s arrow. She would wake up feeling better than she had in decades. Her husband, too. But it would pass.

No, of course I didn’t “make them fall in love.” I don’t have that kind of power anymore. All I could do was make them remember why they fell in love in the first place.

I gave them another chance.

Don’t give me that look. I know it was a mistake. I know I should’ve just blown the scumbag’s head off and taken the money. But . . . even for an ex-Cupid, old habits die hard. What can I say? I guess I’m just a hopeless . . . ah, love it, I can’t even finish that sentence. Go away and let me finish my drink.

Update on The Chain (and a consolation prize)

I posted an update to this effect on The Chain’s page, but then promptly neglected to post it anywhere else. I also wrote this post giving additional information, but then failed to actually, y’know, HIT THE “PUBLISH” BUTTON. The Chain is on hiatus until 6/1, when Part Two will begin.

(Please don’t hate me.)

I need to take some time to make significant progress on a few important projects (such as my novel, dissertation, and academic papers). But I feel bad leaving everyone hanging like this, so I’ve tried to come up with a way to provide you with something else to read in its absence. The solution? Short story substitutes!

Now, an inquisitive mind might ask: “Ben, how are short stories any different from The Chain?” I’m glad you asked!

(Actually, I’m not. Stop being so darn inquisitive and just accept everything I say unequivocally!)

The answer is: I’ve already written these stories, so all I have to do is hit CTRL + C and CTRL + V. As a special bonus, I’ll throw in a blog post about my approach to writing The Chain, and my creative process. Look, it will sound a lot better when you actually . . . fine, it will still sound just as lame even when you’re reading it.

I already published the first of the short story substitutes, Hero, to mild acclaim. A second will be published tomorrow, titled The Hit. This story is set in the world of Elysian Fields, where immortal beings exiled to the mortal world have to make a living somehow. This one follows Julie, an unusual hitman taking on an unusual request. I hope you enjoy it!

Short Story Substitute: Hero

Synchronization at 76%, variance within expected levels.

Rolfgar stood at the base of Mount Haram. It loomed above him, all sharp crags and fog-shrouded cliffs. There were no trees or bushes to cover the black, rain-slick rock that he would have to climb. And climb it he would, for that was his quest. But something felt wrong.

Estimated time to completion: 3420.

It would certainly help if the voice in his head stopped yammering.

The huge man stretched his arms and legs, feeling the massive muscles loosen as he limbered up in preparation for his ascent. His long, wild mane of black hair he tied up with a strip of leather. He strapped the giant double-bladed axe firmly to his back, and began to ascend the mountain.

Even for a man whose body was honed to physical perfection from years of battle, it was a struggle. When Rolfgar finally reached the Cave of the Sage, his arms and legs were aching terribly. He had lost sensation in his fingers hours ago. Once during the climb, he had almost given up, but the memory of his burning village and the faces of the dead had spurred him onward. Their suffering must be answered.

He pulled himself onto the cold, flat stone floor of the Cave and tried to examine his surroundings. It was plain, unadorned, and dark, save for two torches flickering at the back. A small old man in tattered brown robes was watching him. This surely was the Sage.

“You are . . . the hero?” the Sage said in a quiet voice, rough from lack of use. He stroked a long white beard with his left hand.

Rolfgar stood up, wobbling only slightly on jellied legs. “I am the Chosen One,” he said in a deep voice that resonated loudly in the small space of the cave.

“I have slain the Black Griffon and taken its claw,” he continued, “I traveled to the Fountain of Wishes and received the blessing of the Great Fairy. And I climbed Mount Haram with my bare hands to meet with the Sage.”

The Sage’s head bobbed uncertainly.

“You are . . . alone?” he said.

Rolfgar frowned. “Yes,” he said, “As I have been ever since the evil minions of the Dark Lord Gorgoth burned my home to the ground and slew my wife and children. Now I live only to kill Gorgoth and free this land from his tyranny. From here I will go to his castle, and have my revenge!”

The Sage sighed. “It . . . would be better . . . if you had friends . . . with you,” he wheezed.

“Friends?” Rolfgar said incredulously.

“Yes. A . . . plucky sidekick . . . a sardonic . . . sorceress . . . a thief . . . with a heart . . . of gold.”

Rolfgar frowned. He was relatively certain the prophecy hadn’t mentioned anything about the Sage being senile. Then again, the old man did live on a mountain all alone, so maybe he was just trying to make small talk. There can’t be too many visitors.

The Sage sighed again.

“You are . . . determined . . . to go to the castle . . . of the Dark Lord? Even alone?”

“Yes!” he barked. He was on firmer ground with these questions. “Though my foes are many in number, I am strong of heart and mind. I am the Chosen One! I cannot fail!”

“It’s dangerous . . . to go alone,” the Sage said, reaching into a wooden chest and pulling out a cloth-wrapped bundle. “Take this.”

Rolfgar graciously took it from the old man’s trembling hands and unwrapped it. A shining light filled the cave as a gleaming silver blade was revealed.

“The Sword of Swords!” he exclaimed. “A blade designed by the Maker himself. It is said to be the only one capable of piercing the Armor of Invincibility worn by the villainous Gorgoth! I will treasure it, o Sage, and will ensure that its blessed point pierces the heart of the Dark Lord!”

Synchronization at 82%. Minor variance detected, still within parameters. Estimated time to completion: 2911.

Rolfgar whirled around. “Did you hear that?” he roared.

Now it was the Sage’s turn to look incredulous. “Hear . . . what?” he asked.

“Nothing,” the warrior rumbled. “Nothing.”

*          *          *

The bodies of armored minions lay strewn haphazardly in his wake. Rolfgar felt no pleasure at the deaths he had caused, but recognized their necessity. These were evil men who had willingly pledged themselves to a tyrant and collaborated in the oppression of this land. As long as they stood in his path, he would kill them.

The Sword of Swords shone brightly in his hand, brighter even than the sun which hid behind the low gray clouds shrouding the land in gloom. He strode confidently down the halls of Gorgoth’s fortress, seeking his nemesis.

But something still felt wrong.

The feeling was getting hard to ignore. It felt like . . . like the world around him was hollow. Devoid of meaning. But how could that be? He was the hero of prophecy! There was no role more meaningful!

Abruptly, the warrior found himself standing in front of the great double doors of iron that marked the entrance to Gorgoth’s throne room. He shook his head as if to clear it of unpleasant thoughts and stepped forward. To his surprise, the doors swung open of their own accord.

The Dark Lord sat on the great Throne of Pain, wearing the jet-black Armor of Invincibility that had allowed him to reign over the land for a hundred years unchallenged. His face was hidden behind a steel helmet wrought in the shape of a skull.

“Rolfgar!” he said in a booming voice. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

As the warrior stepped inside the chamber, the doors slammed shut behind him. Locks slid into place.

“I don’t want you running away after you’ve come so far to meet me,” said Gorgoth, his tone sardonic.

Rolfgar snarled and raised the Sword of Swords aloft.

“Evil tyrant! For all the wrongs you have committed, for all the suffering you have caused, I will deliver justice this day!”

“That is where you are wrong, foolish Rolfgar, for no weapon can defeat my Armor of Invincibility!”

The warrior was about to retort when the same hollow feeling struck him again. He found himself possessed of the notion that somehow, the events happening here had occurred many times before.

His vision blurred. Before him, he saw the same chamber, but as if he were a disembodied spirit floating above the scene. A brave knight entered the room, and with a lightning blow defeated a man dressed in black armor who looked identical to Gorgoth. The scene reset, again with a man in black sitting on a throne. A group of three adventurers entered the room, and while an archer distracted the villain with well-placed arrows, and a wizard lobbed fireballs, a young woman in leather managed to dash in and land a lethal strike. A tattooed warrior’s spear struck home. A young nobleman’s rapier pierced his foe. Again, and again, and again. An endless litany of dramatic clashes.

Synchronization rate dropping to 70%. Instabilities detected.

He fell to his knees, gasping and clutching his head with his free hand.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Gorgoth. “You realize you stand no chance against me!”

“Something is wrong,” Rolfgar whispered hoarsely. “Can’t you hear it?”

Syncrhronization rate at 64%. Deviation increasing. Emergence becoming unstable.

“All I hear . . . is the sound of your doom!” bellowed the Dark Lord, charging his foe.

Time seemed to slow. To Rolfgar, minutes passed between each step Gorgoth took. And yet he remained kneeling on the floor, struggling to get a grip on reality.

The Dark Lord raised his giant two-handed sword in an overhand grip, laughing mercilessly at his seemingly helpless opponent. Slowly, ever so slowly, the blade descended.

Rolfgar’s arm began to move before he was even conscious of it, thrusting the Sword forward and piercing into Gorgoth’s chest. The Armor of Invincibility parted before it like silk, and Rolfgar only stopped once the blade was buried up to the hilt.

The Dark Lord toppled backward, taking the sword with him.

The hero stood alone in the now-silent chamber, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

Synchronization rate continuing to decrease. Instability levels critical.

“Is this how it was supposed to be?” he said, but there was no answer. The hero of prophecy put his head in his hands and wept.

“I say, good job! Congratulations on fulfilling the conditions!”

Rolfgar spun to find the source of the unfamiliar voice that broke the oppressive silence. A man with short black hair, olive skin, and tiny spectacles was approaching. He was dressed in a form-fitting silver-grey suit. Given that the large iron doors were still shut, he had seemingly appeared from nowhere.

“Who are you?” Rolfgar asked.

He didn’t answer, instead continuing: “No matter how many times I see it, there’s always a little thrill!”

“You will tell me your name, little man,” roared Rolfgar, “Or I will cleave your head from your shoulders!”

“Names! Names are unimportant,” said the man. “You’ve won a tremendous victory today. For great justice! And so on, and so forth.”

Rolfgar had had enough. With a blood-curdling battlecry, he grabbed his axe from his belt and launched himself at the stranger.

Despite being perhaps a full two hands shorter, the man merely tsked. He muttered the word “override” and a strange blue glow immediately enveloped Rolfgar, paralyzing him in mid-stride.

“Goodness,” said the man as he paced back and forth. “This has been happening more and more lately. I wonder if we need to randomize the input variables.”

He continued talking to himself for a few moments before suddenly remembering that Rolfgar was still frozen by the blue light.

“How terribly rude of me!” he said, affecting shock and dismay. “I’ve been ignoring you—unacceptable behavior in a host.”

“Host?” said Rolfgar, who suddenly found that he could move his mouth to speak.

“Yes. You see, this is our experiment,” said the man.

“Experi-? What do you mean, man? Speak plainly!”

“How can I phrase this . . . you have heard stories of heroes saving the world from a great evil, of course.”

“Yes.”

“Often these stories have certain conditions that must be met for someone to become a hero.”

“So the legends say.”

“Indeed!” replied the man. “And you have fulfilled those conditions. Well, all but the last one.”

“The last one?”

“Not important at the moment,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Now let me tell you a story. In my world, a place far from here, we’re fighting a war. We have been for a long, long time. But we’re losing.”

“Fight harder,” suggested the warrior.

“We’ve had many heroes emerge over the course of the war,” he said, ignoring Rolfgar’s interjection. “But still, we kept losing. So I thought: what if need more than one hero? What if we need multiple heroes? And I was right. We need, according to my calculations, twenty thousand heroes in order to ensure our victory. Any less will result in our total destruction. You, by the way, are number 10031.”

Rolfgar looked his captor in disbelief. The man was clearly mad, every word he spoke was utter nonsense.

“We set up a system to mass-produce heroes, using a combination of bounded reality pockets and accelerated time. The ingredients are fairly simple: one evil tyrant, one prophecy, one magical weapon, mix thoroughly and wait for hero to rise. Once a hero has emerged–that’s you!–we come and pluck you like a ripe fruit. Then it’s off to our world, where you’ll help us win the war.”

After a long pause, Rolfgar spoke: “You used me?”

“Oh, not just you! This whole world!” the man said. “We had to make sure the conditions for Emergence were right, so absolute control is a necessity.”

“The wars . . . the deaths . . . the suffering . . . it was all because of you?”

“Not me alone, of course,” the man said, “Although I am Project Director, I couldn’t have pulled this off without the help of—”

“YOU!” Rolfgar howled. “You killed my wife and children!”

“A common misunderstanding. We don’t control anything after we start the system. The tragic death of your family is just how things happened in this iteration,” he said, and sighed deeply before continuing. “I don’t think you’re seeing the big picture here. You’re a bona fide hero! Even though your synchro rate isn’t quite as high as I would like. . .”

“I’m going to rip off your head!”

“You should stop struggling. I’ve programmed the system to confine you. It’s quite impossible for you to move,” he said, and then giggled. “Like a puppet with its strings cut.”

“WE!” Rolfgar shouted, straining every muscle in his body.

“ARE NOT!” Slowly, imperceptibly, he felt the bonds holding him weaken.

“YOUR!” The strange man’s eyes bulged and his mouth gaped as the blue light wavered, flickered, and died.

“PUPPETS!” Rolfgar swung his axe as his captor tried to dodge out of the way. The edge of the blade flicked across his throat and the man collapsed to his knees, gurgling blood. After a moment, he slumped to the floor and stopped moving.

The voice in his head was silent.

He was free.

*          *          *

It was later. Rolfgar woke up.

In an instant he was on his feet, sword in hand. His eyes quickly scanned the room and, finding nothing, he relaxed slightly.

He sighed and rolled his shoulders, trying to stretch out sore muscles. A lifetime of battle and solitude hadn’t made him a light sleeper. It had, however, kept him alive on more than one occasion.

Now that he had freed the land not only from the Dark Lord’s grip, but that of the unseen manipulators behind him, he had no reason to be afraid anymore. He strode to the window of his room and gazed out at the full moon overhead. Down below, the city folk were still celebrating. Sounds of revelry and the smoke of bonfires drifted their way up to Rolfgar, and he smiled.

Synchronization at 100%. Iteration complete.

His blood froze.

“By the way,” said a familiar voice. “Did I ever mention what the final condition was?”

Know Your Influences: Authors

The best thing for a writer to do is write.

Yes. Yes, I do, Nicholas Cage.

But what I was GOING to say before I was rudely interrupted was that the second best thing for a writer to do is read. Reading introduces you to different styles of writing, new vocabulary, new characters, new stories– all things you need in order to succeed as a writer. Also, it gives you an idea of what commonly used tropes are in your preferred genres (so you can avoid or alter them as you see fit) and a rough image of what the audience is.

And so we read, and read, and read some more, and by the time we sit down to write, our heads are stuffed near to bursting. The books we’ve read, the other writers we’ve encountered, all of these will influence the choices we make as writers. Sometimes subtly, sometimes not so subtly. *COUGH FSoG COUGH*

I should get that looked at. Coughing into your keyboard is never a good sign.

The important thing to note here is that although we, as writers, have our own unique style, we are influenced by other writers.

(Corollary: that means we in turn influence other writers. But that’s a subject for another post.)

A helpful exercise for writers, then, is to sit down and try to list some of the writers who have played a significant role in your development. These aren’t just (or even necessarily) books that we like, or authors we would call or favorites, but those that shape our preferences, choices, and ideas when we write.

Here are some of mine, along with what I learned from them:

Children’s Authors

Edward Lear– gave me an appreciation for nonsense. I was a very serious and studious child, and the complete lack of rationality in Lear’s world gave my young mind a much-needed shaking.

C. S. Lewis– introduced me to the use of symbolism in imaginative fiction. Ever since reading his books, I’ve always been on the lookout for the lion, so to speak.

Norton Juster and Jules Feiffer– their fantastic book “The Phantom Tollbooth” showed me how imaginative fiction can teach the reader things without being dry or tedious.

I said “Tollbooth.” TOLLBOOTH. Which contains zero Jar-Jar, fortunately.

Science Fiction Authors

Robert Heinlein– few authors have more effectively used science fiction as a medium for social analysis than Heinlein, while still populating their worlds with vivid characters and tight dialogue.

Alfred Bester– his book “The Stars My Destination” showed me how imaginative fiction can take classic stories and give them a novel spin and even make them feel shiny and new.

Alastair Reynolds– taught me how important (and difficult) it is to create a true story universe, one that spans multiple novels, short stories, novellas, and yet still remains internally consistent and cohesive.

Arthur C. Clarke– was a visionary in a way that few other authors can claim. He taught me to write imaginative fiction that inspires us to look forward, to imagine the possibilities of tomorrow.

Ursula K. LeGuin– in addition to the interesting questions she poses about gender, politics, and society, she showed me how an author can write a book that is “slow paced” but still utterly enthralling.

Read this book. READ IT.

Fantasy Authors

J. R. R. Tolkien– showed me the level of detail and care that goes into creating a rich fantasy world, from its history, to its languages, its myths and legends, even its pub songs.

Terry Pratchett– taught me that imaginative fiction is more than swords and starships. It can be funny, sad, thrilling, and thought-inspiring all at the same time.

J. K. Rowling– showed me how to write fantasy books for all ages. That’s been my goal to this day: write things that are accessible to many different kinds of people.

Robert Jordan– demonstrated how an author can create a world so rich and real but then sustain it far longer than, I think, anyone thought was possible. I’ve watched his characters grow and his epic saga build to its conclusion, even after he passed away.

Garth Nix– taught me how to write authentic, strong female protagonists in fantasy settings that don’t conform to archetypes. “Sabriel” remains one of my favorite books to this day.

A 17-year old girl who is also a necromancer– but a necromancer in charge of making sure the dead stay that way. Interested? You should be.

The “Miscellaneous”

Ray Bradbury– “Something Wicked This Way Comes” is, for me, one of the finest pieces of fiction I’ve ever read. I learned from him about writing vivid descriptions, ones that make you feel as though you are living the story. Ones that capture the fraught and complex age of adolescence and the clash of good and evil in a way that few other writers have.

Stephen King– King, perhaps more than any other author on this list, showed me how to write with an indisputably personal style. His works are infused with him, his voice, his personality.

China Miéville– demonstrated how to write compelling characters even when we don’t always like them or the choices they make. Also, he taught me the importance of not giving the reader information, of avoiding exposition, of building up to the reveal.

Neil Gaiman– his refusal to be pigeonholed into one category has been an inspiration for a genre-hopper like me, and his ability to capture the extraordinary in ordinary people, places, and things, is a constant amazement.

My question for you:

Who are some of your influences? What did you learn from them?