It seems as though there is a triumvirate that defines "controversial" in fiction: sex, violence, and magic, aka "witchcraft." Well, I've tackled the first in this blog. Let's look at the second.

Let me begin by saying, I don't in any way condone actual violence. It's not right to hurt people. We learn that before we get to kindergarten, and hopefully the lesson stays with us for the rest of our lives.

That being said, I can really enjoy fictional violence. I like action movies. I like swordplay. I like epic battles of good vs. evil. I also like the more complicated and emotionally charge examples of fictional violence (think Macbeth), such as the really horrific painting featured in this post. The artist, Artemisia Gentileschi, was sexually assaulted by one of her father's students, and it seems pretty clear that she had "issues" with men who would victimize women. In most of her contemporaries' versions of the Judith slaying Holofernes story (it was a really popular subject in the late Renaissance), Judith looks away from her sword and seems limp or apologetic. Here, she's a determined assassin. There's a message in this picture.

Violence can be very helpful to the novelist in both plot and character development. Like sex, it has no place if it's simply gratuitous. Leave that kind of action to the not-so-good movies. But human beings are inherently violent. We're really good at fighting, and we struggle to overcome our worser selves. The best novels are ones in which we see human truths, and no one can argue that human history is a story of universal peace and light. So, we'd be lying to ourselves and the reader if we never reveal that kind of darkness. It makes a beautiful and terrible contrast to the light.

Of course, some literature is meant to be gentle. Fisticuffs and bloodied weapons don't belong everywhere. Some violence is not physical but emotional, spiritual, or psychological. Sometimes there is no violence per se, but there is still conflict, and that's good. Conflict is essential to fiction, because it's elemental to human experience. 

When we portray violence of any kind, we novelists have to use the same sense and sensibility that we employ in portrayals of sex: what is the appropriate balance between good writing and good taste? How much do we show and how much do we leave implied? What will cause our audience to cringe (that's okay) and what will make our readers look away (that's bad)? Do we convey the psychic weight of the violence as well as the physical action? 

Do you find it tough to write violence? Do you avoid it, embrace it, flirt with it? What are your strategies for getting the balance just right? I'd love to hear. Peace.

Hey, folks! I had such fun interviewing my fellow Cogwheel Press author, Scathe Meic Beorh, that I'd like to do it again - this time, with you!

If you're an author working with a small press and writing fantasy, science fiction, alternate history, horror, and/or any of the sub-genres (urban fantasy, steampunk, paranormal romance, etc.) and would like to tell people about what you do, I want to hear from you (wow, that was a long though grammatically correct sentence!).

Please contact me via the Contact page on this site with your name, email, name of the press you're working with, title(s) and 1-2 synopsis, pen name if any, your web site URL, and when you'd like to be interviewed. I'd like to building a calendar of interviews that I can then share with my readers (and you can, too). Thanks! I look forward to hearing from you.

As I understand it, there are two types of fiction, from a publisher's perspective: literary and genre. Literary fiction is "high" fiction, the kind that wins famous prizes and critical acclaim from erudite people. (I'm over simplifying, but you get the idea.) Genre fiction is everything else: the kind of fiction that generally receives less critical acclaim but more people read.

I'm firmly in the genre camp. I write great stories that I like to read, without consideration of whether they will endure for the ages. Now, just because I write genre fiction does not mean my books should not be considered literature. Some of the greatest authors ever wrote genre fiction. I was reared on a healthy diet of Sir Walter Scott, Jane Austen, Tolkien, and hundreds of other luminaries. I also devoured books by non-noteworthies and enjoyed them as well. Romance, adventure, thriller, mystery, historical, biographical, fantasy, science fiction, oh my goodness, the list goes on and on - I've read and loved them all.

But we've arrived at the point I'd like to consider. What defines genre? Or, is the correct question, who defines genre? One of my fellow Cogwheel Press authors recently objected when I suggested his book might appeal to readers of Christian speculative fiction. Whereas I was using the term in a general sense (speculative fiction is any kind of story in which the author has created an imaginary universe in which the laws of nature, physics, chemistry, etc. from the "real" world don't necessarily apply), my friend cautioned against including him and his work into a genre that is defined by a particular reader segment's expectations of content. In this case, "Christian speculative fiction" ceases being a general adjectival description and becomes a brand. A brand carries with it an implicit promise that the product behind it will behave in a predictable way.

So for example, if I were a "cozy mystery" writer, I'd be producing stories of a certain length (usually fairly brief) with certain kinds of characters (think Murder She Wrote) and certain kinds of action (nothing graphic or messy, and all the plot threads get tidied up in the end). I'd be following a set of implicit, amorphous conventions that have generally been upon by my target audience segment, and, importantly, by the publishers who service that market segment.

Genre allows fiction to be placed into buckets and organized in a kind of Linneic system of taxonomy. "Literary" and "genre" are kind of equivalent to "invertebrate" and "vertebrate." Of course, we need genres (such as "mystery") and sub-genres ("cozy") and even sub-sub-genres to further divide and categorize the fiction species. New writers often have a great deal of trouble figuring out their genre, or where their stories fit into this system. Doing so is critical if one is pursuing publishing, but the conventions of a genre can be stifling when they feel imposed, rather than assumed voluntarily. From the writer's perspective, the good news is that there are now so many sub-sub-genres that you'll probably find one you're happy with. The bad news is that there are so many sub-sub-genres that you'll probably feel overwhelmed. And if you try to wedge a story into the wrong genre, it may not fit.

There's nothing like a taboo topic to get people interested, right? So why do some writers shy away from including sex in their novels and stories, even when a) it's not gratuitous; and b) it's logical and appropriate for the plot and character development?

The answer to this question, IMHO, really depends on the how and whether the individual author feels comfortable about turning the spotlight onto this side of his/her human experience. The old adage is "write what you know," right? So, in many ways the writer is drawing on his/her own knowledge of and experience with this most personal and intimate of human interactions. Do we really want to bare ourselves (literally, in this case) in such a way? What if our mother-in-law reads the scene? Will she look at us funny forever after?

Then, too, there's the question of performance anxiety. As I noted in my last post, writers are inherently competitive. I remember being slightly offended when another author who was critiquing my MSS thought the sex "wasn't all that hot" (really? what would it take to turn this person on, one wonders). No doubt about it, a lousy sex scene can really sink a book. Boring, hum drum, coy, prudish, weird, and saccharine are all dreadful possibilities if you don't get it right. Eek. No pressure.

Then there's the question of satisfying the reader. Does he/she like it hot? Or is he/she the type who prefers intimations over intimacy? How much do you put on stage, as it were, and how much takes place behind closed doors that the reader never gets to open? Is the reader going to feel unsatisfied or overindulged? What's the sweet spot (no, the metaphor refers to a tennis racket. Really) where good taste and good fun combine?

Really, it's a lot to consider, and I'm not even going to tackle the questions of personal morality, religiosity, inhibitions, and cultural norms. The author's walking a tightrope above all of these. No wonder many have such a hard time when it comes to engineering our characters' romantic lives. 

Here's the thing, though: sex is part of what makes us human. Pretending it doesn't exist doesn't work, either from a family planning perspective or from the novelist's. I'm not saying it should be in every book, any more than there should be a fire-breathing giant spider in every book (as much as I'd like to insert such a monster in some boring stories). I'm just saying that neither the reader nor the writer should make a hard and fast rule about either including or excluding it. If it's right for the story, it should be there. If it doesn't move the action, plot, or tension along, it's in the way. (I'm assuming, by the way, that we're not talking about erotica, which has its own conventions.) When it's done right, it feels genuine, emotionally engaging, and logical all at the same time.

Tall order? You bet. Have you done it? No, I mean, have you written sex in fiction? (Sheesh.) What worked and what didn't. I'd love to hear. Peace.

Recently I read a blog post by an author who admitted to being secretly jealous of other writers' success. I kind of think this person had a point. In the movie Midnight in Paris, the Ernest Hemingway character says that all writers are competitive. When asked to read the protagonist's WIP, he says, "No. If it's no good I'll hate it. If it's good, I'll hate it even more."

And I knew what he meant. Now, I'm actually a very supportive author. I do my best to help those who've asked me to read their writing, be it a novel, query, article, story, email, grant, whatever. Most of the time I don't notice feeling anything, but occasionally, when I come across something really good, I think, "Gee, why didn't I think of that?" And if I'm not careful, I can start to think, "What if my own writing isn't as good?"

Interestingly, this phenomenon almost never happens when I'm reading the classics. I guess I just expect that Mr Dickens, Mr Forster, Miss Austen, and Sir Arthur are going to be brilliant. (It does irk me that Forster wrote A Room with a View when he was in his 20s and had no right being so insightful or so generous in spirit.) It's when I come across something that an "ordinary" writer like me has produced that I feel my hackles rise ever so slightly.

I do get over it. I don't spend the weekend sobbing in the bathroom; that's just a stupid waste of time. Nor do I allow myself to become paralyzed. Sometimes writer's envy can spur us on to try harder, and that's a good thing. In the end, what sustains a writer is his or her innate sense of self-worth coupled with a strong dose of denial. The odds of success are so slender we have to believe we will overcome them, or else we certainly never will.

And of course, a lot depends on one's definition of success. I have a friend who thinks success only means NYT best seller. In literary fiction. Me, I'm happy writing genre fiction, and I'm thrilled to have a contract with a small press.

So, if you've got author envy, what do you do about it? I'd love to hear. Peace.