15 July, 2012

Batman Killed My Mary Sue - When a Character is Just Too Dark

Today, fantasy author JD Savage will be providing his unique take on things as part of the first ever Literary Plus Blog Tour!


Batman Killed My Mary Sue - When a Character is Just Too Dark

All the world loves a villain. We love to see him revel in his, (or her) own evil-ness. We love to watch, sometimes through parted fingers, the debauchery and vile doings of the world’s most wicked of foes. For, he must be a foe to the hero, someone who is just slightly less powerful, someone who can achieve victory beyond all hope. Someone to save us from this delicious maniac.

The delight in creating a villain is intoxicating. The chance to let go of all of those social rules and moral wrongs is a liberating thing. It allows us as writers to plunge ourselves into the darkest of pits without fear, because we know the stalwart hero will win in the end.

But sometimes, there is a danger in creating the villain that may slip past the unsuspecting writer. That danger is in the making of him. Because a villain must appeal to some part of us. The bad guy must have something about him that makes him relatable, something to anchor him to the reader, even if it’s merely a sense of style. To make the villain so wholly evil as to have no redeeming qualities is just as dangerous as creating the Mary Sue - that character with no flaws, no mistakes in her past and no choice but to do the right thing.

Both become tedious for the reader because there is no surprise. If we know Mary Sue will uncover the bad guy’s plot, we can live with it, as long as there is some question about what she’ll do about it. If we know she will certainly do the right thing… well… why am I reading this again? The same is true for the villain.

Consider this: A henchman brings forth the child, kidnapped as a central plot point. The villain kills the child. There’s no where to go now. The hero must avenge.
But, if the henchman brings forth the child, and offers him up for the slaughter and the villain stabs the henchman, woah! Why? The child has blue eyes, and the villain’s mother had blue eyes. The villain reflects on his mother’s cruelty toward him as a youngster.

Oh, now I want to know more. I’m turning page after page, hoping for more glimpses into his back story as he carves a bloody path through the adults that stand in his way. Why does he do this? If the villain and I share traits, what keeps me from becoming just like him? How close to the edge am I really?

With some aspect of the villain’s character creating doubt about where he sits between good and evil, there is a chance of redemption. Will he take that final step, or will he see the error of his ways? Whatever makes him human, whatever creates that balance between good and evil, no matter how heavily weighted to one side, is what keeps us glued to them and their actions.

That connection is the same for the hero. Comic fans know Batman won’t kill, but it’s his propensity to go right up to that line he won’t cross and lean waaaay out over it that keeps such a character in the pantheon of heroes. It’s the tragic back story that drives him. It’s that drive that creates the tragedies he has endured since becoming who he is. He can’t quit, but he knows he should because of all of the death and cruelty his being a hero has created. And I’m turning pages like they are on fire.

The propensity to write a character as being so evil as to be beyond redemption is strong. For many writers, myself included, I want to create a situation that has the audience cheering for my protagonist. The logical course to take is to make the antagonist so dark, so wholly beyond saving, as to let the reader share my revulsion with him, and cheer his comeuppance. But without that spark, without that pathos or humor or endearing quality, the reader will know the end of your story long before the last page. If that happens, there’s no reason to expect that they will be reading the first page of your next effort.


* * * * *

Literary+ is a writer based project brought together and lead by Shen Hart. It brings together passionate, quality self-published writers to help each other promote their work, bringing more readers to every member. It was sparked by the simple fact that there are many top quality self-published authors being over-looked because they do not have the time and resources to efficiently and effectively market and promote themselves. With ambition and passion, Literary+ will take its members to the heights they deserve through a tight-knit community of like-minded writers.

"The Seeds"
This is not your grandmother's fairy tale. A fantasy novel that turns the genre on its head, "The Seeds" follows Trooper Angus Mayweather as he is thrust into the conflict faced by twin sisters Dartura & Varia, Generals of the Tarol Nation. As the sisters uncover a new threat from an old enemy, Angus must do what he can to help as the Tarol Nation faces all-out war.

09 July, 2012

Blog Tour Day One

Literary+ is holding its first blog tour featuring author JD Savage.  He'll be talking about the new book: The Seeds and much more.

JD's first guest blog post can be found on Scott Roche's blog and is entitled: Profanity in YA Novels



Useful Links



This is not your grandmother's fairy tale. A fantasy novel that turns the genre on its head, "The Seeds" follows Trooper Angus Mayweather as he is thrust into the conflict faced by twin sisters Dartura & Varia, Generals of the Tarol Nation. As the sisters uncover a new threat from an old enemy, Angus must do what he can to help as the Tarol Nation faces all-out war.



Literary+ is a writer based project brought together and lead by Shen Hart. It brings together passionate, quality self-published writers to help each other promote their work, bringing more readers to every member. It was sparked by the simple fact that there are many top quality self-published authors being over-looked because they do not have the time and resources to efficiently and effectively market and promote themselves. With ambition and passion, Literary+ will take its members to the heights they deserve through a tight-knit community of like-minded writers. 





30 June, 2012

So this poem is a direct result of my wife making me clean up because we've got family coming in for the holiday.  I found this buried in a stack of papers that I'd pulled out of an old binder.  I'm pretty sure it's nearly 20 years old -- from around 1993-1994.  

Now, don't get me wrong.  The poem as originally written is HORRIBLE.  Extraneous words, bad placement, etc.  But it gave me the opportunity to edit and rewrite, which is something I need a lot of practice doing.

So here it is.

The Dark
(c) Drew Nicholson 2012

The dark makes everyone beautiful
soft focus the crags of age into the gently rolling hills of earlier years
clouds of eyelashes scud gently across your seafoam gaze

The dark makes everyone younger
brushing good full dirt into the cracks of accountability
encasing the resonant memories

The dark makes everyone quiet
enveloping sound with silence, deafening even those who do not hear
but listen, there! crickets hop across the meadow, I can tell

The dark makes everyone real
hands soft and gentle as I brush through the weight of tears
exposing everything masked by the light

The dark makes everyone open
the only place where you completely relax
no fear of the dark for you or I.

25 June, 2012

Related Sites

Here are some related sites I want to link people to.

 
Literary+ is the new writing group I've joined.  A lot of my friends are in it, and we will certainly welcome new members.


42wd Publishing is community sourced publishing.  What does that mean?  It means they cut out the middle man, without leaving you completely on your own.  

Fact n Fiction is a Nick Byford's writing site and it has a lot to offer, including a home-page for Literary+ outside of G+.

Watch all these places for more content from the Literary+ writing collective!



24 June, 2012

When Ren met Neerya

In order to figure out these characters more, I'm writing some back-story flash-fiction pieces. This is my first. I dunno, I think I rushed it. What do you think?


* * * * *


She found him the first time, as she would find him often after, standing still as the sea parted around him.  She wasn’t directed; just carried along, looking for a place to drift to a stop.  Her grouping had fallen apart, with five of them announcing that they had joined the Beautifuls collective.  Three people were not enough to hold a compartment, so she had bid farewell to her two remaining friends and they had separated, seeking what they could find.  

She had never seen anyone stand against the current like that.  His eyes were closed and his arms hung at his sides, fingers flared, brushing up against the throng moving past him.  He was a lighthouse, a beacon.  She slowed, describing an arc against the current as people shifted to avoid her new direction.

She came to a halt before him, and his eyes floated open.  The soft noises of the crush receded as they regarded each other.  Then she unmoored, drifted to the side, and rejoined the current, the back of her hand brushing the back of his as she went.  For many moments afterwards, he held his hand up before him, looking at it, trying to figure out how he could feel so burned by her touch, yet see no effect at all.

She spent the night in the corner of a corridor, lulled to sleep by the padding footsteps of the multitude.

She found him the second time with his eyes open, in the Commons, watching a Vore flash-orgy with a combination of bewilderment and disgust and envy.  This tribe of Vores were all bald and overly plump, making it difficult to tell which were male and which were female, but that didn’t seem to dismay any of them.  She watched him watching them, turning his head and narrowing his pale eyes, frowning as he tried to decipher positions and associate gender.  When he leaned forward to get a better view of a particularly peculiar act, she laughed in spite of herself.  

He stood up, sheepishly running his hands through his hair.

“Sometimes, I can’t tell...”

“Where one ends and the next starts,” she finished for him.  “I know.”

“Especially when they’re so...” he waited for it.

“Puffy.”  She laughed again.  He grinned at her.

“I’m Ren.  And you’re the girl from the other day.”

“Neerya.  Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Stand in the way.”

He shook his head.  “I’m not in the way, any more than a rock would be in the way of a stream.”  Neerya hadn’t heard those words since playschool.  Ren sighed, seeing the incomprehension in her eyes.

“It makes me feel connected.  Like I’m the center of the Ark, and everyone is moving around me.”  He looked at her.  “You should try it some time.”

That night, the corner was occupied.  She wandered the corridors for a while, dodging Vores who hadn’t been satiated by the mob earlier.  Eventually, she found herself in an older corridor, not as wide as the others.  She stood and closed her eyes and let the current sweep over her.

She found him the third time in one of the cafeterias.  She brushed his shoulder as she sat, and he nodded wordlessly.  The viand was as it always was, tasteless and soft, but she found that, sitting beside him, it seemed more substantial, as if he was lending it weight.  

“Where do you sleep,” he asked her.  She shrugged.

“Here and there.”  

“My sister’s partner just left.  You could come stay with us.”

“I’m not really looking to get into another large compartment.”

“Oh, we only have four.”  

She leaned forward, excited.  “You have a foursome compartment?”  

He nodded.  “We’ve been careful to never get below three.  We’re three now, you would make four.  But if you don’t want it, tell me now.  We can’t wait.”

She nodded.  That night, she laid awake on the floor of her new home, listening to the noises him and his sister and the third one made as they slept.  As with every other place in the Ark, she was being touched, but in deference to her newness, she was given an end spot -- against the wall on her right, and Ren’s warm arm and leg on her left.

He was becoming her anchor, and she swung in arcs around him, eventually coming to rest, connected, whole.

She found him the fourth time in her heart and in his arms.

20 June, 2012

A Tale of the LongEars and the CurlyHorn


Back in the old days, this was, when the world was new, and old man Adam hadn’t gotten around to naming all of the animals.  The ones that were named surely did lord it over the ones that wasn't, who were simply known by their most distinctive characteristic.

Two of these animals was the Longears and the Curlyhorn.  The Longears had a pink nose and strong back legs, and the Curlyhorn had a thick coat of wool.  Both was as placid as another, larger animal, the recently named… cow.

This is the story of how the Longears and the Curlyhorn got their names.

As it happened, old man Adam was behind on his naming schedule.  He’d named Twistneck the “owl”, and Howler the “wolf”, and Long-thing-hanging-down-between-the-legs the… “elephant”.  But next on his list was Longears and Curlyhorn.

Try as he might, tho he wracked his brains for days and nights, pacing, and staring into space… he couldn’t come up with names.  And the cold breeze of winter was swift approaching, and Old Man Adam was gitten a mite chilly.

Of course, back then, animals could talk – in fact, you could hardly get ‘em to shut up sometimes – so Curlyhorn said “Why aaaaaare you cold, maaaaan Aaaaaadam?”

“I know!” Piped up Longears.  “Man Adam has no real fur.”

“That’s true,” Old Man Adam agreed.  “Perhaps you could give me your fur, um… hrm… Jumper?  No, that’s not a good name.”

“I am too small to give you my fur,” said Longear.  “But Curlyhorn has lots of fur!”

“Indeed he does!” said Old Man Adam.  And before Curlyhorn could protest with a “waaaaaait,” Old Man Adam had sharpened a stone and was advancing upon him.

“Nooooo!  Stooooop!” Curlyhair cried, and tried to run, but Old Man Adam was spry, and caught him up before long.

“Hold still” Old Man Adam insisted, struggling to keep his grip.  Eventually, Curlyhair relented, and lay down, and Old  Man Adam drew his sharpened stone across Curlyhorn’s back, scraping off the fur.  Shhhhhhhp!  Shhhhhhp!  The stone went.

Soon Old Man Adam had most of Curlyhorn’s full curly coat belted around him, and he looked down at Curlyhorn with an appraising eye.

“Curlyhorn,” declared Old Man Adam, “I do believe I have a name for you.  The sound that the stone made on your back, taking off the fur that you gave to me to wear.  Shhhhhp.   Shhhhhhp.   Sheep.”

“Thaaaaank you, Ooooold Maaaaaan Aaaaaadam,” Sheep shivered.

And then, Sheep became the one animal that helped to name another on, for Old Man Adam had worked hard shearing his coat.

“I’m hungry,” Old Man Adam complained.

Sheep raised on shivering hoof, pointed it at Longears and yelled:

“GRAAAABIT!”


The moral of the story?  When it comes to keeping humans warm, the Sheep is involved… but the Rabbit is COMMITED.

(c) 2012 Drew Nicholson

Fertile Ground

I wrote this about a year ago.  In between my first marriage and my second one, I had a torrid, passionate, flame-out affair that sometimes still stuns me with the level of ferocity and pain it enabled.


When I think about how we could have been
how we should have been
I realize instead how we would have been

Five years on
the pain has dulled
the confusion diminished

but every so often
something will remind me
of you or us

and the recriminations
and the what-ifs
and the whys

spill to the surface again
an underground spring
flooding a desert

until, thinking of how we could have been
how we should have been
leads to realizing how we would have been

And the desert drains
leaving behind fertile ground
for a new life
to be lived.


(c) 2012 Drew Nicholson