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say on my academic degrees) was in the field of literary criticism, a
field which has strayed from its original purpose, I think. The great
critics of the eighteenth century believed that a close examination of
the classics would improve current writing, and that the purpose of
criticism was to produce 'how to write good stuff' essays. Criticism
should be distinguished from book reviews. 'My favorite writer is
better than your favorite writer' is just a trifle juvenile, and 'I could
write a better book than this if I really wanted to' is even worse.
As I said earlier, this collection provides a kind of running
description of a process. It included a lot of groping. Some things
that looked very interesting just didn't work. Other things jumped off
the page right in the middle of the actual writing. Not unfrequently,
the story would take the bit in its teeth and run away, dragging us
along behind it.
As I've mentioned before, when the urge to write an epic fantasy
seizes the unwary reader, he will usually rush to his typewriter, and
that's his first mistake. If he leaps into the swamp right away, he'll
probably produce a chapter or two and then find that he's run out of
story' largely because he doesn't know where he's going.
Papa Tolkien once wrote, 'I wisely started with a map.' I'm not
sure how wise my doodle was, but my inadvertent following of the
same path also dictated much of our story. People who live on a
rocky seacoast usually become sailors (translation: pirates). People
who live on large open grasslands usually need horses, and usually
get involved with cattle. People who live in natural converging
points - river fords, mountain passes, and the like - usually become
traders or merchants. Geography is very important in a story.
One of the items ticked off by Horace in his Ars Poetica was that
an epic (or a drama) should begin in medias res, (in the middle of
the story). Translation: 'Start with a big bang to grab attention.'
Fantasists tend to ignore grandfather Horace's advice and take the
Bildungsroman approach instead. This German term can be
translated
as 'Building (or growing up) romance'. (Note that most
European languages don't use the word 'Novel'; they still call these
things 'romances'.) The 'growing up' approach is extremely
practical for a fantasist, since all of our inventions have to be explained to
our 'dumb kid' hero, and this is the easiest approach to exposition.
Some of you may have noticed that we did follow Aristotle's
advice in the Elenium/Tamuli. That one did start in medias res, and it
seemed to work just as well. Would you like another test? How
about, 'Explain the theological differences between Eriond and
Aphrael'?
To counter the 'Gee Whiz! Look at that!' sort of thing that
contaminates fantasy, the fantasist should probably grind his reader's face
in grubby realism. Go ride a horse for a day or two so you know
what it feels like. Saddle sores show up on both sides of the saddle.
Go to an archery range and shoot off a couple hundred arrows. Try it
without the arm-guard a few times. The bow-string will act much
like a salami-slicer on the inside of your left forearm, and it'll raise
blisters on the fingertips of your right hand. Pick up a broadsword,
swing it for ten minutes, and your arms will feel as if they're falling
off. Those things were built to chop through steel. They're very
heavy. Go out and take a walk. Start at daybreak and step right
along. Mark the spot where you are at sunset. Then measure the
distance. That's as far as your characters will be able to walk in one
day. I used twenty miles, but I've got long legs. Ask a friend not to
bathe for a month. Then go sniff him. (Yuk!) When you write
dialogue, read it aloud - preferably to someone else. Ask if it sounds