by R.C. Lewis
A funny thing happens sometimes when you read book reviews—your own or otherwise. (I know, I know. "Don't read your reviews." Good advice in general, but you do you.) You see a lot of contradictions, and one in particular I've been thinking about.
Reviewer #1: This book is full of amazing, rich world-building!
Reviewer #2: This book could've been good, but the world-building was pretty much non-existent.
(Not real review quotes!)
So, who's right?
They both are. Reading is subjective, and I think when it comes to world-building especially, it varies by both perception and preference. Some readers crave detailed descriptions painting the exact picture as the author intended it. Others want just enough on the page to trigger a mental picture of their own, leaving some of the work of creation up to them.
Neither is wrong.
Some readers focus on the visual aspects—geography, clothing, architecture, art. Others pick up on the less concrete details—sociological, cultural, historical influences on characters' lives.
Again, neither is wrong.
Perhaps the most objective evaluation of world-building would look at how fleshed-out and detailed the world is in the author's head. If only we could know. Alas, all we have is what's on the page, so that's what we have to go on.
That's why it's tricky assigning value judgments like "good" and "bad" to it.
My advice to authors (including myself!) would be to focus first on that off-the-page world-building. Make sure your virtual world is fully realized and makes sense. Then let that reality filter and ooze and weave through the story in whatever way fits your style. Always try to do better, but realize that if readers knock it, it may just be that your style isn't for them. And it will be for someone else.
What do you like to see in world-building? Pet-peeves? Tips for excellent execution?
R.C. Lewis is the math-teaching, ASL-signing world-builder of Stitching Snow and Spinning Starlight (Oct. 6, 2015), both from Hyperion. You can find more information at her website, or find her random musings on Twitter.
Showing posts with label world-building. Show all posts
Showing posts with label world-building. Show all posts
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Monday, January 30, 2012
Artist Dates
by Lucy Marsden
I’m writing to you today from the Middle Ages (currently docked at a Radisson in Manchester, New Hampshire), in order to talk about artist dates.
Artist dates are not, as you might suppose, episodic romantic forays with attractive specimens of the aesthetically and spatially-gifted population (although there’s nothing to rule this out, either, and best wishes to you on that front, say I). Rather, artist dates are field trips taken with the express (or professed) purpose of engaging and stimulating our imaginations, our creativity, our sense of wonder, and our sensory experience in general. It’s a way to fill up the well that we draw from when we build worlds, and it’s a place from which fresh ideas—and even characters—can emerge, ready to captivate and populate our work.
The date you go on doesn’t have to directly apply to your current work-in-progress; in fact, it can be more fun if the field trip seems to be purely tangential. My current story is set in a faery-tale version of 18th-century France, so the temporal and aesthetic “vibe” of this weekend’s date wasn’t particularly helpful. But as I wandered the merchant area dressed as a 10th-century Viking lass in a linen shift, cotton tunic, and wool apron made with my own fair hands (and a Brother CP 7500 computerized sewing machine, praise Jah), lifting my skirts so that I wouldn’t trip (because transport me to whatever century you please, I am still a klutz), and debating the relative merits of wool versus linen for camping in a 14th-century kirtle (NOT wool—Sweet Jesu, I was DYING in that apron after two hours), I amassed a whole host of tactile and visual impressions still relevant to living in a culture where female dress is more traditional, synthetic fibers are unknown, and nothing is mass-produced.
Another textile-related adventure once took me to a huge warehouse specializing in home-decor fabrics. This was the place to soak up 18th-century rococo with a vengeance: silks and velvets and brocades everywhere I turned, juxtaposed with rack upon rack of tassels and trims. One fabric literally made me stop in in my tracks, not because it was baroque, but because it was this rich, vibrant pattern of embroidered green vines with scarlet flowers against a background of shimmering blue. A coverlet of that fabric would be like sleeping wrapped in all the enticement and enchantment of a faery tale, and it was only because Cali kept repeating in my ear, “It’s one hundred dollars a yard,” that I was able to tear myself away. I still long for that fabric.
And as a final example, let me suggest an outing to your local museum. One of the most thought-provoking presentations on paranormal world-building I’ve ever heard was given at a Romance Writers of America conference by Shannon Delany, who was talking about getting ahead of the curve on genre trends, and taking new approaches to familiar legends and characters. She discussed many great approaches, but the one that stuck with me was the suggestion of spending time looking at historical and mythological scenes in fine art. Delany proposed taking the opportunity to imagine what’s going on behind the scene that’s being depicted, or just out of the viewer’s line of sight, or what’s simmering in the subtext of the scene, then using this as a jumping-off point for characters and stories. That idea would never have occurred to me in a million years, but now that the seed’s been planted, I’m busily planning my next outing to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston (maybe with a little Isabella Stewart Gardner on the side).
So what about you? What kind of field trips do you take to refill the well of your imagination? What kind of sensory or creative treasures have you brought back?
And wherever and whenever you go in your adventuring, I wish you many moments of pleasure and inspiration!
I’m writing to you today from the Middle Ages (currently docked at a Radisson in Manchester, New Hampshire), in order to talk about artist dates.
Artist dates are not, as you might suppose, episodic romantic forays with attractive specimens of the aesthetically and spatially-gifted population (although there’s nothing to rule this out, either, and best wishes to you on that front, say I). Rather, artist dates are field trips taken with the express (or professed) purpose of engaging and stimulating our imaginations, our creativity, our sense of wonder, and our sensory experience in general. It’s a way to fill up the well that we draw from when we build worlds, and it’s a place from which fresh ideas—and even characters—can emerge, ready to captivate and populate our work.
The date you go on doesn’t have to directly apply to your current work-in-progress; in fact, it can be more fun if the field trip seems to be purely tangential. My current story is set in a faery-tale version of 18th-century France, so the temporal and aesthetic “vibe” of this weekend’s date wasn’t particularly helpful. But as I wandered the merchant area dressed as a 10th-century Viking lass in a linen shift, cotton tunic, and wool apron made with my own fair hands (and a Brother CP 7500 computerized sewing machine, praise Jah), lifting my skirts so that I wouldn’t trip (because transport me to whatever century you please, I am still a klutz), and debating the relative merits of wool versus linen for camping in a 14th-century kirtle (NOT wool—Sweet Jesu, I was DYING in that apron after two hours), I amassed a whole host of tactile and visual impressions still relevant to living in a culture where female dress is more traditional, synthetic fibers are unknown, and nothing is mass-produced.
Another textile-related adventure once took me to a huge warehouse specializing in home-decor fabrics. This was the place to soak up 18th-century rococo with a vengeance: silks and velvets and brocades everywhere I turned, juxtaposed with rack upon rack of tassels and trims. One fabric literally made me stop in in my tracks, not because it was baroque, but because it was this rich, vibrant pattern of embroidered green vines with scarlet flowers against a background of shimmering blue. A coverlet of that fabric would be like sleeping wrapped in all the enticement and enchantment of a faery tale, and it was only because Cali kept repeating in my ear, “It’s one hundred dollars a yard,” that I was able to tear myself away. I still long for that fabric.
And as a final example, let me suggest an outing to your local museum. One of the most thought-provoking presentations on paranormal world-building I’ve ever heard was given at a Romance Writers of America conference by Shannon Delany, who was talking about getting ahead of the curve on genre trends, and taking new approaches to familiar legends and characters. She discussed many great approaches, but the one that stuck with me was the suggestion of spending time looking at historical and mythological scenes in fine art. Delany proposed taking the opportunity to imagine what’s going on behind the scene that’s being depicted, or just out of the viewer’s line of sight, or what’s simmering in the subtext of the scene, then using this as a jumping-off point for characters and stories. That idea would never have occurred to me in a million years, but now that the seed’s been planted, I’m busily planning my next outing to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston (maybe with a little Isabella Stewart Gardner on the side).
So what about you? What kind of field trips do you take to refill the well of your imagination? What kind of sensory or creative treasures have you brought back?
And wherever and whenever you go in your adventuring, I wish you many moments of pleasure and inspiration!
Friday, September 16, 2011
And on the Seventh Day—Wait, I Mean Page!
by R.C. Lewis
Ah, the perks of being a novelist. Eyestrain. Carpal tunnel. Form rejections.
But it's the best, really! Those of us who know will suffer all that and more for the joy of bringing characters to life, torturing them because we can ... in worlds we create.
Talk about power.
Sometimes, though, we get carried away with that power. We name and define enough flora and fauna to fill the planet twice over. We develop a 700-year history of the monarchy. We formulate scientific theories to support complex technology that all runs on algae.
That's great. Fill reams of paper or gigabytes on your hard drive with every nuanced detail. Go for it.
The problem comes if we throw it at the reader ... all of it.
Don't get me wrong. I love a fully realized world. And I hate one that doesn't have enough detail, lacks internal consistency, and just doesn't feel real. But having that fleshed-out world as a foundation doesn't mean we have to spell it all out within the manuscript. If we do all the hard labor of working it out behind the scenes, it can seep naturally into the story.
Some details do deserve to make the page and add to the narrative. Personally, there are a couple of situations where I feel it's worth the word count to detail things in.
It's News to Me. This is pretty typical in speculative fiction genres. The protagonist enters a new country/society/galaxy/dimension. Everything will be new, so some detailing is only natural. In these situations, I always ask myself what my MC would notice first, and what would get glossed over until they're in deeper.
It's a Matter of Life or Death. Okay, maybe not that extreme. But I'm talking about aspects of world-building that are pertinent—even critical—in that particular moment. Make sure the diversion into explanation or description is properly motivated.
I'm Right and You're Wrong. This can be a fun one. Character #1 says, "Let's do ____ to accomplish this goal." Character #2 says, "You're a moron, that'll never work!" #1: "Yes it will. If we ____, ____, and ____, then ____ will happen." #2: "No way. Nuh-uh. The ______ of the ____ will never ____ _____ _____ ...." And so on. Hopefully done more artfully than that, but you get the idea. When there are legitimate differing views on how something in the world operates, that can be a decent time to work in some specifics.
I'm sure there are other situations and a variety of factors that can play into how much is too much and what approach is best. Some genres expect world-building to be handled a particular way. Some readers can drink in pages of geography and political history, while others will skim (if they don't just give up on the book altogether).
And who says it's just the sci-fi/fantasy spectrum that world-builds? Historical fiction may call on a setting we have some passing familiarity with, but it has to make it real just the same. Just about any novel has to establish at least a microcosm of a fictional world.
For myself, the sign of great world-building is when I don't notice it happening. Whether through description, dialogue, or more subtle means, I experience it and live in the world.
Do you have pet-peeves when it comes to world-building? Tips for pulling it off smoothly? I'd love to hear them.
Ah, the perks of being a novelist. Eyestrain. Carpal tunnel. Form rejections.
But it's the best, really! Those of us who know will suffer all that and more for the joy of bringing characters to life, torturing them because we can ... in worlds we create.
Talk about power.
Sometimes, though, we get carried away with that power. We name and define enough flora and fauna to fill the planet twice over. We develop a 700-year history of the monarchy. We formulate scientific theories to support complex technology that all runs on algae.
That's great. Fill reams of paper or gigabytes on your hard drive with every nuanced detail. Go for it.
The problem comes if we throw it at the reader ... all of it.
Don't get me wrong. I love a fully realized world. And I hate one that doesn't have enough detail, lacks internal consistency, and just doesn't feel real. But having that fleshed-out world as a foundation doesn't mean we have to spell it all out within the manuscript. If we do all the hard labor of working it out behind the scenes, it can seep naturally into the story.
Some details do deserve to make the page and add to the narrative. Personally, there are a couple of situations where I feel it's worth the word count to detail things in.
It's News to Me. This is pretty typical in speculative fiction genres. The protagonist enters a new country/society/galaxy/dimension. Everything will be new, so some detailing is only natural. In these situations, I always ask myself what my MC would notice first, and what would get glossed over until they're in deeper.
It's a Matter of Life or Death. Okay, maybe not that extreme. But I'm talking about aspects of world-building that are pertinent—even critical—in that particular moment. Make sure the diversion into explanation or description is properly motivated.
I'm Right and You're Wrong. This can be a fun one. Character #1 says, "Let's do ____ to accomplish this goal." Character #2 says, "You're a moron, that'll never work!" #1: "Yes it will. If we ____, ____, and ____, then ____ will happen." #2: "No way. Nuh-uh. The ______ of the ____ will never ____ _____ _____ ...." And so on. Hopefully done more artfully than that, but you get the idea. When there are legitimate differing views on how something in the world operates, that can be a decent time to work in some specifics.
I'm sure there are other situations and a variety of factors that can play into how much is too much and what approach is best. Some genres expect world-building to be handled a particular way. Some readers can drink in pages of geography and political history, while others will skim (if they don't just give up on the book altogether).
And who says it's just the sci-fi/fantasy spectrum that world-builds? Historical fiction may call on a setting we have some passing familiarity with, but it has to make it real just the same. Just about any novel has to establish at least a microcosm of a fictional world.
For myself, the sign of great world-building is when I don't notice it happening. Whether through description, dialogue, or more subtle means, I experience it and live in the world.
Do you have pet-peeves when it comes to world-building? Tips for pulling it off smoothly? I'd love to hear them.
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