Villains, Part 2

Last post, I looked at some effective villains and outlined what made them work. This post, I'm going to pull up some ineffective villains, and explain why they don't work. I imagine the list could probably be much longer than it is, but these are the ones I can come up with--and some of the entries involve a rather wide range.

1: Caliban.

No image was available. Not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

For those of you who have not seen Halloweentown, congratulations. You're not missing anything. For those of you who have, my condolences. I myself did not actually watch this movie. I was exposed to it one night in late October, while I was perusing the movies in Hastings for something good to watch while I got used to living alone. The closed-circuit televisions circling the movie department were playing full films at this time, and the movie on was Halloweentown. I was able to ignore most of it--it was not the type that appealed to me--right up to the climax, where Caliban is giving a St. Crispin's Day speech to try and rally the inhabitants of the town to join him. The speech is pretty basic: "Join me, I will give you power, they will not be able to resist us, the world will be ours."
Only he was talking for at least five minutes. Now, I didn't pull out a watch and measure how long he was flapping his gums. I just remember staring up at the television in disbelief, thinking, "He's made that particular point three times already! Is there an archer in the crowd? My gosh, somebody shut that guy up!"
I took something from this, however, so the experience, though painful, was not without merit: the more your bad guy talks, the less scary he is.

2: Marlier

Now, admittedly, a fluffy shoujo like Ah! My Goddess probably won't have a hardcore villain in it. But whenever I watched the show (which is actually pretty good), I thought that Marlier could have been so much better than she was. And we know that a cartoon can have good villains: note the Stepmother and Muska from my previous post. Marlier could have been terrifying. But she tries too hard, and comes off as...trite. Every line is said in a dramatic, half-snarling tone, when a toned-down delivery would work far better. Point to be made: the harder your bad guy tries to be dramatic, the less he (or she) will come across as so. 

3: Loki

Yes, yes. Cue the fangirl squealing. Are we finished? Okay, read the post. 

Yes, the guy is handsome, and yes, he has a fangirl base to rival just about anything else on the Web. Got that. (Can't escape from that.) But once you quit swooning over those smoldering looks and start to evaluate the character, you realize that Loki really isn't that great an antagonist. First off, the guy is conceited. Part of me wonders if one of his weaknesses would be a mirror. Secondly, a smug, smarmy attitude doesn't build up character. Face it, if Loki hadn't been handsome, he would be impossible to watch. I find him impossible to watch even with his looks. Every time he comes onscreen--unless he's being trashed by another character--I leave the room. I don't care what he says, I don't want to hear it. Furthermore, he's clearly under the boot of a more powerful villain. That can be done, and that can be done well: note Saruman and the Ringwraiths. But Loki has none of their confidence and none of their terror factor. With Saruman, you can forget that he's Sauron's puppet. With the Ringwraiths, you're so busy holding your breath and hoping they don't notice you to think about the fact that they have a master. With Loki, it's hard to get away from that. He is in no way in control of what happens. He knows it, you know it, and he's therefore not really as alarming as he could be. Point: less conceit, more confidence, no matter what he looks like or what his situation is. 

4: Any villain from the Mars stories by Edgar Rice Burroughs. 

Don't get me wrong, I love the stories. They're great, and John Carter never makes it look like he's crushing soup crackers. The thing is, none of the villains ever manage to make it past one story, and individually, none of them are all that impressive. The ones who might be impressive as villains wind up befriending him, and the ones who aren't...well, you pretty well know what's about to happen. The only times John Carter is every in any real trouble is when he's being mobbed, and then we're dealing with nameless drones. I don't even remember the names of most of the main villains, which tells you something. (Aside from the fact that I lent out my books and haven't yet retrieved them yet.)

5: 80's Cartoon Villains

Good. Gad. I tried to watch some of those old things on Hulu once. Can we say not impressed? The heroes certainly couldn't be much, if that lot of dippy crackers gave them any sort of trouble. Some are conceited, none of them have any sort of confidence, and every last one of them is given to making overblown speeches at what felt like the drop of a hat. 

6: Lex Luthor 

In other movies, and in the comics, he tends to be a better bad guy. I'm going from the first movie, the one that spawned the franchise ending with Superman Returns. He's...watchable, I'll say that for him at least. And he can come up with grandiose plans, and he's mean enough to make them work. Sort of. The problem is that he's saddled himself with two henchmen, one of whom has no brain, the other of whom still has half a heart, and, rather than working his way around them, he lets himself be limited by them. I mean, come on. He's supposed to be this great genius--and he really lets the minion whose mental capacities don't extend much beyond getting doughnuts enter the codes into the nukes? I don't object to bumbling, comic-relief minions, not in the slightest; I just believe that a really brilliant villain shouldn't be limited by them. 

Like I said, there are probably many, many more. The problem is, a lot of books and movies which don't have really effective villains don't have effective heroes, either, and often not much of a plot. I read a few pages, roll my eyes and mutter something about "You've got to be kidding me," and put the book down or shut the movie off. So, who are the weakest villains you've ever met, and why did they not work for you?

Writing Tips: Villains, part 1

I've heard it said that a story is only as good as its villain. Now, I don't necessarily agree with this; after all, some of the most compelling stories I've read don't have a solid antagonist. (Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Hatchet, Brian's Winter, No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, My Side of the Mountain, Anne of Green Gables, and others in that vein.) But it is true that a really good adventure story has to have a really good antagonist--and not just an antagonist, an honest-to-goodness villain.
Off the top of your head, name the most memorable villain from a movie and a book--and then name the least. I'm willing to bet that my top ten villains will probably be fairly similar.

1: Darth Vader.

Probably one of, if not the, most iconic movie/story villain of modern times. We are talking evil and confident about it, not to mention extremely powerful, and kind of fun to watch. He's a scary dude--and wildly unpredictable. What makes him so popular? My takes on this: 

First, Vader is not conceited. He does not care about himself. He has an agenda, and he wants it fulfilled. He has a mission to carry out, and he will, no matter how many minions he has to cut down to pull it off. Second, the guy is unpredictable--at least, where he's going to show up next, and he's got just enough charisma to smooth-talk people into going his way. (Note Lando Calrissian in the second movie.) In the third place, he's connected to the hero. You don't want to overuse this tactic, mind you; if you don't do it right, it almost seems cliche. But there's no doubt that the 'I am your father' line is one of the best shockers in movie history. And finally...he repents at the end. There is nothing that tugs at my heartstrings harder than a villain who does a 180 and performs some incredible, selfless act to save the heroes. This is also not a route you want to overuse, but dang, if you can get it to come out right, it really works!

2: Sauron.

 All the villains in Lord of the Rings are particularly effective, but I'll be dealing with each one on their own. Here, we focus on Sauron. I'll just say it: when your main villain is nothing but a flaming eyeball at the top of a really creepy tower, you've probably got a winner. At first glance I think Sauron might seem to be a fairly weak enemy: after all, he has virtually no lines in the movie, none at all in the book, and he pretty much just stays at the top of his tower, looking around. But then you look a touch deeper. Everything else in the book is under Sauron's thumb. Saruman is just his puppet. The Ringwraiths are his servants, the Orcs his slaves. Only Shelob isn't under his command--but he considers her his cat! 

How does he tick? First, Sauron is a demon--a real demon, from the Catholic tradition. He is completely evil, completely other, and therefore, completely incomprehensible to humans. He's arrogant, and willing to take huge risks if it gives him an advantage. In The Simarillion, he comes to the kings of Numenor, pretending to serve them, and tempts them to their destruction. And of course we all know about the making of the One Ring and what came of that. And it seems like a huge weakness to us--until we consider by how tiny a margin it was that the Ring wound up being destroyed. Spend a few minutes thinking about it, and I bet you--like me--just might end up in a cold sweat. 

3:  Fu Manchu

I add Fu Manchu for one reason only, as I have never read the books or seen any movies. And the reason is this: everyone knows about Fu Manchu. I don't know precisely how his character ticks, but however it does, the author got it right. 

4: Muska

One of Hayao Miyazaki's few unrepentant villains, Muska from Castle in the Sky is probably one of the creepiest bad guys I have ever seen in a cartoon setting. And one of the things that makes him so eerie is the fact that he conceals his real nature for most of the film. Unlike the bombastic general, who never hides his personality, or the pirate captain Dola, who is won over by the young protagonists about halfway through the story, Muska behaves almost kindly to the captive Sheeta--though his kindness is clearly a thin veneer over a threatening demeanor, and the hero Pazu has no trouble at all in singling him out as the real threat. He is smooth, suave, soft-spoken, clever--and power-hungry, vicious, and colder than an Arctic night, perfectly willing to threaten children and even slaughter his own allies to get what he wants. 

How does he work? First, he is willing to hide his threatening nature under a pleasant guise. He is soft-spoken, persuading rather than trying to force. He will attempt bribes, and if those don't work, he will subtly threaten those close to the one he is speaking to. Only once before the climactic scene does he allow his lust for the power of Laputa to come through--and that is when a broken-down robot unexpectedly comes to life and starts tearing a fortress apart. 

5: The Ringwraiths

These guys scared the living daylights out of me when I read the book, and they weren't any less creepy in the movie. Faceless, almost formless if it wasn't for their hoods and cloaks; sniffing out their prey; lurking on the roads and in the wild areas; and to make matters even better, almost unstoppable. They could be driven away, but there was always the promise that they'd be back for as long as the Ring endured. What makes them even more horrifying is the knowledge that they were once men, who took the nine rings Sauron offered and fell, body and soul, completely under his dominion. 

Counting the ways the Ringwraiths work would probably fill a book, but I'll stick to the more obvious ones. They are also other, incomprehensible to the way we think, but they were once men, which carries the horror further along. They are drawn to the Ring and its power, making it nearly impossible for Frodo to escape them while he carries it. Invisibility is no escape from them. In fact, putting on the Ring makes it possible for them to see him--and for him to see them! And finally, there is the way they communicate: in bone-chilling screams that can be heard for miles. 

6: The White Witch

Admittedly, she wasn't quite as scary in the movie. But in the book, which is what I'll go by, she was one absolutely terrifying creature. She was seductive, willing to pretend kindness to learn what she wanted from Edmund. In fact, if you read the scene out of context, you might wonder at the cruelty of the dwarf charioteer, and what she might have been planning at first, but then you, like he, would probably be taken in by a pleasant, wealthy lady, wielding power and willing to share it with him. She flatters him constantly, and assures him that, once he brought his siblings, she would adopt all of them as her children, making them princes and princesses--and him High King. Reading the scene in context makes it clear how dangerous she is, and what an awful thing he's done. And then it gets even better. In the book, the wolves she sends after the other children don't get close until after her winter is broken. But she comes across a group of Narnian creatures--several squirrels, an older fox, and I believe a few fauns--celebrating the return of Christmas with a feast. Upon learning that Father Christmas gave them the fare, she turns the whole lot of them into stone. Shortly afterwards, Edmund is rescued from the Witch right out from under her knife. And then, she is able to demand--and get--repayment from Aslan himself!

The White Witch is less subtle than some villains, but she is subtle enough. She tricks at first, flatters, and seduces. She only turns nasty when the situation looks like it may not be completely under her control. She's clever and in control, able to disguise herself instantly when the rescue party arrives. She even has a sort of legitimacy to her: it was written in the Deep Magic that she was to kill traitors. She controls a huge host of all sorts of creepy, terrifying creatures, who fawn all over her. And she is allowed to kill Aslan, as well. Doesn't get much creepier than that. 

7: Cinderella's Stepmother. 

Admittedly, this one seems pretty tame in comparison to the others. And if I hadn't seen the movie recently, I probably wouldn't have even considered her. But I did. And I noticed something that I hadn't had before. The Stepmother is as scary as all get out, all the more so because she doesn't lose her cool. She keeps her temper at all times, constantly finding ways to turn a disappointment into an advantage. When faced with the fact that all eligible girls in the kingdom are invited, she agrees that yes, Cinderella may go--if she finds something to wear, and if she can finish the mountain of chores that she immediately piles on. Then, when it turns out that, despite the extra work, Cinderella does have a dress, the Stepmother agrees that yes, she may go, and compliments the dress in such a way as to encourage her daughters to tear it to shreds. She's on target enough to realize that there's something familiar about the mystery woman at the ball, and figures out who it was much faster than I probably would have in her situation. In fact, throughout the movie, the Stepmother is so on top of things that's it's a small miracle everything works out for Cinderella at all. 

8: Klaus Wulfenbach

Fans of the Girl Genius comic will recognize this fellow right away. To be fair to him, he doesn't really believe he's a villain. He thinks he's on the side of the angels. He believes his quirks--like dissecting the brains of fellow sparks and the willingness to destroy an entire town to get one person--are just quirks. He knows he is right, and he knows he will win. Wulfenbach refuses to give up, no matter what his situations. Whether he's in control on his airship base, on the ground in hostile territory that is rapidly becoming more hostile, busted up in the hospital, or even wasped and under the control of the Other, you never know what he is going to do next. He's a bit of a megalomaniac--probably has to be in his situation--but, while he occasionally will make speeches, he's usually doing something at the same time, and almost never what you'd expect him to be doing. And he always seems to be able to come back for yet another round, no matter what's happened to him already. 

9: Saruman

Ah, yes. There's always got to be someone we love to hate. For me, it's this guy. While a repentant villain may tug at my heartstrings, the good guy who goes bad is an object of either disgust or disdain, and he pulls up both. He also pulls up some fairly healthy feelings of alarm when he comes on, because, dislike him as I do, it's quite clear he's no slouch, and going bad makes him someone to be reckoned with. Whether it's his pride-ridden fall from grace using the Palantir and being caught by Sauron, his skin-crawling experiments that result in the Uruk-Hai, his brutal felling of the living trees in Fangorn or his gleeful delight in the nightmare foundry he sets up beneath Orthanc, he manages to convince everyone that he is in control--even when he's not. Even now, his little speech to send his Uruk army to battle gives me chills, even after watching the movie something around fifty times. And while the movie does a bit of a cop-out, killing him before the destruction of the Ring and skipping his real end, the book gives him the chance to pull some real nastiness even after Aragorn is crowned and all should be right in the land. Admittedly, by then he has degenerated from the most powerful and respected wizard in Middle Earth to essentially a low-class mob boss--but he still does a real number on the Shire before Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin arrive to set things right. 

10: The Joker

If they get creepier than this guy, I have yet to see it. Though not a complete comics aficionado--I prefer indie webcomics to most of the stuff the mainstream puts out--I have read enough stories with this guy featured to know he more than makes my list. Yes, he's insane, but he's not just insane. Someone who is just insane is as likely to start thinking of himself as a chicken or Lord Vetinari (Terry Pratchett's Discworld) as he is to turn into a bloodthirsty psychopath willing to kill anyone who crosses his path. For me, Joker is creepy because you don't know if he actually has a weakness--or when he is willing to turn any weaknesses he has into strength. He is wildly flamboyant, but more inclined to do, rather than to talk, which is a real trip point for a lot of comic-book baddies. His sense of humor, if you can really call it that, is what makes him so eerie. Frankly, whenever I read those books, I keep wishing that there was someone in the area not so principled as Batman, a lot faster than the Joker, and willing to make deadly use out of, say, three feet's worth of well-sharpened Toledo or Damascus steel. 

There's certainly more to be said on the subject, and I plan to. Tomorrow, I'm going to detail the least effective villains from book and movie history. If I've missed someone's favorite bad guy, let me know--and then tell me why you find him (or her) so interesting. 

New Feature! Time-Write Tuesday

Many writers, including myself, are more than willing to encourage those around them with some interest in writing, especially if the writers are more or less in the same genre. And to this end, I challenge those writers and those interested in writing who read this blog.
There is an exercise I have found to be extremely helpful for writing practice, allowing you to try out techniques: setting the scene, writing dialogue, character development, or just plain putting the pencil to the dratted paper and making something come out. It's called the time-write. The rules of a time-write are simple: grab a pen or pencil and a notebook, turn on a timer for ten or fifteen or twenty minutes, depending on how long you can write without your hand cramping up, and let 'er rip! No going back over misspelled words or errors--you keep writing until the timer goes off. It does not matter how weird or disjointed the end result is; you have written something, you have written it in a certain amount of time, and you can sit back and breathe a sigh of relief.
Now, there are times in which your muse is out on a coffee break, and you can't get your mind to spit anything out onto the paper, no matter how sharp your pencil is, how good your pen is, or how nice your notebook paper is. For those times, you are allowed to use cheats. I have discovered that giving yourself three characters--a hero, a heroine, and a villain--a setting, and a MacGuffin is very helpful in convincing the mental wheels to turn. At other times, a story starter does the trick. Sooo...
My idea behind the Time-Write Tuesday is this: I will provide three characters, with descriptions and names, a county name, and a MacGuffin, as well as three story starters. Then you, my readers, and I will turn on the timer and write something based off it. Then you post what you came up with in the comments. And I shall do the same!
(Most of the characters will probably be fantasy-type. If you want to change something, go right ahead.)

Male lead: Balien: This elf is a paragon of virtue. His haunted eyes are like two windows looking out on an overcast sky. His stylish hair is the color of creamy milk.
Female Lead: Iralea This woman puts you in mind of a proud lion. She has round gray eyes that are like two windows looking out on an overcast sky. Her fine, curly, brown hair is neck-length and is worn in a severe, uncomplicated style. She is short and has a voluptuous build. Her skin is black. She has small hands. Her wardrobe is tight.
Villain: Ardoas: This persistent mage is spurred onward by revenge. He employs divination in his schemes, often kidnapping political leaders to achieve his goals. He is haunted by a ghost.
Country: Barony of the Gray Serpent
MacGuffin: Blade of Lightning

1.: No matter where [he/she/I] tried to stay, [he/she/I] always ended up in trouble--often on the first day.
2. The road ahead appeared deserted--at first.
3: The storm finally broke with a brilliant flash of lightning.

Got your pen, pencil and notebook? All right! Turn the timer on and see what happens!
No cheating!

Musing: Evolution of the Unicorn

To an author of fantasy, there are times when imaginary beings become slightly more real than actual creatures. This does not mean I don't care about real animals; but it does mean I will get more worked up over the portrayal of something that doesn't exist than the portrayal of a real animal.
Take, for instance, the unicorn.

This is a fairly common portrayal of this magnificent creature, and there's nothing wrong with it...but it irritates me almost more than I can say. You see, animals were once personifications of virtues: the lion stood for courage, the pelican for charity, the lamb for docility and gentleness, and so on. Now real animals, being real and inhabitants of this fallen world, don't exactly hold to the ideals. There's a reason certain symbols don't resonate with that particular virtue anymore: we learned too much about the animal for the image to stick.

The mythical creatures--at least, some of them--also stood for a particular virtue, or vice as the case may be. The griffin was a guardian, while the dragon stood alternately for guarding, or for greed and evil. The phoenix was a symbol of the Resurrection. 

The unicorn, while apparently no one could quite agree on what it looked like, stood for some extremely high ideals. At one point in Church history, it was a symbol for both Christ and His Mother, and still stands as a symbol of purity. That sounds to me like something exceedingly beautiful and impressive, and not like something from My Little Pony. 

And mythical creatures, unlike real ones, cannot be studied, and so, cannot diverge from their given path. Why, therefore, have we gone from this: 

To this?

I strongly suspect it has something to do with our views on purity. For mythical symbols, it seems only natural that, once our views on their virtue chance, then they have to change along with them. For instance, what do the words 'purity' and 'chastity' immediately bring to mind for you? Chances are, it may be something like this. 

Or this. 

Now, I don't know if this will surprise you or not, but that's not what people used to think of those words, particularly people from the medieval period. In fact, what they saw--immediately--was probably something much closer to this. 

Make no mistake about it: the people in medieval times weren't plaster statues. They had much of the same problems with purity and chastity as we did; that hasn't changed since the Fall. What they had was a clearer picture of the ideal, and an admiration--sometimes grudging, but admiration nonetheless. After all, they taught their kids stories about people like this:

Virgin martyrs. When you'd rather die in torment than give up your purity or faith, that means something.

The virtue connected with the stories was real, strong, admirable, and something to be reckoned with. Therefore, the symbol connected with them would, naturally, be the same. Whether or not most people obeyed the symbol or practiced the virtue was one thing; whether they considered it something worthwhile was another. And they did consider it worthwhile.
Where did the trouble start? I'm not sure I could pinpoint any real transition point, but I'm willing to bet it started roughly around the Protestant Reformation. And it may not have started specifically with Luther or Calvin; I'm sure plenty of bad Catholics were already dragging the virtue and its reputation through the mud. It probably had more to do with Henry the VIII, and his ham-handed demolition of convents and monasteries. Once the public view of purity and its goodness had disappeared, the mental view of it was just as likely to change.
And with the emergence of Puritanism, mythical symbols fell firmly by the wayside--especially symbols that smacked of "popery". The unicorn, with its connotations to both Jesus and Mary, would be especially despised, resulting in a complete lack of any such symbolism for years afterwards.
And then, a hundred or so years later, along came the Victorian Era, with its cheerful insistence on rewriting the old legends. This was most likely the time that the fluffy images of the unicorn started to surface, considering what they did to the realm of Faerie.

This...

Became this. 

It was also a time when purity became mixed with prudery. The unpleasant result still resonates in our culture, explaining why purity is such a foreign or distasteful concept to a lot of people. 

The revolt against the Victorian Puritanism began the slow but steady slide downwards to the moral cesspool we find ourselves wallowing in today. And that, I believe, explains the revolt against the imagery of the unicorn. We know--if only by osmosis--what it is meant to stand for. 

And perhaps the hearts of most of us yearn for this: the communion between Man and with something much greater. The singing joy of being in the presence of something so great, so beautiful, and so elusive. But there is a force in the world--hidden, but most assuredly there--which hates that which is great, beautiful, and good. It is a force which cannot see anything good without trying to tear it down and pervert it. I will not post any of the disgusting or even obscene images that came up when I searched for pictures of unicorns online, but they were there. 

And that makes me wonder. Why such an attack against a symbol? We jeeringly tell people to 'get off their unicorn' when we want them to come to their senses. But the unicorn is no more imaginary than the griffin, the chimera, or the hippogriff. There are few to no cutesy or obscene images of the phoenix or the hydra. We never use these mythical beasts to sneer at those we think are living in a fantasy world. So why the unicorn?

I think it is a strike against its virtue. By turning the symbol into something cutesy, crass, narcissistic, or otherwise harmless or unappealing, we can ignore the truth that stands behind it. Because to our minds, purity looks like the unicorn. So if you can get the purity to look like this: 

You can ignore it much more easily than if you knew, without a doubt, that it actually looks like this: 

Realistic Proportions in Fantasy

I write stories with tall, slender, graceful, women in them.
There, I've said it. Whether I should take it as a confession or an act of pride, the point is made: my girls are girlish, my women often have Venusian figures, and my more heavily built women are likely to be the older women and the mother-figures.
There are three reasons for this. The first is that, male or female, no one in my stories gets to sit around all day, eating chocolates and reading novels (or watching television, as that may be.) And when you don't do that, when you fight to stay alive or work your tail off, you generally don't get much more than nicely rounded.
The second is a slightly more shallow reason, and it is this: I find it much easier to draw slender characters, and I love illustrating my stories.
The third reason is that I don't have an axe to grind over the weight issue. I've read stories with overweight heroines. One series, The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, is absolutely delightful, with the heroine, Mme Ramotswe, comfortable in her own skin and more than happy with her traditional build. Another story, Squashed, stars a young pumpkin-growing gardener whose enthusiastic dessert-creation has her constantly struggling to drop a few pounds to fit in her jeans. Neither of these heroines obsesses over their build: Mme Ramotswe likes her padding, and Ellie Morgan is much more interested in raising her giant pumpkin to prize-winning proportions.
Other stories, however, don't take it so well. I did not read all of Just Ella, a retelling of Cinderella that tears up the fairy tale. But what I read of the dust jacket and the last few pages, it's clear that the author has a clear vendetta about the whole issue of beauty, and what beauty is considered acceptable. I also read a book two or three years ago; I do not remember the name of it, or who the author was. What I do remember is that the actual plot of the story was hidden behind a rather impressive amount of moralizing about weight, and how more weight doesn't make you bad, and less doesn't make you good.
Now, I do agree about this. Physical beauty or the lack thereof doesn't really mean anything. But I do think that you should leave the moralizing and vendettas about such out of fantasy.
I don't write about graceful, beautiful women and stalwart, handsome men to sneer at the overweight and cowardly of the world. I'm not exactly a sylph myself, and I'm not as brave as I wish I was. I write about them...because I wish I was like that.
Frankly, I don't understand this mentality that the ideal is a slap in the face to those who don't meet it. It's an ideal. Real life doesn't match up to it, no matter what you do. It's something to strive toward. And in my not-all-that-humble opinion, the ideal body should be a back-burner goal, because it's really not all that important.

And because one of my heroes looks like this.

I like reading about beautiful women and stalwart men because the world is not like that. I know the world is not like that. Believe me, it's impossible to get away from the fact. When I read A Princess of Mars, I'm not going to come away believing that I'll find the equivalent of John Carter, Warlord of Mars out in the real world. I'm taking comfort in the fact that ideal still exists somewhere. I'm escaping from the cruddy reality, and traveling--even if only for an hour and in the privacy of my mind--to a new place.

You see, the point of fantasy stories--especially the escapist sort--is not to judge the world. They might; ideals do occasionally rebuke those that flaunt them. But that is not their point. Their point is to take you away. You might be a 95-pound weakling who groans when you lift a full grocery sack into a car. But when you read  Lord of the Rings, or Princess of Mars, Ranger's Apprentice or Robin Hood: 

That's You!

And the same thing goes for women. Read a story with a gorgeous heroine, and--she's not mocking you. That is you. I don't care if you're an anorexic stick or have secret fears about going into elevators. Once you open that book: 

 

That's you!
















And that's the point of those stories. Not to mock you: to be you. For that happy hour you spend reading it, or how many times you read it afterwards, guys, you are the stalwart hero, and girls, you are that gorgeous heroine for whom he is willing to burn down the world.
That's why I write those stories. That's why I read those stories. That's why I dislike the stories that don't get it.
Because, frankly, who wants to be the whiny kid who hates his life? There's too much of that out in the world already.

Writing Tips: Fleshing out the Dialogue

Writing dialogue is important. It often seems straightforward. Sometimes you might struggle with it; at other times, it flows from your brain through your fingertips and onto the page. You sit back and smile at it and be proud!
Then you take it to somebody else to read. And their first reaction is, "What is actually going on in this scene?"
That's when you realize that you've written talking heads.
First off, don't panic. Everyone does this. You write out the dialogue and forget about the people talking. But the solution is not as hard as it appears.
First get rid of the word said. "He said, she said" is straightforward, but blander than plain spaghetti noodles if you use it too often. Look up some synonyms for said, and find the ones that fit the scene best. (It also works into the Show, don't Tell.) Contrast this: "You could have told me earlier!" he said angrily with this: "You should have told me earlier!" he snarled.  One word less, and we know instantly that he is quite angry, and hear his tone of voice. Or compare "We've got everything we need," she said happily with "We've got everything we need," she chirped. The word chirped in this sense tells us that she is happy, lets us hear her piping  voice, and gives us a glimpse into her personality.
Another way of fleshing out the dialogue is to show facial expressions and movements. It's possible to get rid of the said synonyms as well, by putting action in front of or behind the sentence. For example:
"It's well past time you got rid of this old chair." John ran his finger down the tattered upholstery, picking at the loose threads. 
Maggie sniffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. " I'll thank you to leave that alone! It was Grandma's favorite chair."
John rolled his eyes, but leaned back into the chair and stopped tugging the threads. "As you wish, madame."
Now, it's possible to abuse this technique: you don't have to put an elaborate motion in front of every sentence. But using it helps paint a clear picture of what's going on, and may give a better idea of what your characters are like. In the above example, we can tell not only that John dislikes the ratty old chair, but that he's a bit sarcastic and doesn't pick fights. And Maggie likes her old Grandma, is fond of the chair, and is either haughty or putting him on. We know this from the words and the actions. And we know this in only three sentences.
A simple motion or expression will have the same effect. Smiling, scowling, blinking, turning away, rubbing their head, or biting their lip gives a quick indication of the character's mood, and how they said their line. You can also use random actions to give the illusion that this is a living person, instead of just words: sneezing, coughing at stirred dust, stumbling, yawning, or accidentally dropping something.
The best way to figure out how to do this and make it look natural is to watch people--not necessarily on television, either, since acting is not always natural. Watch people in real life talking, and see how they move and act with their words. Note the various quirks people have, and come up with similar ones for your characters.
Not only does this make for a clearer scene, but also for more engaging characters--and stories people will want to read.
And remember: that's your actual goal.

Musings: The Souls of Swords

Many apologies for the late posting; the storm last night knocked out the Internet, and it wasn't fixed until Dad came home from work...by which time I was leaving the house for the vaccines I needed for a college course, and afterwards a coffeeshop date with a friend. So I didn't get home until late. Anyhow, without further ado!   

         I prefer swords to guns. Always have. And for a long time, it wasn't a conscious decision. I didn't just wake up one morning and say to myself, “I like swords better.” I didn't even say it to myself as I was going to bed, when I am much more likely to be coherent. It was more like something always in the back of my mind. I like movies with swordfights better than movies with gunfights. I liked a hero who could wield a sword better than one who was a gunslinger. It just was.

He's cool.

He's cooler. 

         
Then I read a book. A good book. Not a reference book or a philosophical thesis outlining the differences between guns and swords. It was Waking Rose by Regina Dolman, a modern retelling of 'Sleeping Beauty.' In a single scene, I discovered why I preferred the old weapons to the new. The hero, Fish, is talking to Alex, the proctor of a college dorm that takes the ideals of knighthood very seriously (i.e., they all have swords and know at least marginally how to use them). Fish mentions that, after being kidnapped several years back, he carries a gun, and has a concealed-carry license. Alex agrees with the need for it, but also adds that a gun is an ugly, soulless thing, unlike a sword.

            Fish is not truly convinced—a weapon, after all, is a weapon, and a gun is a more efficient one than a sword—but it made me think. And after thinking for some time, I realized that Alex is right.

            The sword, above every other weapon, has a soul.

            Not everybody will agree, not even other writers. They have Fish's more prosaic view: a weapon is a weapon. All you need bother with is how efficient it is. But these I invite to enter a sword shop and peruse the weapons, and then tell themselves what they take away from the viewing.

            Each sword means something different, says something different. Whether or not each particular sword would be practical for fighting is one thing (most of them won't even have an edge.)  What the sword declares to the viewer is another. I might not be attracted to, say, the five-foot long monster with an oversized, jagged-edged blade and a fanged skull decorating the pommel. But I know at once who would wield it, and I know equally swiftly that he and I would not be friends.

            I cannot speak for the wakizashis, the Japanese straight swords; I have seen too few of them to know whose aura they have taken. But I know at once what the katana means. The katana has taken on itself the bearing of the samurai: it suggests that he or she who holds it has great skill with the blade, is fast and straightforward, and bears a sense of honor more powerful than their love of life. The katana may not be a chivalrous weapon—but it is darn well an honorable one.

Honorable sword. 

            The huge claymores and bastard swords have an even better repute. They are the choice of the Scottish knights. I don't know about you, but I heard good things about the Highland warriors growing up: William Wallace and Robert the Bruce. And for some reason, about a third of the old romance novels seem to involve a bonny Scots knight, which may or may not be realistic, but does tell you what sort of stories have come down about them. When I look at the claymores, I see, maybe not some romantic guy, but one who is brave, honorable without being rigid, loyal to his people, and chivalrous. Perhaps they're not as sharp or as agile as a katana, as weapons go...but I think I like claymores better.

I see this...

I think this.  

           Now for two swords of similar make and similar bad reputation: the Eastern scimitar and the cutlass. I don't know about you, but when I see these things, a shiver goes down my spine. The scimitar was the weapon of choice for the invading hordes that swept out of Arabia, killing, pillaging and destroying wherever they went. (I know that's not politically correct, but it's true.) The scimitar hanging on the wall at the Knife Guys may have a jeweled pommel and be polished so well you can see your face in it—but I see it dripping in the blood of innocents.

  

         Same with the cutlass. This isn't the weapon of the swashbuckling Hollywood pirates. It belongs to the real ones: Calico Jack, Blackbeard, Sir Henry Morgan, the whole unpleasant lot. Hollywood tends to glamorize pirates. I'm not sure that's a good thing. Pirates back in their day were a true scourge, and if they made landfall in a civilized town, it was just as bad as if the Vikings had come through: pillage, rape, murder, whole nine yards. And the cutlass has absorbed their dark aura, until it's a sword I can't visualize a good person carrying.

 

          Speaking of Hollywood, however, there is a sword that, thanks to the Golden Age of films, has acquired a reputation for swashbuckling: the rapier.

I don't know how true it is, but...well, when you see that long, slender blade with the fancy basket hilt, chances are real good you think of dashing heroics: Zorro, Prisoner of Zenda, Errol Flynn, Dread Pirate Robert, that sort of thing. (If you think of Reepicheep, more power to you. He fits the type!) Considering that a lot of the men who carried rapiers tended to be the heartbreaking, ladykiller type, I'm not sure how far I'd trust someone carrying one...but he'd at least be charming!

Dread Pirate Roberts

Zorro

   








    

Reepicheep!

           A Crusader's sword would say different things to different people, depending on which Crusade it was and what the person knew about the Crusades. (I'm not going to debate the cause or justness of the Crusades here.) But when I look at one of them, I see a noble thing: tainted a little, perhaps, because of the behavior of some of the soldiers, but strong and shining nonetheless, filled with the strength,  courage, and sheer determination of the men who marched and led the fight to reclaim the Holy Land.

Maybe not shining, but he's definitely a knight.

            And for me, at least, I see the same thing looking at a Knights Templar or Knights of St. John sword. In fact, looking at these, I come about as close as I ever get to a fangirl moment. I know that both orders were composed of sinful, fallible men...but still. These guys were the Marine Corps of yesteryear—in fact, they might have been tougher than the Marines. They did not fight fellow Christians, and the Muslims dreaded having to go up against them, because they did not surrender, they did not quit, and if you killed them, you had to fight over a mountain of your own dead to do it. I've never seen a sword belonging to a Knight of St. John or a real Templar sword. Which may be a good thing, because I'm not sure I could stop drooling if I did!

            You wouldn't expect a mass-produced type of sword to have an aura of its own, and to be honest, I was going to skip over the saber at first. But then I realized that I would also have to skip over the gladius, and that would be an injustice. It's not exactly an impressive weapon, but what's behind it certainly is.

 This short, wide-bladed sword; you look at it and you hear the tramp of a hundred men marching in unison. Units of a hundred each, marching under the wide-winged eagles: strong-limbed men, disciplined and brave, that under their leaders conquered the known world, and held it for much longer than anyone else ever did. That Rome fell into disarray and debauchery later I won't deny; but I also won't let that steal the knowledge of what she started as.

            And with that, you realize that, in an odd way, the saber does have its own aura: that of the tough, stubborn soldiers of the late Victorian times. Don't get me wrong, here: I really don't have a lot of respect for the Victorian times, especially if it involved England. But there were some good things about that time, and I will admit that their soldiers were a hardy lot. I particularly equate the saber with Teddy Roosevelt—who no doubt had some problems, but can we say tough?

I mean, anybody who can do this is dang tough.

            The gun, on the other hand, does not have a similar aura. It's become particularly pronounced now: after all, an M-16 in the hands of a Marine is virtually the same as an M-16 in the hands of a Jihadist, and a policeman's revolver looks the same as a mugger's. There's no difference in the weapon; nothing that marks the one held by the honorable soldier as opposed to the one held by the terrorist. Most guns are like this: it looks pretty much the same on both sides of the line. There's only kind of gun where that didn't matter, and it picked up an aura anyway: the Colt pistol.

            And I don't think it was any coincidence that it comes from the Old West, where you had the struggle between civilization and barbarism, where brands might fight among each other as did the lords of Europe—and where the chivalry, though rough, was very real and very much there.

            Because for something to pick up an aura, there's got to be something behind it to give it one. Something high, strong...and bigger than life.