Writing Fantasy Heroes

by Jason M Waltz (ed)

  On June 10, 1190 the Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick I, called Barbarossa, leading as many as 100,000 to the Holy Land for the Third Crusade (a force that would have swamped the Muslim defenders), fell off his horse and drowned in the Saleph River before his men could pull him out. His army broke up. Only a few joined the kings of France and England for the fighting. Richard the Lionheart did a masterful job, smacking Saladin around real good, but the Third Crusade never had sufficient manpower to achieve its mission, which was the liberation of Jerusalem from the Saracen.

  Shit happened 800 years ago. A man fell off a horse. The impact is still felt today.

  Shit happens.

  Early in our sophomore year, with no ominous behavior to give warning that shit was about to happen, Gary vanished. I mean, the man dropped off the face of the earth. After having borrowed every moochable cent possible off everyone he knew, during the course of one day, and after collecting as much cash as he could from the student loan office, he simply dematerialized. He stepped into the ether and even his family had no idea where he had gone, or why, or even if he were still alive. Nobody had a clue. There was no known girlfriend, no known trouble excluding maybe some questionable grades, nothing from which to run and nothing to which to run. Gary was there, then Gary was not there, and all that could be gotten out of it was that, shit happens.

  Baffling, and soon enough forgotten, except in times when I really could have used the money I let him borrow.

  Years later, after my time in the Navy, I was working assembly for General Motors and vigorously trying to make a personal connection with the Sea of Stories. One afternoon I decided to check the weather on a radio station I shunned normally as being nothing but boring talk for old farts. Shit happens. I caught a bit of the local news before the forecast. Well. One Gary Jay, of Sarcoxie, Missouri, had that morning been killed in a car crash on the Poplar Street Bridge complex that connects St. Louis to the Illinois side of the Mississippi River.

  Insofar as I was ever able to determine this was the first time the man ever again came to the attention of anyone who knew him the day before he disappeared—though I will confess that I did not pursue the question with any passion. I never discovered where he had been or why he had gone there. I just knew, now, that I was no longer likely to get my money back.

  I did internalize it all. I made it an important tool.

  Shit happens.

  Gary was a hole in the fabric of reality for seven years, then he stepped back in just long enough to let everyone know that he was going away for good.

  At the time, and still, this strikes me as a gem straight off the floor of the Sea of Stories, the kind of thing not only useful in creating fiction but absolutely required. ‘Random Shit Happens’ is an uncomfortably fitting chunk of unpredictability belonging to a system my long-ago mentor Fritz Leiber called "ODThAA,' or 'One Damned Thing After Another," approximating what science fiction author and editor Damon Knight termed, "Plotting by Intensive Re-complication." (A literary element of what, to quote contemporary philosopher Hannah Montana, can be described as, "Everybody has those days.") Though a bit more premeditated about it than I, Raymond Chandler demonstrated his affection for ‘Shit Happens’ by occasionally having a man with a gun bust through a door, thereby forcing himself to explain what that was all about and how it fit into his story.

  (In Chandler's case ‘Deliberate Shit Happens’ was a device for getting a story going once it got caught on a seemingly unbreakable snag, prodding the Sea of Stories into giving something up.)

  The Sea of Stories. I might ought to explain. In short, the Sea is the answer to that most annoying of questions, "Where do you get your ideas?" It is the universe outside the quotidian which yet encompasses both the mundane and the plane of the imagination. For me, at least metaphorically, all existence, and everything within it, is and always has been story. The Sea of Stories is where all the stories, and pieces of stories, are both born and are waiting to be found and written. There are lots and lots of stories. A finite number of storytellers at a finite number of computers (or other recording device, including the quill pen), will never drain the Sea of Stories dry, if only because the universe itself is finite in both space and time.

  Bad things swim the Sea of Stories. So do good things, wondrous things, and nurturing things. And some of them manifest unexpectedly, with no warning. The Sea of Stories resembles life itself. Shit sometimes happens. More often than not, that is not good shit, because when good shit happens we do not really take notice. It is never part of a neatly polished, finely-tuned story arc. It is almost always an ambush, an IED alongside the literary road, planted by a cruel, maliciously insurgent fate. And then, like Raymond Chandler, you have to deal.

  I find this absolutely essential for me in telling a story. I hope that it happens despite usually hating it when it aborts my great plans. I want my characters, on both sides of the divide (which will be exceeding vague at best), to be forced to cope with the unplanned and the unexpected. I want them to have to encounter, to face, to overcome, as they travel along the road to where they thought they wanted to go. Sometimes they will fail, as in life we do not always succeed when Fortune deals a surprise hand and changes everything forever.

  I really hate it when shit happens to me in the real world.

  I call myself an "intuitive" writer, meaning I connect with the Sea of Stories, then let the stories flow through and tell themselves. Not much planning goes into them. I don't do vast outlines or detailed character studies. I recognize a beginning, I dimly see a destination, and I start walking. The road to the end is a journey of discovery, nearly as full of surprises for me as I hope it will be for the reader coming to it blank. If it all goes completely right the characters will take over and do most of the story-channeling themselves. Still, elements of the story will present themselves by surprise. Referencing the title again.

  The story itself determines everything, in the end. Even character, for true character can be demonstrated while dealing with the stress presented when we have to cope with the unexpected. (We Americans seem to be socialized to whine and demand that somebody else do something.)

  The Sea of Stories is vast but finite. The simple act of selecting a piece of paper on which to begin commences a process of narrowing options and elements. Setting a first capital letter on paper instantly narrows all subsequent possibilities, and every word added confines the story even more. The occasional random stroke can make all the difference, adding sorrow, misery, certainly surprise, and, infrequently, a cherry on top of strawberry whipped cream.

  In the latter context I am fond of referencing the appearance of the character known as the Dead Man early in the first book (Sweet Silver Blues, Roc, 1987) of my Garrett Files fantasy detective series, which originally strained to emerge from the Sea of Stories as a straightforward American P. I. novel. The Dead Man has appeared in every book since. He plays a major role in most, yet he was not planned and did not exist before something from the Sea compelled me to re-create Sweet Silver in a fantasy world. I was several chapters in, exploring the new vision. Detective Garrett had just endured a severe beat down. In its aftermath, entirely to my surprise, he announced that it was time to go see the Dead Man. When he arrived at that character's lurking place he found the Dead Man fully realized, complete with four hundred year back story, and prepared, lazily, to take his place as a lynchpin of the series.

  Shit happens.

  That time it was an out-of-nowhere burst from the Sea of Stories, a huge literary blast of the stuff.

  Shit happens everywhere in my writing. It then shapes everything that comes after (and, often enough, redraws all that came before), on occasion to the point where everything else I write is shaped by having to account for one unforeseen event.

  The most important, most critical place where ‘Shit Happens’ can impact a story is the unanticipated extinction of a critical character. Most writers are understandably loath to slay a favorite. I appreciate that c
ompletely, especially when that character is a favorite with readers. Readers can get quite upset when you do unseemly things to beloved imaginary friends. (And I love every second of that.) Some writers may strive mightily to evade the will of the Sea of Stories. They might contrive outrageously to satisfy the demands of readers unwilling to accept the truth. The classic example is the resurrection of Sherlock Holmes after events at the Reichenbach Falls.

  I confess that some of my characters have returned, especially in the Black Company series. In those cases, though, honestly, they lied to me, too. Maybe the Sea itself was having fun tricking me, or just wanted me to believe so it would be easier to make the reader believe. I was convinced that they were gone, Soulcatcher being the premier and sneakiest old bitch to pull the stunt.

  Few central characters perish in the Garrett series but not because that is set in stone. They can die. They will die if some bad shit happens.

  Absolutely key and central characters die in the Dread Empire cycle, many assuredly not foreordained. When my fishing of the Sea of Stories fetches that shit up, though, there is nothing I can do to abort it. Trying to force things to go another direction, hammering and levering the story to conform to my emotional preference, only makes for a weaker or even outright bad story.

  I cried, literally, while writing the passages where the character Mocker dies in All Darkness Met (Berkley, 1980). He was my favorite. I did not want him to go. I was desperate to find some means by which he could stay. But that just was not possible. Not while staying true to the story.

  Mocker's passing in that book shaped every chapter in every Dread Empire book written since, be they set before or after his death. And, in a ‘Shit Happens’ event almost as potent and certainly as startlingly sudden as the manifestation of the Dead Man in Sweet Silver Blues, a series-shaping character perishes unexpectedly in A Path to Coldness of Heart, a new Dread Empire title eventually to appear from Night Shade Books. The relevant scene will be appended as an exemplar here. Consciously, for twenty-five years, I had much different plans for this man, a role as an abiding master villain.

  There is a human nature aspect of ‘Shit Happens’ that needs addressing, that remains to be explored, which can be exploited to excellent effect, though I have not done a lot with it myself. That would be the fact that most people do not want to believe that shit happens. They are not emotionally equipped to accept randomness. The software in the wetware plain does not like ‘Shit Happens,’ particularly when the random smack from Fortune is a bad one. ‘Shit Happens’ is emotionally unfulfilling at the temporal site of the event.

  The worse random shit is the more we want to make it have meaning, even if that is a secret Rosicrucian-DaVinci Code-Dealy Plaza sort of meaning. When shit happens we reject the declaration of insignificance so heartily that we invent vast, complex conspiracy theories in order to satisfy our need for meaning in what was really only irrational and random. A crazed lone gunman just does not provide emotional closure.

  A rock just cannot plunge from the sky and kill your favorite sheep. Your family's survival may depend on that sheep making it through to the slaughtering season, or she may just be your special friend, but she cannot die for so slight a reason. There must be a malign entity or organization behind the arrival of that deadly stone: the Bavarian Illuminati, perhaps, or the Trilateral Commission, or Opus Dei, or God or the Girls Scouts. How about Skull and Bones? Jews? Communists? The Odessa. Fidel Castro. The US Air Force. You know who they are. Everybody out there is in on something, excepting you, and they are probably all against you.

  There was a genuine, for real conspiracy involved in the Lincoln assassination, but it was not big enough and dastardly enough to suit the magnitude of the deed. Theorists have tried to ring in just about everybody from Jefferson Davis to Prince Albert since. A century and a half after the fact people still want to find a deeper, more eternal and cosmic meaning for what was, in reality, just another act of murder.

  So, when the Sea of Stories delivers a Shit Happens sucker punch that shapes tomorrow and tomorrow forever it also hands over grand tools good for as much intensive re-complication as you care to indulge.

  Your incident might not be as flashy or enduring as Roswell or Dealy Plaza, but a similar response is always triggered when shit happens and has an abiding emotional impact. Improbable theories always surface. A clever, crafty writer like you will find yourself able to get in there like a retrovirus and make it serve you.

  Exploit whatever comes out of the Sea of Stories. Do not hold back. Slash and burn. When shit happens, exploit it down to the last whiff of the stink.

  Your efforts will be just more leakage from the Sea of Stories anyway, perhaps slithering into minds unable or unwilling to recognize them for what they really are.

  Unforeseen till just hours before they were recorded, the events chronicled in the following chapter opening changed everything that would happen in the Dread Empire world forevermore. It was convenient, too, in that it rendered this particular book (A Path to Coldness of Heart, Night Shade Books, 2012) much easier to complete in accordance with the publisher's wants.

  Chapter Eight: Year 1017 A. F. E.: The Desert Kingdom

  There was no wakening touch but Haroun knew one of his companions wanted his attention. A glance at the angle of the moonlight told him it was just after midnight. He heard harness creaks and horses’ hooves. There was no need to whisper, “They’re here.”

  Traveling by night.

  Interesting.

  Might be worth investigating.

  Probably not worth the risk of exposure, though.

  Haroun moved just enough to let it be known that he had heard.

  He was curious.

  He did nothing for several minutes. The sounds made by the travelers grew louder. They would reach the Sheyik’s stronghold without coming near here.

  Haroun had a premonition: It would not be wise to go look.

  He rose, glided through the moonlight forty yards, slid into a shadow where his companions could not watch. He squatted, carefully extended his shaghûn senses.

  The sounds of movement ceased.

  Bin Yousif withdrew, cursing softly. Slight as his use of the power had been, it had been detected. A powerful someone accompanied the nightriders.

  Up. Stride briskly back to his seat behind the tiny fire. Settle. Relax. Hope his companions did not ask uncomfortable questions.

  Both were awake and nervous.

  Shouting and order-giving began over yonder. Haroun concentrated on controlling his breathing.

  A half dozen men trotted past. One paused to consider the derelicts. He wasted only a few seconds before moving on.

  Haroun caressed the hilt of his favorite knife, gently, and wondered about the sorcerer who had detected his careful probe.

  Another half dozen men rushed Haroun’s former shadow from another direction.

  Incomprehensible calls indicated that more men were coming.

  Silhouettes glided into sight, following the half dozen who had passed by earlier, three in a loose wedge followed by a man who was nearly a giant.

  Haroun did not think. He responded without calculation, lightning striking. He leapt onto the devil’s back, left hand seizing his chin and pulling, right hand yanking his knife across the man’s throat, slicing deep enough to cut the windpipe before the sorcerer could utter the first syllable of a protective spell. The slash cut all the way to the spine. Carotid and jugular spewed.

  Bin Yousif threw himself clear, drove his knife into the belly of Magden Norath’s nearest companion, who shrieked as he went down. He slashed another man’s raised left arm. The third turned to run. He died from a thrust into his back.

  Haroun ran the other direction after taking a moment to drive his knife into the sorcerer’s left temple. He considered taking the head away, to destroy it a fragment at a time, but Norath’s men had begun to react.

  He became another shadow moving through shadows.

  He
was calm the whole time, from the moment he felt his knife slice Norath’s esophagus. This was his life. This was what he had been born to do, till the day he made his lethal mistake. Cut, slash, stab, and walk away before anyone could respond.

  Once out of sight he had serious advantages.

  Norath’s men could not know who they were hunting. He knew that anyone searching must be an enemy.

  Magden Norath, though! How could that be? In his way, in his time, Norath had been as terrible as the Empire Destroyer. How could he have fallen so easily?

  Norath had gotten sloppy. He had failed to protect himself because he had seen no need. Death had been on him before he knew he was in danger. It was the story of every mouse ever taken by an owl, fox, or snake.

  Death was always one inattentive moment away.

  Things began to prowl the night, hunting, things created by Magden Norath. Though hardly the savan dalage the sorcerer had loosed during the Great Eastern Wars, they were formidable…

  The Reluctant Hero

  Orson Scott Card

  There is no human culture that does not value stories of heroes. Whether the heroes are gods, demigods, or mortals, ancestral or loose in time; whether they are conceived of as historical or fictional, we must have our heroes who exemplify the virtues we most admire.

  Even in our supposedly post-heroic or anti-heroic literature, there is always an admirable hero. Anti-heroes are usually “anti” because they’re anti-authority—in which case they’re admirable as tricksters—or because they’re of low birth, in which case they’re Jack.